My Secret History, a review
My Secret History was my first Paul Theroux novel. I tried reading Waldo, his debut effort, but could not finish it. (Waldo kicks off with promise, and humour, but stagnates in my opinion; Theroux was just 26 when it was published.) But My Secret History works. It is plainly written, even breezy, but it is extremely gripping. The novel is a fictionalized memoir. It plots epochs of the writer’s life, buffs them up a bit, and presents them as creative writing, which it most certainly is not, as readers familiar with Theroux ought to recognize. The narrator, Andre Parent, grows up in Boston, works as an altar boy, moves to Africa with the Peace Corps, meets his English wife, moves to London, works on his writing career, becomes friends with a famous Indian writer (VS Naipaul), publishes six or seven novels, has a breakthrough with a piece of travel literature, is devastated to learn his wife has had an affair, threatens to kill the man she had an affair with, has an affair himself, and recommits to his wife while on a trip to India.
Because I have read almost all of Theroux’s travel literature, I could see parallels – nay, identical situations –regarding his personal life. (For example, in the prologue to Ghost Train to the Eastern Star, he talks about what a mess his life was when writing his breakthrough The Great Railway Bazaar, how his wife cheated on him, and how he threatened to kill her lover.) But readers unfamiliar with Theroux’s travel literature or his other fiction would still find this a satisfying read – it just adds another dimension if you know something about his biography.
My Secret History is a page-turner, hard to put down. The first chapter, “Altar Boy,” sparkles, as does the third chapter, “African Girls.” I have read satisfying novels set in Africa by JM Coetzee, VS Naipaul, and Joseph Conrad, but Theroux manages to really bring Africa to life. He seems to capture perfectly what living there in the early 1960s must have been like. His descriptions and assessments of London are intriguing and so are other “admissions” about his “secret life.” Indeed, one wonders how much of this novel really is fiction. I would conservatively wager less than 20 percent. I would not be surprised if it were only 5 percent. I had wondered why Paul Theroux never wrote a memoir; now I realize he did.
I only have two small complaints. At 444 pages, the novel is a bit long. It is also very conventional in style. Theroux, prone to analysing and discussing other writers, sometimes praises Hemingway and sometimes criticizes and mocks him. In The Pillars of Hercules, he accuses him of writing in Father Pilgrim English – but Theroux could be accused of writing in the same manner. But it doesn’t really matter. His writing is always good, always consistent, and his story-telling ability is brilliant, almost never dull. The novel is also packed with irony, humour, and incisive observations about human nature. Recommended, and I look forward to reading more of Paul Theroux’s fiction.
Troy Parfitt is the author of Why China Will Never Rule the World
Because I have read almost all of Theroux’s travel literature, I could see parallels – nay, identical situations –regarding his personal life. (For example, in the prologue to Ghost Train to the Eastern Star, he talks about what a mess his life was when writing his breakthrough The Great Railway Bazaar, how his wife cheated on him, and how he threatened to kill her lover.) But readers unfamiliar with Theroux’s travel literature or his other fiction would still find this a satisfying read – it just adds another dimension if you know something about his biography.
My Secret History is a page-turner, hard to put down. The first chapter, “Altar Boy,” sparkles, as does the third chapter, “African Girls.” I have read satisfying novels set in Africa by JM Coetzee, VS Naipaul, and Joseph Conrad, but Theroux manages to really bring Africa to life. He seems to capture perfectly what living there in the early 1960s must have been like. His descriptions and assessments of London are intriguing and so are other “admissions” about his “secret life.” Indeed, one wonders how much of this novel really is fiction. I would conservatively wager less than 20 percent. I would not be surprised if it were only 5 percent. I had wondered why Paul Theroux never wrote a memoir; now I realize he did.
I only have two small complaints. At 444 pages, the novel is a bit long. It is also very conventional in style. Theroux, prone to analysing and discussing other writers, sometimes praises Hemingway and sometimes criticizes and mocks him. In The Pillars of Hercules, he accuses him of writing in Father Pilgrim English – but Theroux could be accused of writing in the same manner. But it doesn’t really matter. His writing is always good, always consistent, and his story-telling ability is brilliant, almost never dull. The novel is also packed with irony, humour, and incisive observations about human nature. Recommended, and I look forward to reading more of Paul Theroux’s fiction.
Troy Parfitt is the author of Why China Will Never Rule the World
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