A well written but essentially dishonest book, the dishonesty being the result of an imbalance. It’s clear Theroux had a vision of the south and southerners, whites in particular, before he made his excursions. In the course of his wandering he appears to have purposely went looking for (or only reports?) those encounters that support his prejudices The vast majority of people he spends time with are either minorities (blacks, native Americans, or what he calls “dot-Indians” from India) or whites he meets at gun shows. From the minorities he extracts anecdotal stories and selected histories in support of racial prejudice, while the gun-show visits allow him to present a somewhat narrow slice of southern men and women who conform to a view of them as gun-mad bubbas.
Anyone both honest about and familiar with the south would have to admit there is truth in what Theroux writes. He does not deal in out-and-out falsehoods; rather he misleads by leaving out. He mentions that “progress has been made” and even touches on the phenomenon of northern blacks returning to the South because it represents a vast improvement over their lives in places like Chicago or Detroit. But he skims over this fascinating, revealing, and remarkable bit of history quickly and lightly. No where in the book do you get a true impression of the substantial and positive changes that have taken place in the South. Rather you get concentrated doses of its past history and the remnants of that history that indeed still remain.
As I say, the books is dishonest because of its imbalance. One quits it, or at least I did, with a desire to say to Theroux: “Yes, yes, all you have chosen to say is true – as far as it goes; but why didn’t you give the other side of the story equal time and emphasis?” While there remain problems in the South, there is also much to admire in the way it has attempted to reform itself. It is in fact a better, more tolerant, more hopeful place than much of the rust-belt north, or even Theroux’s home state. It’s a shame, and venal of Theroux, to begin by pretending to liking the South and then to go on for over 400 pages not-so-subtly undermining it.
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