more Theroux...

I figured that Paul Theroux title from yesterday needed a little explaining...so I went to Taps for lunch again and did just that.

So I should probably explain that title from yesterday. I started reading Riding the Iron Rooster wednesday night. Evidently Theroux, back in 1986, decided to journey from England to China via rail. Why he did this remains somewhat of a mystery to me. Every railroad book of his that I have read thus far make rail travel sound uninviting, an exercise in patience, tolerance, and iron will. His descriptions make it sound as though he's doing this as a sort of warning, so that his readers don't make the same mistake as him by taking a trip. Theroux seems to have no wonder at the human condition, no fascination with human behaviour. Doubt, annoyance, and frustration
are his subjects de riguer, and his frequency at revisiting these same themes grows tiring. He travels and writes, but seems to enjoy neither. He complains of his American companions on the Trans-Siberian, draws out their flaws, and seemingly has no interest in their positives, their personalities. He admittedly is cold, offish, "the last to arrive and the first to leave" the dining car. His limited interaction seems to be only so as to paint depressing characitures of what he expects on the train: the outspoken ex-military gentlemen. the easily shocked evangelical middle-Americans, the quirky oddballs, the damaged young woman travelling alone - all the usual travelling stereotypes make the cut, and unflattering without fail. Theroux approaches these travellers with a haughty air - he is so experienced in this sort of travel, what could he possibly wind new or interesting from them? They are not fellow travellers but rather an annoyance, something to be tolerated and hopefully avoided, never embraced.

Theroux i think is best read in a train station in Bangkok waiting for an overnight train en route to somewhere else. Sitting on the upper level, trying to make sense of the ever changing timetable, with the not yet familiar peanut-spice and sewage scent of the city drifting through in the muggy heat, jet lagged and hungry, sipping a Chang to kill the time. He works well for commiseration during the inevitable days when travel is trying and frustrating, when cultural sensitivity has lost its lustre, and you need to just duck into a corner for a while and read someone who understands your pain. In that, he works very well. Otherwise, unfortunately, Theroux sees travel disappointingly different.

There is one other thing with Theroux that sticks in my craw: he wrote a fairly demeaning piece of criticism on Hemingway's Islands in the Stream. I deeply disagree with much of his criticism in that, and I'm going to re-read it again some time soon so I can weigh in on it as well.

Otherwise, this whole lunch and a beer at Taps and writing while I'm there thing is working out pretty good for me. Being there gets me away from the office so I can get some quality focused time in on my writing, and just being away from my desk for a little while is becoming a necessity for me.

Riding tomorrow, then down to San Diego on Sunday...should be a fun weekend.