When I picked an old, sodden copy of The Mosquito Coast from the pavement, it was just about the name. I had heard of Paul Theroux. I knew that Theroux is pronounced without the x, making the purchase all the more gratifying. It was a phase when travel writers came with definitive cool for me. He meant everything from Bohemian abandon to sagely poise. He was at once, the hippie and the Buddha.
At 17, when all my miles couldn't have gotten me past my hometown, I wanted to travel and write. I needed the style. I needed the words. Theroux could help, I presumed. Until someone broke in and said my prized, passed-down possession was a work of fiction and probably one of the more departed from the writer's core essentials. I remember flitting through the book with a strange feeling of betrayal. For me, that was the last of Theroux.
On Wednesday, in the bustling Landmark at The Forum, the man had a blunt, dazzling turn. He revived the solitary traveller in all his brooding, glorious disconnect. Theroux traced the interior world of the traveller's imagination, as pitched against the exterior, physical process of being at an exotic destination. "Imagination, too, is an exotic place," went the line. And the anecdotes. On Jorge Luis Borges, the Russian gulags, African Literature, Gujarati settlers in Kenya, the Civil Rights Movement. More.
"When you are at home, it's like a motherly embrace. You tend to become less critical about your surroundings... Good writing comes out of being isolated."
I'm all set for a revisit. This time, suitably initiated.
At 17, when all my miles couldn't have gotten me past my hometown, I wanted to travel and write. I needed the style. I needed the words. Theroux could help, I presumed. Until someone broke in and said my prized, passed-down possession was a work of fiction and probably one of the more departed from the writer's core essentials. I remember flitting through the book with a strange feeling of betrayal. For me, that was the last of Theroux.
On Wednesday, in the bustling Landmark at The Forum, the man had a blunt, dazzling turn. He revived the solitary traveller in all his brooding, glorious disconnect. Theroux traced the interior world of the traveller's imagination, as pitched against the exterior, physical process of being at an exotic destination. "Imagination, too, is an exotic place," went the line. And the anecdotes. On Jorge Luis Borges, the Russian gulags, African Literature, Gujarati settlers in Kenya, the Civil Rights Movement. More.
"When you are at home, it's like a motherly embrace. You tend to become less critical about your surroundings... Good writing comes out of being isolated."
I'm all set for a revisit. This time, suitably initiated.
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