Paul Theroux, The Consul's File (Ballantine, 1978)

I know of Theroux through his wonderfully minimal little horror tale The Black House; seems most people know him for travel writing. This is something of which I was previously unaware, but I became well acquinted with it while reading this book, a loose collection of stories about the life of an American consul sent to Ayer Hitam (in Malaysia) to close down the consulate there. (As a side note, Ayer Hitam is now a forest preserve maintained by the University Putra Malaysia, and dropping by UPM's website to take the photo tour lends a whole other perspective into reading this book.)

Theroux's hapless protagonist spends his time cataloguing the odd folks to be found in and passing through Ayer Hitam, and Theroux's strength lies mostly in characterization. The population of Ayer Hitam (equal parts indigenous, Tamil, and Chinese, with a smattering of British expatriates) is the stories' real focus, and a number of them come to life in the stories dedicated to them. Not terribly much actually goes on there, but these aren't plot-driven stories anyway.

Good stuff if you like character portraits, but if you're looking for more of a plot, other Theroux works might be a better jumping-off point. ***

In this 1978 compilation, Paul Theroux offers twenty stand-alone (and originally serialized) chapters told through the eyes of a young American consul posted to a small Malaysian town in the 1970s. The stories are chronological picking up when the narrator arrives in country and ending with a letter he writes as he departs. The expatriate society, with its clubby Brits, drunken eccentrics, casual racism, missionaries, and scoffing credulity of local beliefs will be recognizable to readers of Graham Greene, John LeCarre, and Joseph Conrad, but Theroux's descriptions are typically evocative: characters draw themselves (among the most memorable are the chameleon novelist in "The Coconut Gatherer", the Japanese tennis player in "The Tennis Court, and the medicine man in "The Tiger's Suit"). The tropical air provides a uniform backdrop of heat, jungle smells, and exotic strangenes. The narrator neither condescends to the locals nor judges the expatriates, he merely observes in a dry prose that can sometimes be the most powerful criticism of all. Finally, in the last chapter's private letter (perhaps the book's strongest pages) he comments at length on Squibb, the club bore, "He had failed at being a person, so he tried to succeed at being a character". Squibb is not alone.

Theroux, perhaps best known for "The Mosquito Coast" and a host of wonderful travel journals, displays in these early stories a sincere voice, non-judgmental and full of wonder at seeing the new and exotic. "The Consul's File" is short and insightful. Worthwhile.

Theroux's Consul's File is perhaps the most evocative book about what its really like to be in the foreign service. The episodic nature of the story matches the life and work, even at larger posts. The sequel "London Embassy", does not work quite as well, but is still worthwhile.

This was a fairly quick read as Hugh Cornwell tells us his version of THE STRANGLERS history song by song. Using this format it is far from the full story that you could read in NO MERCY (the other Stranglers biography that Hugh claims is Jet Black's version even though he is not the author)
As a fan of Hugh's music I truly enjoyed reading this.He tells the history of each song instead of a biography of The Stranglers. If you are a big Hugh fan as well you need this. A casual fan or someone looking for a true band biography should read No Mercy.

I really enjoyed this overview of The Stranglers song catalog, As told by Hugh Cornwell. I thought it might be dry and sort of boring in some respects, but I was thankfully Wrong! I found myself re-exploring songs and albums from a new jumping off point. Hugh speaks in actual musical terms, he addresses lyrical content, inspirations, as well as the cultural world of Music while they were being created. I have loved this band for so long so I was thrilled to see this book available in America. Never just another Punk Band, The Stranglers should be part of your Life, like they were part of Hugh's, and mine!

If only other composers did this: write a book about just what they meant and what they were doing. Yet it's a safe bet others in the business, a trade given to Tommy Lees and J-Los, couldn't possibly handle it as well, and with the humor and respectful reflection in this book. Hugh Cornwell is a smart man, a former doctoral candidate and teacher. Herein he takes us through his fifteen years with the Stranglers, documents what they were trying to say and why, and informs us just who Dagenham Dave is (was, actually). His reflections on the band's personalities are quite interesting. Dave Greenfield NEVER heard Ray Manzarek before joining the band. (Really.) Jet was in jazz bands. And JJ Burnel is a born joiner (from karate classes to the Hell's Angels to the Mishima crowd). All in all, you'll never get this information elsewhere--and never as well written and with such heart.

This book is a collection of episodes, usually not connected, from six previous Theroux books published in the 70's and 80's. His travels in five different continents are highlighted here with varying degrees of detail. Since his other books describe distinct journeys from beginning to end, Theroux explains in the intro here that this book is meant more as a celebration of the art of traveling itself. He also has some snide insights into the art of travel writing, especially annoying authors who give only a tourist's eye view of the destination but don't bother to say how they got there. Getting there is Theroux's passion and the fragments in this volume usually show him encountering all kinds of intriguing characters and situations around the world, all while on his way somewhere else. That includes the good, the bad, and the ugly - and describing all of these with equal insight is Theroux's greatest strength as a globetrotting non-tourist.

In his Introduction Paul Theroux writes, "When something human is recorded, good travel writing happens." Theroux always records the human aspects of countries and people he meets along the way. He records the scene outside the train window or porthole like no one else. Close to poetic in some sections.

I have read almost all of Theroux's books and when I picked up this one I was afraid it would just be excerpts from his travels and might be less than satisfying, the tales taken out of conntext. I was wrong. These stories are gems in their own right, timeless, and may inspire you to read more of his books, fiction and nonfiction.

Though I doubt it will be for long. This is quite possibly Theroux's most ambitious project in straight *fiction*, and it's extremely well-written and well-crafted. The "voice" of the elderly female narrator is at times just a bit unconvincing, but as a novelist, Theroux isn't at all what one might think from his numerous "travel" books--this is riveting and almost shocking, and quite vivid.

Finally, Theroux is one of those few novelists (Iris Murdoch and Robertson Davies come to mind) who seamlessly weaves a large amount of knowledge, history and culture into his narratives. In its way, this is also one of the finest books on photography ever written. I encourage you to find a copy--there's something here for those who like literary fiction, vivid description and...an excellent story.

The premise for this novel resides in the main character's desire to bed her brother. Her desire for him motivates her life and thinking; her brilliant career in photography serves only as a means to gain his respect and um, affection. Sadly, the other sister wins the brother's favors. Our heroine avoids a complete breakdown but does contract hysterical blindness when she learns the awful truth. Theroux sets up a Conradesque narrative framework, and the female narrator often launches into some turgid prose detailing the passionate vagaries of her inner life. What struck me was the incestual motivation for her great work so admired by others. A commentary on the creation of art, its basis not necessarily as pure as we'd like to imagine?

A brilliant novel in many respects, I only subtract a star due to the (in my opinion, of course) overblown nature of some of Maude's rantings. Perhaps that was part of the point -- her visceral passion.

This is one of my favorite books. Whereas Theroux often has a hard time depicting love convincingly and sometimes doesn't even try, I found the unrequited love between brother and sister in this book to be fierce and intensely tragic. The historical backdrop of the development of photography is brilliantly conceived and realized, as is the ongoing dialogue of the old woman, retired, reliving her past on Cape Cod. In many ways uncharacteristic of Theroux's brash, egocentric style, this book uses a strong feminine voice that evokes a very unforgettable personality. Good fun to read

Theroux's popular travel books often carry silly subtitles like this one. A kind of half-memoir detailing the epic (length) friendship between Theroux and the great V.S.Naipaul. The book has drawn some cheap criticism for its obvious one-sidedness and gallant, wounded posturing on the part of the young Theroux, whose friendship with Naipaul deteriorated under strange circumstances. What remains is a book full of Theroux's weaknesses as a writer (he has always seemed to have taken Naipaul's advice "Tell the truth" to an illogical conclusion - everything in there, regardless of its arguable relevance, so that Theroux's writing carries the breezy mish-mash feeling of first draft), yet the book is shot through with love in the way that only veterans of love can understand it. Filial, bewildered, adoring and petty, the portrait of Naipaul is indelible. The book reveals (at last) that the world of letters may be the most damaging and lethal of all Beaux Arts. Worth arguing about...or arguing with, anyway. Paul.

Paul Theroux has been criticized for betraying his mentor and friend V.S. Naipaul. Except for some mean-spirited jabs near the end, most of Theroux's account of their friendhip suggests that he is still in awe of Naipaul. One feels a little sorry for him that his hurt is so deep that it has driven him to the extraordinary act of writing this book.

A good read, this book only reinforces Naipaul's reputation as a literary genius and an original. Theroux admits that Naipaul made him as a writer. He generously mentored him, encouraged him and spent time reading and criticizing his work. By contrast, Theroux complains in the book of being asked to write the jacket cover of one of Naipaul's works.

I enjoyed the book because it gave me an intimate look at one of my favorite authors (Naipaul). I don't think less of him after reading it. My advice to Theroux would be the same as Naipauls, "Take it in the chin and move on".

There is something of Graham Greene in "Sir Vidia's Shadow," Paul Theroux's account of the end of his relationship with Nobel laureate V.S. (Vidia) Naipaul. What sustains the friendship between these two expatriate authors over 30 years? What eventually destroys it? How do place, class, calling, ideas, politics, and pheromones factor in their story? What is friendship anyway? These themes of Theroux also inspire Greene's "The End of the Affair."

Two authors -- one established, the other just starting out -- meet in Uganda in 1966. Naipaul, the established one, is crabbed, dismissive, paranoid, needy, fussy, rule-bound, misogynistic, cheap, but immensely talented and eager to mentor. Theroux is accepting, ingratiating, adventuresome, admiring, and willing to pick up every check. Like partners in a bad marriage, they complement each other. Over the years, as friends, they support each other through the usual crises of life. As artists, they read each other's work and carry on a dialogue about writing, books, and other authors. Their shared interest in the writer's craft sustains their friendship, despite their personal differences.

Naipaul's wife Pat also supplies some glue. Naipaul treats her shabbily, but Pat nevertheless "loved him -- loved him without condition -- praised him, lived for him, delighted in his success in the most unselfish way.... Possibly there was an element of fear in it -- the fear of losing him, the fear of her own futility and her being rejected.... She was discreet. She was kind, she was generous, she was restrained and magnanimous; she was the soul of politeness, she was grateful; she was all the things Vidia was not." (312) Theroux, who would acquire and lose a family of his own during the course of his relationship with Naipaul, desires Pat almost from the start. Naipaul rejects Pat's body, like a piece of undigestible sinew, in favor of prostitutes and other secret lovers. When Pat dies and Naipaul immediately remarries, his tactless new wife drives a wedge between old friends.

Or does she? "Sir Vidia's Shadow" -- part memoir, part biography, part domestic drama, part psychological study, part literary criticism -- is not so clear. Perhaps Theroux, the author of 22 books, simply outgrows his sycophant's role: by book's end, in fact, dueling faxes replace dutiful lessons over lunch, and Sir Vidia's shadow shrinks literally to nothing. Perhaps there is something more, a context to the friendship that, though hinted at, goes unverbalized, thus clouding the book's focus. In fact, Theroux's portrait of Naipaul is extensive, but Naipaul is an independent -- a secretive -- man, and Theroux's portrait of himself is more limited, more guarded still.

Besides Graham Greene, in other words, there is something of Henry James in "Sir Vidia's Shadow," but it is James without the information to clearly distinguish the protagonists from the victims.

Near the end of a two week trip to a far off land (for me at least), those uncomfortable things that at first seemed new and exciting start to become annoying and old.

It seems like Paul Theroux started feeling this way after his first two weeks... actually maybe even before. He manages to leave his personal stamp of disaproval on every Central and South American country in his wake... er... track.

The good thing is that his negative attitude is so obvious that you become desensitized to it, and it starts to feel like the grumpy narrative to a beautiful slideshow presentation by your Great Uncle Horrace.

Theroux's descriptions of people and places are so vivid, that his journey becomes less of a personal trip, and more of a documentary film of the beautiful landscape and interesting people that he meets. He is but a character in the film that you can choose to ignore.

Sidenote: Before I bought this book I had really wanted to go to the Patagonian area of Chile and Argentina. Since that was the only place that Theroux didn't seem to have a problem with, I instead went to Peru (he both hated it and got altitude sickness there, so I figured it must be a great place... and of course it was).

I very much like Theroux's writing. To me his sometimes acerbic observations get towards the truth of a place AS HE PERCEIVES IT. When I read travel books I likt to hear the author's point of view. That may or may not accord with my own or others'. I like also to compare them to other writers' experiences of the same place, whether it somewhere I will travel to by aircraft or mind's eye via the armchair only.

How does Theroux strike up conversations with such odd collections of people? Partly because he travels alone, and partly because he is open to hearing the stories of others. Either he hits on the most interesting people in every place, or he endures more mundane conversations than anyone in order to cull the best! He must keep assiduous notes - really WORK at travelling to be able to relate in such detail.

I know he gives us glimpses of his working modus operandi -references to the books he is reading, and the note-taking. A few times on the train I wished he had looked up longer i9n order to be able to tell us a little more about what was a bit further away from the track.

First book I read by Paul Theroux and was blown away by his refusal to play the all-too-easily-pleased and polite traveller/tourist. Theroux is a thinking traveller not afraid to mix it up with the locals or allow people to make fools of themselves. I just wished he had taken another route home and written another book about that.

Paul Theroux has been travelling across the face of this earth for decades. His acid wit has disparaged dozens of cultures. Those treks seemed to seek out low roads and those who kept to them. With this new book I am happy to report Mr. Theroux is in his element-taking a literary hadj about the Mediterranean coastline .So that one doesn't get bored with the likes of Robert Graves and Carlo Levi-he visits war ravaged Croatia and paranoic Albania.He pays a clandestine visit to Syria and both sides of a divided Cyprus.His prose is masterful. His mood is almost benevolent. It seems that the air on this particular path has lightened his spirits. One reluctantly finishes the book wishing the journey to continue a while longer. Thank you Mr Theroux for a road well taken

Paul Theroux tackles the beautiful, crusty, cranky, ancient, tacky, peaceful and war-like Mediterranean with gusto in this travelogue.

At times his natural cynicism gets the better of him, but his writer's eyes and ears leave us with beautifully rendered descriptions of the places he visits and the people he meets.

My favourite chapters include his hauntingly beautiful descriptions of the mountainous terrain and secretive people of Corsica; his chronicles of the aching destitution that is Albania; his comparisons of cruise-bound Turks and land-bound Israelis; and his coming to terms with Alexandria.

Thank you Mr. Theroux for a thoroughly enjoyable, thought provoking, and ultimately funny romp of a read through the Mediterranean.

Paul Theroux has produced a stunning book here, his recounting of an ambitious tour along the Mediterranean coastline, starting at Gibraltar and ending in Morocco across from "the Rock," along the way visiting just about every place in between, including Spain, France, Sardinia, Corsica, Sicily, mainland Italy, Slovenia, Croatia, Albania, Greece, Turkey, Cyprus (both sides), Israel, Malta, Syria, Egypt, and Tunisia. He tried to visit Lebanon but was unable to, and was warned off from visiting Algeria. He never seriously attempted to visit Libya. Vowing never to take a plane, he travels along the coast and to the various islands by train, bus, taxi, ferry and cruise ship (both luxurious such as the $1000 a day Seabourne to the more decrepit, workaday Turkish vessel Akdeniz).

Though Paul seems at time a romantic, quotting descriptions of places from epic poetry, the Illiad, or modern works of fiction, time and again he finds something different, and often that is a great deal more gritty, spent, or to use some of his massive vocabulary, enervated, melancholy, moribund, or lugubrious (I had to use a dictionary several times in reading it, but hey, I learned something). Though some of it comes off as depressing, some quite depressing, I wouldn't have it any other way; he tells it like it is, describing the places he really saw and the people he really met. Avoiding the tourist's Mediterranean, not wanting to just see ruins, castles, and pretty beaches, Paul shows us in this work how the people live, work, and play in the countries of this great "Inner Sea." Expressing "traveller's guilt" at times for being a "voyeur," Paul observed often times the sorrows, tragedies, and miseries, but also the joys and the friendliness, of the inhabitants of this part of the world.

Paul does not romantize any of the countries he sees. He describes in detail the desolate look of the Spanish seacoast in winter (Paul deliberately traveled in the toursit off season), of all the English-language signs, cheap hotels, billboards, shops selling cheap souvenirs, trailer parks, all waiting forlornly for the summer hordes of tourists, a vacation mecca that was more English than Spanish. He goes into considerable detail his efforts to understand the bloody spectacle that is the bullfight in Spain, talking to Spaniards everywhere and even attending a few (and watching some in smoky bars in Spain), but never develop a true comprehension (or liking) for it. He visits war-torn Slovenia and Croatia, sharing dirty hotels with desperate refugees, worried about snipers, harrassed by police at border checkpoints, looking at bullet and mortar holes in ancient structures. His time in Albania is surreal, a land of screaming and whining beggars, virtual starvation, a land that just recovered from one of the most xenophobic dicators in history, one that mandated everyone has his own bunker and not even own his own car - his description of Albania alone was worth the price of the book. Northern Cyprus he spent some time in, a ghost-town, a phantom nation, one that doesn't exist except in a legal limbo, cut-off from the rest of the island by the Green Line, forever a truncated failure of a country, in reality an expensive Turkish colony. He referred to Greece as "the ragged edge of Europe," a poor country that was basically a slightly better Albania as it were, a nation that was not really modern and an EC welfar state, and despite its rich cultural history, the people of that nation today - he writes - are not really truly aware of or part of the heritage of Aristotle, Pericles, and Archimedes. I could go on at length here, but suffice it to say his portraits of each country are fascinating. Some are a bit brief; he doesn't spend that much time in Slovenia for instance (not as much as he did in Croatia for example), and I got the impression in Morocco he was just glad his trip was finally ended.

The book is not perfect though. Some of the locations I thought he would spend more time on, specifically Jerusalem, Istanbul, and Venice, but perhaps if he did the book would be massive. At the very least in Istanbul there were political and terrorist problems, thus complicating his stay. All in all though I found this book quite worthwhile.

Blah. I still don't know what to think of this book. I haven't read anything else by Theroux, and after this read I have no desire to. While the prose is well written and the form of the story well crafted, I found myself getting bored with this novel. It started off well enough, with young Andre and the priests, and I thought I would really like it. But then Andre becomes such an idiot, and an unsympathetic one at that. By the time he's in London, this character is getting on my nerves, in a vague, boring sort of way. Like an annoying acquaintance whose always hanging around and never knows when to shut up already and leave well enough alone. Characters like Andre (and therefore Theroux himself?) taste common and done; they find motivation only in the illusion of the sheer force of their macho-ness, while pretending to observe the world from a distant and ironic perspective. Not that this isn't a legitimate tact, but others authors tackle it with far more humour and fun. John Irving comes to mind, as does Margaret Atwood, who writes from the distant, ironic, feminine perspective. I realize this a personal opinion, however, and I can see the talent behind Theroux's writing. I just don't care about his writting, that's all

As a former Peace Corps volunteer in Africa (and a Catholic) I found myself identifying with this author. He writes vividly and at times so richly describes landscapes I have encountered I felt I was visiting them again. His male Peace Corps Volunteer was dead-on (not much has changed from the 60's to the 90's in that respect) - many American men I knew in Africa behaved similarly, but with Theroux I was disappointed in his character. I kept wondering - how much of this is real and how much fiction.

I was angry with his dismissive attitude of women - "anything I want" - and later, his too soon forgiving wife. Women seemed ornaments to him - as were many characters and even locations in this novel - richly described, but only in terms of their utility to him. When no longer needed, the strongest of women looked weak - particulary Eve. In the end, I felt sorry for Andre, but I wanted to read more. Theroux is a gifted writer, despite Andre's (or was it Paul's) treatment of women. I found this book very hard to put down.

The prequal to his acclaimed *My Other Life*, *My Secret History* is also a masterful work of narrative and characterization, imbued with grace, humor, and humanity. It demonstrates a young man's coming-of-age stuggles more astutely than any book I've read, and while it's easier to read than the later book, it's just as poignant: we often rather smugly hide behind our baggage and consider younger people frivolous because of inexperience, or somehow incapable of love. Theroux shows that they *do* feel love, of romance, friendship, respect--and these emotions form the measuring sticks by which all our subsequent experiences will be measured. Moreover, the book itself is an act of love--of writing and of living. It has made me value my own life more fully, through pages that made me relate, reflect, laugh, and read until dawn, and then, the better for it, get up and start writing, myself.

And living.

Just read the tender, blunt and beautiful first section, and I seriously doubt you'll stop.

I happen to enjoy Paul Theroux a lot of the time, and this "fictional autobiography" delivers the goods. As usual, Theroux goes over familiar territory, Africa, Singapore, London and Massachussets, and makes one wonder which of his stories are real and which aren't. My favourite chapters in this book are his encounter with the royals at a posh function, (especially his Prince Phillip moment) and his pilgrimage to his hometown of Medford Massachussets, slumming with some locals who wouldn't know one of his books if it hit them on the head.

This is as good introduction to this author as any book, although one would do well to start off with one of his travel books, such as The Old Patagonian Express (which is where I discovered Theroux). I found My Other Life to be much more enjoyable and substantial than his somewhat self-pitying My Secret History, written a few years previously. In fact I should re-read My Other Life soon, each page has some gems.

I found My Other Life a wonderful but uneven book. Its premise is very original: It may or may not be the author, Paul Theroux, autobiography. He describes it as "the story of a life I could have lived had things been different". But the reader feels that the fictional memories are not that fictional after all. As you read it you might feel that Theroux would like some things to be different, but not even a writer can erase and change his past.

If I said that My Other life is a uneven book its because the first chapters are fascinating. I loved the young Paul as a young hopeful writer full of dreams that takes him to the most romantic and idealistic places. He was a writer who thought that to be able to write he must know pain. And a lot of pain. So he goes to live in a leper's colony in India.His life keeps changing as chapters pass. He becomes a a young husband and teacher in Singapore; a doting husband, loving father and young writer in London.But as he approaches middle age, his life and crisis become very boring. The reader misses the young dreamer who has turned in the last chapters into an obnoxious man who can't be faithfull to his wife or to his dreams. Well, thats life. Who is the lucky one who can fulfill the promise of his youth?. Paul Theroux sure is a wonderfull storyteller who can fulfill his readers expectations.

Having lived in several of the countries Mr. Theroux has written about, including Malaysia, Singapore and U.K. and also being a great fan of his favorite authors like V.S. Naipaul and Graham Greene,I highly recommend "My Other Life" to anyone who is interested in the inner life of a writer. This book is certainly one of his best and mirrors his own growth in both his personal and professional lives. I was afraid that this book would bore me, having already read "My Secret History", but I have to say that this book only increased my appreciation for Mr. Theroux as a writer. His abilities in self analysis and in being able to weave a complex story in a thoroughly readable manner makes him one of the most interesting authors around. Whether Mr. Theroux is trying to coyly deceive us into believing that "My Other Life" is only fiction or whether he is only tantalizing us with semi truths is unimportant. This book will keep you wondering at his ever increasing skills as a writer and have you only begging for more.

Paul Theroux invites us to join him on the journey of lifetime, in the grand romantic tradition, by train across Europe, through the vast underbelly of Asia and in the heart of Russia, and then up to china. Theroux took readers into the dark heart of the human soul. In nonfiction title Riding The Iron Rooster, he took them to the far corners of the world. Now. He embarks on an unforgettable journey into enigmatic post-Cultural Revolution China for the most beguiling book on Asia. Here is china by rail, as seen and heard through the eyes and ears of one of the most brave and insightful travel writers of our time. Theroux took readers into the dark heart of the human soul. In nonfiction title Riding The Iron Rooster, he took them to the far corners of the world. Now. He embarks on an unforgettable journey into enigmatic post-Cultural Revolution China for the most beguiling book on Asia. The author Paul's practiced eye, adventurous spirit and rich prose produce a vivid memoir, full of people and talk and war, outspoken conversations about the private life of china today, the Cultural Revolution and Mao, about writing novels, growing fruit, and the details of everyday life; about discontent, loyalty and the possibility of a better life in America.

Train after train after train! A most fascinating, thorough narrative of travel through China in the mid-eighties, which, by the way, is the only reason I did not give this book five stars. It is old-more time has past since Paul Theroux took this trip than the time that had passed since the cultural revolution when Theroux wrote this book.

But I still recommend this book. There is really nothing else like it available, and it does give a wealth of information about the lay of the land. The physical geography of China has not changed that much since the mid-eighties. But I would not have you think that this books only value is its descriptions of scenery. There is plenty to learn about China, and the Chinese mindset, as long as you are able to transpose it a bit to the present time. For example, I don't think you would be followed around quite so much as Paul Theroux was on this trip.

Theroux is a novelist by profession, and a good storyteller. This book contains a lot of interesting anecdotes, such as a delightful description of the few days he spent in the city of Dalian with a travel guide who was obsessed with American idioms.

Kipling said, "East is east and west is west, and never the twain shall meet." In the years since World War II, several countries in the Pacific Rim, starting with Japan, have seemed to defy this adage, and have really become western democracies. What is the future of China? Will this proud culture become more western? Will it become more democratic? Although this book is not a political tretise by any means, it is very useful as a post Cultural Revolution look at China. Nobody can predict what China will become, but surely the most casual observer would have to take note of the major paradigm shift represented by recent changes.

This book was written before Tiananmen, hence its weakness. However, I still think the book would be very useful for anyone who has at least a modicum of understanding of the events surrounding the Cultural Revolution. I found it to be a very useful addition to the body of literature I have been reading over the past few years to gain a better understanding of the tremendous changes that have taken place in China since I first saw the pictures of the Red Guards on the cover of my Weekly Reader when I was in elementary school. Get a cup of coffee, put your feet up, and enjoy.

This is a well-written literay account of Theroux's travels through the difficult land of modern China. I first read this while living in (British) Hong Kong and making trips to and through the mainland. I have never laughed so much at the crazy predicaments Theroux gets himself into or observes (many the same as I was experiencing), and was struck not only at the quality of his writing but how rare a writer he is for covering this difficult and insecure part of the world.

What shines through in the pages of this book is that Theroux the writer is beholden to no one; he delivers accuracy of description everytime, and while this is the essence of a good travel writer, it is not a trait relished by governments out east like China's, where in fact the culture demands "saving face" over telling the blunt truth (see Bo Yang's book The Ugly Chinaman for an in-depth account of this fascinating aspect of Chinese culture). Even some westerners who live out East (and might like us to think of the Third World as some kind of paradise posting) can get upset at this kind of sober truth-telling about "their" China. For the detached reader, Theroux's book is an honest, funny, non-spin-doctored account.

If you like this book, try Theroux's Kowloon Tong, his Hong Kong novel banned in China, a very accurate depiction of that small city and the people (both westerners and easterners) who lived in it at the time of the Handover (I read it while living there). Timothy Mo's The Monkey King is another classic China novel about an eccentric Chinese family - a witty, poignant tale, and a book so on the mark that, if anything, it was even more attacked by certain frumps out East than Kowloon Tong!