Customer Reviews

Hotel Honolulu

5 star:		(0)
4 star:		(2)
3 star:		(1)
2 star:		(0)
1 star:		(0)

 

 

Paul Theroux writing on autopilot is still better than many other authors at the top of their form. His well-known ability to describe a place or person in just a few perfect words, his creation of believable characters with clear motivations, his ironic detachment as these same characters mess up their lives, and his depiction of a writer's battle with the demons of his craft are among his many brilliant qualities, all on vibrant display here.

Ultimately, however, this novel was a disappointment to me. Set in a 3rd-rate hotel in Honolulu, it has the characters and setting of a novel (and is called a novel on the cover), but it is so lacking in any sort of unifying plot, that it's not even possible to write a plot summary. The huge cast of characters has only one thing in common--they all live and/or work at the Hotel Honolulu. While some characters are complete enough that they could have been worked into a wonderful collection of short stories, others are seen only in tiny, three- or four-page vignettes and add nothing significant.

Like the author, the narrator is a writer who has had a failed marriage and difficult divorce in England and who has come to Hawaii hoping to escape his bad memories and the pressures of the writing life. He likes Hawaii "because it [is] a void"--almost no one recognizes his name, and those who do have not read his books. He works as the manager of the Hotel Honolulu.

Unfortunately, this fragmented book is shockingly mean-spirited in tone, going way beyond good-humored satire, and demeaning almost every aspect of Hawaii, its people, and its culture, while also taking pokes at some American icons. Virtually every woman in the book either is or has been a prostitute. All are dimwits. Even the narrator's wife is the product of a one-night stand between a Honolulu prostitute and John F. Kennedy, a man she supposedly never recognized in this most Democratic state. Hawaiian/Filipino girls are depicted as fair game, sexually, for their fathers, uncles, brothers, and other relatives.

Hawaiians who speak pidgin among themselves are mocked and their language derided. When he uses Hawaiian words, Theroux sometimes deliberately misspells them. Fellow-author Stephen King also takes a hit here, Theroux saying, "it takes only a modest talent to write about misery." In a particularly low blow, he comments on King's near-fatal accident by saying, "Gross reality [the accident] overwhelms his puerile and implausible fantasies." This novel may have its virtues, but modesty, tolerance, and good taste are not among them. Mary Whipple

This is not really a novel, and as soon as I realized that I was able to enjoy it. Really, it is a series of interlocking short stories which progress inevitably toward a conclusion but remain more or less self contained. The tone is pure Theroux; aloof but self mocking, with the capacity to be tender or surprisingly mean. Theroux's main characters are often himself; an educated foreigner, misanthropic and past middle age, searching for and shunning social acceptance. This book is an easy read, and fun, but it has a gleeful mean-spiritedness that may be off-putting and some moments of geniunely deep and touching sadness.

Paul Theroux is often accused of misanthropy, and this is probably not the book that will disprove those allegations. He is less frequently called a racist, but I think it's clear that Theroux is not slamming natives of Hawaii any more than the white immigrants, Asian tourists, or any other group.

I deducted one star since some of the vignettes have a bit of a lackluster feel, especially those that are necessary to advance the meta-plot. This is not his best novel, but it is very good.

I have always enjoyed Paul Theroux's writing, hence the three stars, however here, he is one angry man. This book was quite a surprise to me. I bought it at Barnes and Noble and paid full price, assuming that I would like anything by this author. The cover states that this is a New York Times and Washington Post notable book of the year. They refer to Theroux as 'irascible'. I guess I would say this is one misanthropic, misogynistic, racist diatribe. We are told in the information on the author that he now lives in Hawaii and Cape Cod. After reading Hotel Honolulu I would guess he might have more friends on Cape Cod; but even there it is questionable.

It purports to be a novel, however it is more a collection of vignettes, observations by the protagonist about his employer, his fellow employees and assorted guests and visitors. There are two people who come out somewhat intact, Henry James' biographer, with whom the writer claims a civilized affinity,and the Chinese/Vietnamese bartender, Tran. The writing is Paul Theroux's so it is not bad, the problem is the jaundiced eye of the writer.