Paul Theroux Books

I appreciate photographer Anthony Suau's work, but this book BRAZIL INCARNATE is not by Anthony Suau even though Amazon's website says that it is. The book is by a photographer who's last name is Pillitz. I ordered this book, waiting for a book by Anthony Suau, the author according to Amazon.com of the book BRAZIL INCARNATE. I wish Amazon.com hadn't decieved me and sent me a book that is not by Anthony Suau. Shame on Amazon.com. Did they lie on purpose? I don't think so... It's general incompetance, that's all. Now, I am stuck with a book I didn't order. Thanks for nothing you bastards!

Pillitz has done his homework and infiltrated the inner sanctum of the the transvestite underworld of Brazil in order to capitalize on a very temporal and sex-crazed society. The black and white photography renders the subjects seemlessly, considering the starkness of black/white admixtures following generations of miscegenation. My main complaint is that Pillitz' obsession with the transgender world skews what the title and front photograph advertise. Further, the back cover states "a five year study on Brazilian sexuality and body culture"; however, in the author's own words he describes how he became fixated on transsexuals and patiently gained acceptance by visiting and living amongst them.
Don't buy this book in order to see much debauchery. There are many shots of bare breasts (mostly transsexual) and the most risque pic shows a guy tonguing a breast at the Gay Ball. Since HIV/AIDS is so prevalent, a few shots of transsexual bodies ravaged by AIDS would have been a good counterpoint.
The price is steep ($75) and fortunately I was able to get a loaner from the local library. I suggest you do the same if possible; otherwise, pass on this.

Heather Monkhouse is the kind of white Anglo-African woman who uses powder to cover the lines on her face and wants nothing more out of life than pink gin, a parade of rich lovers, and a black or two to order around: "You know what I really want to be? A high-class call girl. Not a w----, you understand, but a paid girlfriend."

A bad fit for the teaching staff of a small backwater school, especially one run by the fragile, defensive Miss Poole, who lives in cat-infested squalor but insists on orderliness. When the two meet, it's hate at first sight. Soon they are throwing parties where the main objective is to embarrass one another before the other two guests, Miss Male (so obviously symbolic a name, it's almost the biggest laugh in the book) and B.J., a young American who believes she is really in Africa to help people and thus makes herself an easy victim.

"Girls At Play" [1969] features Paul Theroux's always-brilliant writing about the ways of exotic nature, about the soughing of hylas and bats in the bush and the jacaranda and frangipani that fringe the schoolyard. The story doesn't work, however, either as allegory or satire, and certainly not as drama with its small cast of monodimensional players.

Theroux's dyspeptic side gets much play with B.J., the most likable character but flawed as written by her desire to treat the Africans around her as people. Whether Theroux is criticizing her fuzzy-headed liberalism, the imperial condescension of Brits Heather and Miss Poole, or both, makes for much of the book's interest, but as it is never resolved in the storyline, it makes for something of a dead-end, too.

Theroux uses his characters as a means of writing some pretty hairy things. "Africa was not mysterious, only disorganized, slow and dull" and "I don't believe in rape. There's no such thing." He has fun playing with the readers' sensibilities this way, but since he just leaves lines like those to linger, they come off as hollow rather than bracing sentiments.

Ultimately, you get the feeling Theroux isn't taking his characters seriously not because they are outsiders in Africa but because they are women. That's troubling not because its politically incorrect (if you want politically correct fiction, don't read Theroux) but because it stops dead any real engagement you might have with the characters. If they are just a bunch of silly girls who look down on anyone with darker skin, why care about them?

I didn't. And however strong his descriptive powers and unique his views, Theroux isn't a good enough novelist to make an interesting book with uninteresting characters.

The opening of this novel does indeed show girls at play at a boarding school in East Africa, but it soon becomes clear that the title refers to the four teachers at the school -- the only white women in this remote region with nothing much to do after school hours. There's Miss Poole, the headmistress, a colonial born in Africa who does not care for England and continues to stay on even as independence for this African nation means lowered standards for whites like themselves. There's Bettyjean (B.J.) Lebow, a peace corps worker from San Diego, who struggles hard to match her fantasies of Africa with the realities. There's her room-mate, Pam Male. And finally Heather Monkhouse, who has had some sort of trouble in Nairobi and taken up teaching at this remote school. When finally two black men go out on a date with two of the teachers, a trail of tragedy engulfts each of the teachers' lives. The writing is uneven in patches (this was one of the author's early novels), but there are flashes of black humor. The funniest parts include scenes of the teachers taking turns in hosting group dinners at each of their homes although they cannot stand one another, each trying to outdo the other in being a rude and poor hostess.

This is a very dark novel. Perhaps Theroux is mocking himself. It's not that he only wrote one successful travel book as his 'hero' did, but perhaps he sees all his writing of that type as really just one document. Well, Mr Theroux I refuse to dismiss your travel writing the way your 'hero' seems to dismiss his. Even blame it for blocking further advancement. And I have read quite a few of your novels - not that I really liked any of them much, except 'Millroy the Magician' that is.

I didn't enjoy this book at all. I wouldn't recommend it either. But I have given it three stars rather than the two I was leaning towards because I just refuse to dismiss those travel writings. If the intention was to cast them in a poor light, to denigrate them and the achievment in them - well, I just refuse to do that.

Can writers successfully write both travel books and novels? Yes they most assuredly can. Try two favourites of mine, for example - W H Hudson and Rabindranath Tagore.

other recommendations:
'Millroy the Magician', 'My Secret Life' - Theroux - plus any of his travel books
'A Crystal Age', 'Green Mansions' - WH Hudson - plus any of his travel writings (such as 'Afoot in England')
'The Home and the World' - Tagore - plus any of the short story collections

Not up to Paul Theroux's usual cleverness as writer. Very disappointing.

I am an avid reader of Theroux's travel writing, and have only read one of his fiction novels, "My Secret Life", which I enjoyed. I picked this book up at a book exchange while traveling in Mexico, and was delighted at my good luck. I tend to agree with the other negative reviews, this book did not live up at all to the other writing of this literary icon. I really can't figure out why he made all these references to real life "celebrities", the sex scenes were rather boring, the only thing he sort of nailed was the datura experience. Maybe he is losing it in his old age?

Paul Theroux is known as a descriptive writer, and much of the work is good - if that style of writing is to your taste.

The middle of this book is too long and drawn out, and frankly the drug-induced sexual encounters became tedious. I couldn't wait for them to end - perhaps I was being held prisoner in a similar way to Steadman's girlfirend Ava.

The tail end of the book was a little more enjoyable - bear in mind, however that this is not a thriller, and the end is somewhat predictable. If the editor had removed about 60 pages from the middle of the book it would have been a great read.

My Advice: Read the start, proceed through the middle until it bores you, then fast forward to the end.

Ugh. Slow. Self-obsessed, self conscious, and not worth the time to read it. First quarter of the book was promising, but then descended into tiresome descriptions of various sexual fantasies of the author (and yes, I am referring to both Paul Theroux and the main character of the book). The latter half of the book read more like a mild version of Penthouse Forum and less like a satire. I would have been MUCH happier picking up Lolita by Nabokov and rereading it than spending time on this drivel.

This is a long way from Paul Theroux's best. You can see he already had the sharp, iconoclastic world view that makes so much of his later and better writing so good. But this is a nasty and unpleasant book, and doesn't do anything to reward you for getting through it. The characters are pretty much uniformly unsympathetic, bad stuff happens to a lot of people who may or may not deserve it. Waldo himself is terribly hard to identify with...not worth hunting for.