I have been AWOL here on this blog. I haven't been doing the internet as much. Mostly facebook and reading a couple of blogs. I haven't felt the impulse to blog and for some reason it took me a long time to get through this book, The Old Patagonian Express; by Train through the Americas by Paul Theroux. It took me a couple of weeks which is a long time for a book I found so thoroughly engrossing. But I think it was because I was savoring it so much. Theroux is a brilliant writer. The way he evokes the whole experience of travel is captivating. I could feel the train rumbling, see the landscape outside, meet the motley travelers and all the exotic, uncomfortable and surprising things he encountered. The book isn't just about traveling to exotic, off the beaten path, places. It is also about reading while traveling and pondering while traveling.
Maybe twenty years ago I read Theroux's book on riding a train through China, entitled Riding the Iron Rooster. I remember really enjoying it but thinking Theroux was a rather sour fellow. I did not think of him that way at all this time. Maybe Theroux was in a better mood this time? Maybe twenty years gave me a different perspective? This time I thought Theroux was exceptionally honest, insightful, a little self-deprecating, witty and simply a brilliant painter of images and evoker of time and space.
The book starts with a subway ride. Theroux has decided to ride trains all the way down to Patagonia, Argentina. He begins riding the subway during the morning commuter rush. But he's not a commuter, he's beginning a great voyage and leaving cold, blizzardy Boston behind. He moves through the U.S. by degrees, noting the changing people, customs, climate and landscape.
There were many things that endeared Theroux to me as he traveled. One was that read as he rode the rail, and what he read became an integral part of his journey. I do this too!!! A kindred spirit! I remember that I read Report to the Commissioner back in 1976, while curled up in a window seat that looked out over the Devonshire countryside. It was weird to be reading a novel about a New York City cop while being in such a remote and charming place. I remember reading Christ Stopped at Eboli on the long trans-atlantic flight from Rome to Washington DC. That must have been in 1983 or 84. Just two summers ago I read Penrod by Booth Tarkington while sitting in an outdoor cafe in Avila, Spain, sipping caffe and watching tourists disembark from buses in front of the Medieval city walls.
Here's what Theroux read on his trip (he seemed to be trying to read lesser known works by famous authors). The Wild Palms by Faulkner (Theroux didn't like it), Pudd'nhead Wilson by Mark Twain (he thought it was brilliant), The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym by Poe(very scary - too much for that particular moment when Theroux was encountering many disturbing things on his trip; later he had a chance to read it in better circumstances and really marveled at Poe's storytelling talent), The Judge and the Hangman by Friedrich Durrenmatt (I'd never heard of this guy! Must put on my to read list!), Boswell's Life of Johnson (which meshed beautifully with insights that were completely timely in Theroux's travels). I started Life of Johnson a few years ago but didn't get far. MUST READ IT!
This is a long journey and broke down pretty logically into three sections - his travels through the U.S., his travels through Central America and then his travels through South America. I initially started reading this book because I am intrigued by all things Argentine, since we have a young gentleman from that country coming to stay with us this summer. So I wanted to read about Argentina and that doesn't come until the very end of the book, but in spite of my impatience, I was completely fascinated by the whole trip.
There are some really funny moments in the book. For instance in El Salvador Theroux gets into a conversation with two young salesman. They have an absurd conversation where the two men talk about how English doesn't have as many words as Spanish. Much later on, Theroux gets to meet and spend time with Jorge Luis Borges, probably Argentina's greatest literary figure; a great writer of short stories, poems and essays) and Borges keeps saying how much better English is than Spanish in terms of word-craft. Also, in El Salvador, one of the salesman invites Theroux to go to a soccer match with him. Theroux describes the whole experience as an alien (which he was) viewing the most baffling behavior of the crowds. At one point the people in the crowd unleash a bunch of long white balloons which Theroux recognize as condoms. He remember how the WHO has recently begun giving out condoms. He doubts it will decrease the number of births but he imagines how much fun children's birthday parties will be, what with the free balloons. That is just the tiniest snippet of what is going on in this book. It is like a warehouse crammed full of impressions, reactions, musings and puzzlement. You get to work through the warehouse systematically though, from railroad station to railroad station (with some buses and a plane flight or two thrown in there).
At another point, perhaps this happened in Peru or Bolivia, Theroux is riding with a few American tourists who are being rather whiny and crass. They begin to rip on the Indians who are in the process of celebrating Holy Week. Why, the Americans want to know, do they make their crucifixes so gory and bloody? Why do their statues of the Virgin look so plump and why do they dress her up with dresses and lace? It strikes the Americans as vulgar and over the top. Theroux, however, has been visiting churches all the way, and watching how the devout Indians live out their faith. He sees that it gives them joy and sustains them in their incredibly hard and undignified lives. At last he can bear to hear no more. He bursts forth with an impassioned analysis. Of course their crucifixes are bloodier. If Jesus redeemed them by suffering and dying for them, than he must have to suffer more than they do in their every day life. In the U.S. crucifixes only have a couple of bruises and perhaps a drop or two of blood, but here where the Native Indians live, he must suffer far more than that. If Mary is their beloved Queen of Heaven, she can not be starving like they are. She must be more fecund, not less. She must wear more beautiful clothing than they do, not simpler. His explanation shuts everyone up at once.
I absolutely loved the part where Theroux meets Borges. Again, I felt kinship. Borges is blind and Theroux reads him Kipling out loud. Borges says something that I have always thought! He says that Huckleberry Finn is a great book with a bad ending. Tom Sawyer enters the picture at the end and ruins the book. I have always thought that! I hate the ending of Huck Finn! If you've read Tom Sawyer and loved that character, you see him in a very different light in Huck Finn. It is a betrayal to his readers. I can not forgive Mark Twain for that.
There is so much to this book. I have barely scratched the surface here. I highly, highly recommend it.
For more book reviews go to Read 52 Books in 52 Weeks.
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