Tom Robbins, like Warren Ellis, is the sort of author to brag about the intersection of wonderful drugs and wonderful writing equipment.
And it's true that even those born outside of synesthesia's natural borders will be struck in the senses by a temporary case of it when dabbling in certain hallucinogens.
So, I cannot honestly say whether this excerpt is a measurement of a natural synesthete showing what's what, or a psychedelic author enjoying some medical side-effects.
But either way, a girl can dream.
(For me, Sunday is red-purple, same as a lot of things. And I say this organically, being a proper mutant from birth, and as sober as anything at the moment.)
Here is the book excerpt that I had wanted to share, lifted from its 22nd chapter:
"Sunday is Sunday, even in Hawaii. No volume of orchid nectar, no wardrobe of o-o plumage could change the color of Sunday from that of... buttermilk, toothpaste, Camembert cheese."
Nice, eh?
