Customer Reviews

Blinding Light: A Novel

5 star:		(2)
4 star:		(2)
3 star:		(4)
2 star:		(3)
1 star:		(7)

 

 

Paul Theroux is known as a descriptive writer, and much of the work is good - if that style of writing is to your taste.

The middle of this book is too long and drawn out, and frankly the drug-induced sexual encounters became tedious. I couldn't wait for them to end - perhaps I was being held prisoner in a similar way to Steadman's girlfirend Ava.

The tail end of the book was a little more enjoyable - bear in mind, however that this is not a thriller, and the end is somewhat predictable. If the editor had removed about 60 pages from the middle of the book it would have been a great read.

My Advice: Read the start, proceed through the middle until it bores you, then fast forward to the end.

I loved this book, but I've loved every Paul Theroux novel. I suspect that most first-time readers of Theroux' novels will be offended and put off by this book. On the surface it reads like an egotistical, self-absorbed, name-dropping exercise in denial. In a vacuum, this novel is a train wreck. But taken in the context of the author's previous works, it is pure brilliance.

I see this book as a natural extension/progression in Theroux' literary exploration of what it means to be a man. For me, this exploration started with "The Mosquito Coast," which I read in 1981, and which has haunted me ever since. From the beginning of "Blinding Light" I saw similarities between Steadman and Allie Fox, the protagonist of "The Mosquito Coast." They are both so sure of themselves, so full of themselves, yet so isolated from the rest of humanity. Each believes he is the only living person who has the Answer to the Human Condition, and each wants nothing whatsoever to do with anyone "less fortunate" than them. In "Mosquito Coast," Allie ("Father") is a tree-hugger inventor/farmer. I believe his children are home-schooled. His idea of freedom, which he preaches to his wife and kids with every breath he takes, lies in returning to the "natural" state of things. He constantly declares to his wife and children, "If it can't be grown here, I have no use for it!" Except, evidently, for the hydrogen and nitrogen and other chemicals he arranges to have shipped to South America when he moves his family there in order to build a giant freezer in the middle of the equatorial rain forest! How different is Steadman's journey?

Like Allie, Steadman is an introvert-snob; he knows he's smarter than 99.9% of the people on the planet. He also knows he's a fraud. His incredibly successful travel book was a complete fluke, an experience nobody, including Steadman, could ever consciously reproduce. To his credit, he definitely tries; he spends 10 years trying to come up with a "great, new" idea, to no avail. One day he hears of a "mind-altering" drug that can only be experienced in the jungles of South America, and he's convinced that it is the only thing that will produce a breakthrough, the subject of which will inevitably become his next book.

It turns out that Steadman is right. The mind-altering drug he finds in the jungle DOES actually transport him to "see" things as he has never seen them before. And it DOES produce fodder for his next book. But, as we all know, there are no free lunches. The insight and vision Steadman receives comes at a price.

In allegorical terms, this book can be seen as the tale of the Garden of Eden: given the gift of the fruit of KNOWLEDGE, how will you use it? Steadman uses it to hob-knob with presidents and celebrities and act like a complete arrogant, idiotic schmuck! Just like Allie Fox. In Allie's case, the fruit of Knowledge was his own brain, but he used it in the same arrogant, idiotic, BLIND way.

Some of the reviewers of this book have objected to the lame attempt at erotica. They are right - but I think it's intentional. My reading of the book is that it's ANTI-erotica. It's satirical. It's making fun of Steadman's belief that it's erotic.

I have to respectfully disagree with the other posted reviews. This novel is a satire. It's poking fun at the main character, Steadman. He's meant to be a pathetic writer who intentionally denies himself and his character through the use of datura. Without it, he feels like he has nothing to contribute to his audience regardless of the astounding success of his first book. His obsession with sex and the "blind insights" he achieves regarding his sex life under the drug's influence are his only sources of inspiration. He's a pathetic and lost individual who's deluded himelf into believing that his erotic, hallucinogenic musings are SOMEHOW redeeming. They aren't. This is a story about a man who's so afraid of himself that thinks he needs to pose as a blindman to be recognized as someone with value. In addition to his anti-Freudian message, I believe Theroux meant this book to be a diatribe against any artist who needs drugs in their systems to create. Blinding Light is self-deception. I don't happen to agree with this premise, but it was artfully illustrated in this novel. I found this book to be thought-provoking and an enjoyable read.

I haven't finished the book yet but I have to say I am so relieved to have survived the middle section that I have to get my thoughts down now. I don't object to its being erotic, but it is non-stop, repetitious and makes you wonder about the writer whose fantasies just don't let up.

In his travel books Theroux visits redlight districts and dwells on child prostitutes in many countries, claiming never to indulge; here he lets it all hang out, except that the imagery is so relentless you wonder whether he ever gets any satisfaction. Fantasies usually vanish once the deed is done.

In the hero's reminiscences, at age 14 he supposedly loses his virginity to a same-age girl but it turns out the year before he was the sex slave of a friend's mother, which Steadman brushes off as her having needs. Right! The need to be a child molester. And somehow that bratty friend never teases him over how much time he spends indoors with his own Mom.

As well, women in this book are not particularly well treated. Once Ava is not having fanciful sex in costume every night, she is suddenly 100% distracted by her doctor job, dresses only in scrubs and becomes totally clinical. There is a misogyny that comes through his characterizations of the female as either aggressively sexual (fantasy female), mean or critical.

The beginning was great because it was like a travel book. As in Elephanta Suite, which was also sex-obsessed but managed to keep it in perspective, Theroux doesn't seem to edit himself much and his reflective moments wind the same theme over and over again. Don't his editors have the guts to make him cut?

Point of detail: most of those psychotropic plants have poisons like strichnine in them which is what gives you visions. A daily diet of datura would likely have killed him long before a year was out and certainly made him crazy. Also, in many of the books his Spanish is often inaccurate, mispelled and poorly translated. Again, where are the editors?

I liked Hotel Honolulu, Mosquito Coast, all the travel books, and I am up for reading the rest of the novels, but sex in a novel is a spice not a main course. I am hoping that the farther back in time we go, the more balanced he gets about that.

Elephanta was wickedly on the mark in its satires of Indian culture. He does so well at scene and milieu. Those are the parts I like.

I'm really surprised that Paul Theroux is such a popular author, as I found this book tedious, pretentious and so repetitious that I kept thinking I had already read what I was reading and had inadvertently put the bookmark in the wrong place.

My interest was originally peaked by the story line - a man, his ex girlfriend and a bunch of other tourists are escorted into the depths of the Amazonian jungle by a tourist guide, where they are given the hallucinogenic plant Ayahuasca. Since I've been long interested in the effects of this plant, I was looking forward to a good, informative read.

My enthusiasm was curbed at the beginning of the novel, as I waded through a very unconvincing few chapters as Theroux attempts to establish the characters. It seems he has tried to create the same sort of atmosphere as Paul Bowles did in "The Sheltering Sky" (highly recommended by the way), except that he fails spectacularly, and the characters are unprepossessing, boring and unrealistic. The main character, Slade Steadman, has apparently written a best selling travel book some years previously, and Theroux would have us believe that nearly everyone on the plane is wearing a line of travel clothing inspired by the novel. This unlikely scenario becomes excruciating as Theroux describes again and again, ad nauseum, what everyone is wearing and how trite and shallow they all are.

Steadman himself is not likeable, neither is is awful girlfriend, but after grinding through all this, the characters finally get taken blindfolded into the heart of the Amazon, where one would hope the interesting action would begin.

Here, Theroux commits the cardinal sin. He clearly has not researched his material and seems to have no idea what happens when people drink the Yage brew. In Theroux's version, everyone falls to the ground in a twitching heap immediately upon drinking the mixture (in reality, it usually takes at least half an hour before any effect other than nausea is felt). There is no description of the effects - psychological, hallucinogenic or otherwise, and we find ourselves quickly transported to the next morning where our disgruntled travellers are ready to depart. At this point, someone discovers some rare datura-like plant, and further unconvincing antics follow.

I didn't bother to finish the book. Some other reviewers have noted that the novel has been misunderstood as it is meant to be a satire. However, I'm of the opinion that any story - especially if it is a satire, should be well researched and believable.

This is a very dark novel. Perhaps Theroux is mocking himself. It's not that he only wrote one successful travel book as his 'hero' did, but perhaps he sees all his writing of that type as really just one document. Well, Mr Theroux I refuse to dismiss your travel writing the way your 'hero' seems to dismiss his. Even blame it for blocking further advancement. And I have read quite a few of your novels - not that I really liked any of them much, except 'Millroy the Magician' that is.

I didn't enjoy this book at all. I wouldn't recommend it either. But I have given it three stars rather than the two I was leaning towards because I just refuse to dismiss those travel writings. If the intention was to cast them in a poor light, to denigrate them and the achievment in them - well, I just refuse to do that.

Can writers successfully write both travel books and novels? Yes they most assuredly can. Try two favourites of mine, for example - W H Hudson and Rabindranath Tagore.

other recommendations:
'Millroy the Magician', 'My Secret Life' - Theroux - plus any of his travel books
'A Crystal Age', 'Green Mansions' - WH Hudson - plus any of his travel writings (such as 'Afoot in England')
'The Home and the World' - Tagore - plus any of the short story collections

I could not really get into the novel until I had read about 130 pages or so and at various times I would try to convince myself to just keeping reading it. I have to admit that it was tempting to just put the book down and find something more light-hearted. At times Theroux does a decent job at pulling in the reader, but for most of the novel I found myself feeling rather awkward or just plain bored and annoyed with his many sexual forays. Theroux does have beautiful sentence structure and a way with words, but those are really the only redeeming qualities. I did not really enjoy it and would not really recommend this book to anyone.

Ugh. Slow. Self-obsessed, self conscious, and not worth the time to read it. First quarter of the book was promising, but then descended into tiresome descriptions of various sexual fantasies of the author (and yes, I am referring to both Paul Theroux and the main character of the book). The latter half of the book read more like a mild version of Penthouse Forum and less like a satire. I would have been MUCH happier picking up Lolita by Nabokov and rereading it than spending time on this drivel.

To echo what other reviewers said, this book was just awful. The dust cover promised lots of psychedelia and sex and it never fulfilled either of these. Which is fine, since I'm not really a drugs and sex type of reader. But it never really does anything else. You never get a good idea of what the main character is feeling, just a lot of droning rhetoric. It changes tone too many times and it just all over the place. The last section gets a little better as it picks up some momentum, but the author doesn't evoke any sympathy for his character so ultimately you are just a passive bystander instead of feeling emotionally entrenched in the fate of the character. A lot of self centeredness and boy's fantasies get played out as if they are reality. Can one man really attract that many women that want no sexual satisfaction further than to pleasure a man, with no interest in reciprocity? I highly doubt it.

You know, it's been really interesting (and surprising) reading through what many of the other (negative) reviewers have had to say about this novel. Personally, I very much enjoyed the book. Granted, it is perhaps a little long, and in some ways, repetitive.

But what the negative reviewers here don't seem to 'get' is that it doesn't really matter whether you 'like' the protagonist Steadman, or not. I think it is a fallacy that one must be able to 'like' the protagonist (or other characters) in a book for it to be compelling. Case in point would be novels like 'Glamorama' by Bret Easton Ellis, or 'Choke' by Chuck Palahniuk. In both cases, utterly repellent characters, but very interesting novels; the fact the characters are repellent does not make them or their story any less interesting (to me anyway) ... probably the reverse in fact.

Theroux has an exquisite ability to capture the subtle nuances, idiosyncracies, egos and failings of his characters, and that ability is beautifully on display in this novel. At times, the accuracy of his depictions of vapidness, hubris, or obnoxiousness, can induce an almost physical nausea, and we are able to easily imagine ourselves being in a confined space for periods of time with these types of people (on a tour, or the like). No small feat!

In short I think Theroux has been given an unnecessary amount of stick by the reviewers here, and anyone who wants to bear witness to a beautifully written journey into the damaged psyche of a (flawed but interesting) individual as he tries to get his writer's mojo back by ingesting entheogenic substances, will I believe, find themselves rewarded.

In closing, I will add that the other reviewers who have noted the degree of satire in evidence here, are correct. It is not only satirical and dark in its representation of the protagonist (and his dissociative state of mind), but equally so in its depiction of those peripheral characters who seem all too eager to flock around and lionise a mythical 'literary figure' like Steadman. In achieving this, Theroux fleshes out a none-too-rosy picture of the nature and fickleness of modern American power and celebrity.