A good travelogue is always a good companion, especially
when you are not travelling. Paul Theroux's The Pillars of Hercules: A Grand
Tour of the Mediterranean is a book about a journey that is a journey in
itself. I started reading it in December 2021, and while I usually finish books
fast, this one has been a slow read. I completed it in October 2024. The reason
is as follows: I have been distracted and have a mild case of reading too many
books at the same time.
It is a typical Theroux book, but at the same time, a bit of
a pessimistic ramble. I read it with the same love-hate relationship Theroux
seems to have with the places he is visiting. Theroux starts in Gibraltar and,
instead of crossing the Straits to hop over to Morocco, takes the long route
along the interior of the Mediterranean by road and by boat, making an epic
journey to the two pillars of Hercules. He does this in the 1990s, when the
whole region is going through a lot of transition but is also the Mediterranean
of the romantic era, unspoiled by Instagram and travel apps.
In typical Theroux fashion, he documents the idiosyncrasies
of the coastal towns and villages through the interactions he has with people
there. The best among them are the meetings he has with other authors based in
the region—some local, some expat, and some long dead. Along the way, he
encounters Salvador Dalí's estate in Figueres, Spain, and reminisces about
Hemingway's love of fiestas. In Antibes, he visits Graham Greene's home and has
many such encounters with the literati of the past, all of whom found
themselves and their writing inspired by the Mediterranean.
Some of the best parts of the book come when he visits notable living authors. He visits Naguib Mahfouz in Egypt and Paul Bowles in Morocco. But why I struggled with this book, only able to read it in bursts and in between finishing many other books, is because Theroux is rather caustic and utterly shreds the romantic experience one has of places like the French Riviera and the Adriatic Coast, revealing their true grunginess. I was reminded of the time I was in Naples back in 2009 and was left uninspired by it.
What kept me going was the Theroux magic of weaving history, anthropology, tragedy, and humour in his writing about the place. On reflection, this is a great book, which feels like an ugly piece of graffiti on an ancient Greek marble column.
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