The function of travel writing, if it needs one--the function of any writing, really, or any art--is to either entertain, or interest, or inform, or express some great pretentious truth. Travel writing is fun, or should be fun, because it should be a.) entertaining--boy, vacation, that's gotta be good times! b.) informative, because hey--other countries? Surely I'll learn something! and c.) interesting, i.e., surely there's a reason to keep reading.
Now, I like to imagine that most people, who would be offered the opportunity, would only be offered the opportunity to be a professional travel writer if they expressed some interest or passion for travel. Reading Paul Theroux's "The Great Railway Bazaar," one gets the impression of a man with a rather high opinion of himself constantly being disappointed in what he finds, doing a favor by writing the book for an audience he doesn't particularly like. Throughout the narrative--a trip from Turkey to Japan by rail--he says that he likes traveling by trains, only to constantly find himself discontented with said trains.
Natives in the various countries he goes to seem to be morons because they don't speak English. He goes from city to city and never comments on the country as a whole, or draws any conclusions, or does any analysis. Writing, as he is, in the 1970s, he seems flabbergasted to realize that Vietnam isn't totally put-together and polished, as though the war happened somewhere else. The Japanese he considers a ridiculous people, doing calisthenics at the office, and possible moral perverts, given a more grotesque stripshow he sees. By the end of the book, he totally hates trains--which would be more surprising, if he ever seemed to like them, although he claims to have, given how he derides air travel--and as he travels back home through Russia, he complains about other train passengers, the weather (it's Russia, come on) and drinks and drinks and gets more and more miserable.
There is no chance for the reader to live vicariously. The overall tone of the book is: they gave me money to go here and write a book, so here's the book. Theroux has the patience and sense of humor of a man with a constant hangover.
A grumpy ugly American, I am sure, could write an entertaining travel book. Theroux doesn't seem interested in writing a travel book at all, entertaining or not. Everything disappoints him. Nothing interests him.
On the last page of the book he imagines, by way of a conclusion, getting back home and starting to re-read his manuscript. The last sentence of the story is a repeat of the first. In a better book, one would see it and find reason to reflect on the journey the reader has taken with the author, and perhaps, even, to go ahead and reread the whole thing. Here, one scoffs, knowing what Theroux was going for and thinking, no, just no. He's a decent enough writer, if stylistically bland. It's just that it's an interesting subject told by someone who clearly didn't want to write about it. As such, it's not a horrible book. A vast majority of the sentences function grammatically. If you're interested in the petulant, self-important psychology of Paul Theroux--if you're interested in what it's like to be so profoundly apathetic about an adventure many of us would love to go on, or if you've ever been disappointed that, say, Myanmar wasn't the Anglo-friendly tourist destination you'd always hoped--then this tedious exercise in phoning-it-in may be for you. Otherwise, just...don't.
The dumber Hollywood sequels these days have more depth.
Now, I like to imagine that most people, who would be offered the opportunity, would only be offered the opportunity to be a professional travel writer if they expressed some interest or passion for travel. Reading Paul Theroux's "The Great Railway Bazaar," one gets the impression of a man with a rather high opinion of himself constantly being disappointed in what he finds, doing a favor by writing the book for an audience he doesn't particularly like. Throughout the narrative--a trip from Turkey to Japan by rail--he says that he likes traveling by trains, only to constantly find himself discontented with said trains.
Natives in the various countries he goes to seem to be morons because they don't speak English. He goes from city to city and never comments on the country as a whole, or draws any conclusions, or does any analysis. Writing, as he is, in the 1970s, he seems flabbergasted to realize that Vietnam isn't totally put-together and polished, as though the war happened somewhere else. The Japanese he considers a ridiculous people, doing calisthenics at the office, and possible moral perverts, given a more grotesque stripshow he sees. By the end of the book, he totally hates trains--which would be more surprising, if he ever seemed to like them, although he claims to have, given how he derides air travel--and as he travels back home through Russia, he complains about other train passengers, the weather (it's Russia, come on) and drinks and drinks and gets more and more miserable.
This is as happy as he gets.
There is no chance for the reader to live vicariously. The overall tone of the book is: they gave me money to go here and write a book, so here's the book. Theroux has the patience and sense of humor of a man with a constant hangover.
Hungover, this looks like a toxic hellscape.
A grumpy ugly American, I am sure, could write an entertaining travel book. Theroux doesn't seem interested in writing a travel book at all, entertaining or not. Everything disappoints him. Nothing interests him.
On the last page of the book he imagines, by way of a conclusion, getting back home and starting to re-read his manuscript. The last sentence of the story is a repeat of the first. In a better book, one would see it and find reason to reflect on the journey the reader has taken with the author, and perhaps, even, to go ahead and reread the whole thing. Here, one scoffs, knowing what Theroux was going for and thinking, no, just no. He's a decent enough writer, if stylistically bland. It's just that it's an interesting subject told by someone who clearly didn't want to write about it. As such, it's not a horrible book. A vast majority of the sentences function grammatically. If you're interested in the petulant, self-important psychology of Paul Theroux--if you're interested in what it's like to be so profoundly apathetic about an adventure many of us would love to go on, or if you've ever been disappointed that, say, Myanmar wasn't the Anglo-friendly tourist destination you'd always hoped--then this tedious exercise in phoning-it-in may be for you. Otherwise, just...don't.
The dumber Hollywood sequels these days have more depth.
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