Fresh Air Fiend: Travel Writings
by Paul TherouxHoughton Mifflin, 480 pp., $27
The New York Times has called Paul Theroux “the grouchy traveler,” and I can see why. Theroux, who has written 23 novels (including The Mosquito Coast) and postings from locales as exotic as Malawi and as familiar as New England, has always been a curmudgeonly companion. Fresh Air Fiend, a collection of recent essays, both cements Theroux’s reputation as an arrogant grump and reminds readers why his work is nonetheless irresistible.
The collection has a rocky start. In “Travel Writing, the Point of It,” Theroux provides a point-by-point argument against negative reviews of his work. Perhaps an editor should have suggested that Theroux save these rantings for his annual Christmas newsletter. Comments like “… though I must say that sales of half a million books have the effect of neutralizing even the most ill-natured and silly review” certainly don’t win any admirers, and detract from the quality of this collection.
Fresh Air Fiend is grouped thematically into eight sections, and readers who are not Theroux’s mother might want to begin with section three, “A Sense of Place.” Theroux offers this advice to young writers: “You want to be a writer? First leave home.” That, at least, is when Theroux’s writing shines. “Christmas Island: Bombs and Birds” is heartbreaking; Theroux speaks with Ambo Keebwa, an islander who, when he heard in 1957 that men were needed to work for the British on Christmas Island, had no idea that he would become part of an experimental bombing campaign. “I like ‘Christmas’ so much!” Keebwa tells Theroux, “I think, ‘There must be many nice things there.'”
Theroux’s ability to provide insight into places like Christmas Island is unparalleled. In “Unspeakable Rituals, Outlandish Beliefs,” he gleefully reports on some of his more shocking discoveries. In an effort at delicacy, I will say that “three penis wine” is just the beginning.
Though I’m relieved I don’t have to actually travel with Theroux (and his ego), I found most of his latest dispatches colorful and compelling. And who can resist Theroux at his most joyful: “On my return, one very hot night, on the uninhabited Double Island I found myself lying in my mosquito-net tent, the moon bathing the ground and the treetops in a lunar fluorescence. I had achieved the ultimate in fresh air fiendishness. I was on my back. Fulfilled, content, naked, alone, happy. I thought: I am a monkey.”
This article appears in June 23 • 2000.