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As the train came to a halt, a middle-aged black man walked up to me. “Paul Theroux”, he pointed at my book. “He’s a great author! I read his book about a train journey. From the East coast of the US to the West coast. Amtrak, trains’ walls made of Perspex. Marvelous!” I said I hadn’t read it yet, but it sounded promising. “Indeed!” The man leaned in to me a bit. “I saved all my money, and then I went there, with my wife. The train went straight through the Rockies!” And with a twinkle in his step, he wished me a pleasant day, as he walked out of the compartment. Back home, I finish my Theroux. Not on trains in the States, but on a dead hand in Calcutta. Reading about an author with writer’s block, who gets entangled in the web of a woman who makes his Kundalini flow, set in dirty bewitching India, I cannot agree more. Paul Theroux is a great author. Even though I have never been to India myself, it now almost feels as if I have. Still, part of the story gets me annoyed: Men and their blind adoration for pretty women. Yawn. Best read in train or on plane.

2023-06-06 16:31