It has twisted its body into the dog-shit asana. Manhattan smells like the litter box for the Kitty of the World. The weather: hot hokey puppy poopie with billows of industrial paranoia at 600 feet. Mars is in the house of Virgo, Jupiter is in the House of Values and Venus is in the House of Pies.
Eight-thirty in the evening, according to the position of two mechanical hands on an arbitrary dial. The main point of this book is not the story but the style. but reducing this book to the mere plot details is like describing the Grand Canyon as a big ditch. The basic story is strange but straightforward - Cissy Hankshaw is born with oversize thumbs, which inspires her to take up hitchhiking after many years of this, she marries a frail New York aesthete, but is unable to settle down on a photo-shoot in the Dakotas, she finds herself at the Rubber Rose Ranch, a health & beauty spa in the process of being overrun by cowgirls, and falls in love with both a young cowgirl and an old Japanese hermit then a flock of endangered whooping cranes takes up residence near the ranch.
This is going to be a hard book to describe.
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