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by Andy Weinberger?
Richard Brautigan has been making a tidy living for a long time now by writing cute little enigmatic books that are all about: ... well, it's never quite clear what they're all about, is it? Books of poetry, books of prose — books with charming, nonsensical titles (some would call them idiotic if the author weren't such a cult figure), things like A Confederate General from Big Sur, The Pill Versus the Springhill Mine Disaster, Sombrero Fallout: A Japanese Novel, and now, another, The Tokyo-Montana Express.
The 131 fragmentary essays contained herein meander over a whole universe of topics, each of them as detached from the rest as a yogi in Red Square. There is his inconclusive tale about the smallest snowstorm on record (two flakes, which, according to Brautigan, resemble Laurel and Hardy). There is one about riding around Tokyo in a taxi filled with pictures of carp. There is the yarn about how nice it is to have breakfast in Beirut. And let us not forget the fat girl with no front teeth and the porno movie house that vanished into thin air. Pretty cryptic, huh?
A word or two about style is also in order. Brautigan's is slow and simple. There is no need to think about what he is saying, really, at least not until you stumble on one of his metaphors. Metaphors are like paper bags to Brautigan. He has a terrible time finding his way out: "I feel very dull like a rusty knife in the kitchen of a weed dominated monastery that was abandoned because everybody was too bored to say their prayers anymore, so they went someplace else 200 years ago and started different lives that led them all to the grave, anyway, a place where we all are going."
Reading The Tokyo-Montana Express it is very difficult to believe that the author was not stoned at the time he sat down in front of the typewriter. His mind hops aimlessly about like a bee in a room full of plastic flowers. Everywhere he alights he comes away empty. Somebody cares for this kind of exercise, apparently. Or perhaps people just feel better knowing there are others out there more confused than they are. As far as this reviewer is concerned, however, The Tokyo-Montana Express goes nowhere. And the sooner it does, the better.
Los Angeles Herald Examiner?
November 9, 1980: F5.
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