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TIME: Almanac 1990
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1990 Time Magazine Compact Almanac, The (1991)(Time).iso
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052289
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05228900.065
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1990-09-17
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BOOKS, Page 112Free StateBy R.Z. Sheppard
MY SECRET HISTORY
by Paul Theroux
Putnam; 512 pages; $21.95
Paul Theroux is the writer whose novels read like travel books
and whose travel books read like novels. It is not surprising,
then, that he has given the matter some thought. For example, in
The Great Railway Bazaar, his 1975 best-selling account of rattling
through Asia, Theroux concluded that "the difference between travel
writing and fiction is the difference between recording what the
eye sees and discovering what the imagination knows." He added
wistfully, "How sad that I could not reinvent the trip as fiction."
Fourteen productive years and thousands of dusty miles later,
My Secret History does that and more. Theroux, 48, reinvents not
only his great train odyssey but other chapters of his exotic
autobiography as well. The result is the most consistently
entertaining of the author's more than two dozen books, a serial
portrait of the artist as a young stud that will undoubtedly cause
the usual confusion about what is fact and what is fiction.
This is never an easy question (autobiographies frequently
contain more fancy than novels), but so far as one needs a guide
to the free state of Theroux's imagination, it is this: like the
author, the novel's hero, Andrew (sometimes Andre) Parent, was born
and reared in Massachusetts, spent a good part of the '60s teaching
and traveling in the Third World, and eventually made his mark as
a London-based writer.
Beyond that, Theroux's randy adventurer has a convincing, if
not necessarily reassuring, reality of his own. Parent is a droll
reminder that nature adores deception. His admission that "in order
to be strong I needed to have secrets" sounds no more or no less
deceitful than the call of any unhousebroken creature who relies
on stealth to catch a meal, a mate or juicy material for a novel.
Parent's secrets are mainly sexual, a subject that arouses an
immediate interest but can be hard to sustain for 500 pages.
Happily, Theroux's hero is a man of ironic intelligence and amusing
self-awareness. He believes that comedy is the "highest expression
of truth" and, conversely, that the funniest things are frequently
the truest. This makes for considerable humor arising from grim
situations. Moreover, Parent's wanderlust means a frequent change
of scenery and a liberating sense that, as the playwright Tom
Stoppard put it, every exit is an entrance somewhere else.
Young Parent can barely wait to break out of Medford, Mass.,
during the late '50s. Outwardly he appears to have been quite
ordinary: an altar boy who liked to plink at bottles with his
.22-cal Mossberg. Yet his mind has been jump-started by books,
especially Dante's The Divine Comedy. "It was not just the blood
and gore," he tells a friendly parish priest, "but that the people
in Hell seemed real; the ones in Purgatory and Paradise were wordy
and unbelievable."
Dante's swingers spend eternity in pitch darkness and buffeting
winds. The consequences of 19-year-old Andy's passions are more
prosaic. Having got his girlfriend pregnant, he is forced to borrow
abortion money from a 50-year-old matron who has been trying to
seduce him. Keeping one woman from knowing about the other
foreshadows a more elaborate predicament in Parent's early middle
age.
Chapter 3, "African Girls," is as close to Paradise as Parent
gets. It is a recollection of his years as a Peace Corps teacher
in Nyasaland, soon to be the Republic of Malawi. The time is the
early '60s, a period between the end of colonialism and the
beginning of home rule. Like the budding writer, the emerging
nation is enjoying a brief moment of freedom without too much
responsibility. Dictators have yet to arrive in their
Mercedes-Benz, and the girls have gonorrhea not AIDS.
By the late '70s Parent is a successful author and world
traveler whose secret is that he has a house and wife in London and
a vacation cottage and mistress on Cape Cod. He is a man with two
of everything, including, as he tells a U.S. Customs agent who
suspiciously inquires about his lack of luggage, two toothbrushes
-- one in each house.
Theroux's divided man may not win any popularity contests, but
he is the author's best creation, a character who is honest enough
to know that he wants it both ways: to be the lover and also the
solitary observer who betrays his loves by turning them into
stories. Domestic contentment is not an end in itself, but a
respite between difficult journeys. It is a necessarily lonely
life, one meant to protect a secret that is more than sexual:
Parent has no fear of flying; he is afraid of landing.