PanAroma. Jitterbug Perfume.

I'm going to say up front that this book is absolutely flawed, in ways many will not find redeemable, and it's not even something I'd necessarily recommend to most people.

First, the flaws: It is racist, point blank. The one black woman in the cast of characters is written as if she's a slave caricature straight out of Gone with the Wind, and though there are references made to her actually being well-educated and quite smart (she is noted to speak "perfect" French, among other things), the narrative largely paints her as ridiculous. Kudra, one of our main characters, is Indian and sexualized in a very orientalist way throughout the novel. Because we get more time with her, she does have actual depth and a compelling arc, but I can absolutely understand anyone who feels that the racism overshadows that.

The novel is also absolutely sexist at times. All the female characters are sexualized in ways that the male characters aren't, and much ink is spilled describing female bodies at length. In reviews I've read more recently, people have also brought up the fact that one of the core relationships in the novel could be considered grooming. I actually heartily disagree with this, but it's worth mentioning.

The novel rambles and meanders. I love every word of its prose, but it's maybe the most purple prose out there. If you aren't in love with the writing style from the first page, you will be miserable when you get to the last 100 pages when the author gets philosophical to the point of near-parody.

It's also, often, fucking gross. I personally love the gross bits--they're visceral and often funny, reframing situations and feelings and textures in a way that to me feels refreshing, creative, honest, interesting. But if lines like "Alma gnashed her semen-greased teeth in her sleep" are too off-putting for you to continue--skip this one.

But even with all that said: I fucking love this book to pieces. This is my second time reading it, and the last time I read it I was probably fifteen or so. It worked its way into my soul then, and it did the exact same this time around, reading it with fairly fresh eyes.

It takes itself too seriously and doesn't take itself seriously at all. It's incredibly funny, and poignant at the same time. Robbins does linguistic acrobatics I could only ever dream of achieving.

The way the story weaves together such an odd cast of characters across centuries is fabulous. I love every character in this story desperately. This book made me learn how to make my own perfume, at one point. The characters' obsession with scent and sensation is so rich and familiar to me as someone who experiences those sensations so deeply, and it's incredible to have those feelings described. I also find the characters' motivations so compelling--who doesn't want to live forever?--and I love that every character is so deeply messy. Priscilla, our queer-baiting waitress with a thing for older men (so real of her). Alobar, a king out of time. Kudra, passionately pursuing life. Wiggs being... Wiggs. (Wiggs' dialogue is also a very "they're-after-me-lucky-charms" Irish stereotype, but that's sort of part of his charm.) V'lu, Marcel, Madame Devalier--all pursuing scent single-mindedly. Seattle and New Orleans are both richly realized here, too.

Mostly, I love that the beating heart of this story is an exhortation to simply fucking enjoy life and absorb as much pleasure out of it as you can. I find any call to joyful hedonism deeply meaningful, especially now.

tl;dr: This is absolutely not a book for everyone. But I think this is actually my favorite book, and it was such a pleasure to revisit it and find it was in many ways better than I remembered, despite the fucked up bits that made me cringe this time around.