Customer Reviews

Sir Vidia's Shadow

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Sir Vidia's Shadow contains all the queasy excitement of Theroux's trademark train trips, but this time we're clattering along with him over 30 years of friendship with VS Naipaul -- and bumpy ones at that. We get several books here: first, the Theroux travel book. Readers who complain of Theroux's crankiness will find his loving descriptions of Uganda (where "even the crops were pretty") refreshing. Second, we get a minutely detailed book about the writing life. There is Naipaul the perfectionist demanding an explanation for each word in an early Theroux essay, weeding out every piece of obfuscating extra baggage. My favorite anecdote concerns the memorable first sentence of Naipaul's Bend in the River ; anyone who has savoured this quintessential Naipaulism will be enlightened on the subject of tedious re-drafting and the editor's role in all good writing. Then there is the book about Naipaul himself: I can't imagine that anyone who's read and enjoyed Naipaul will be too offended -- or even much surprised -- by Theroux's portrait. The neurotic obsession with food and hygiene, the fear of "the bush", the ever-deepening melancholy and misanthropy, the overcompensations and fears of a "barefoot colonial" -- Naipaul himself has given us all this in his novels and travelogues. Theroux reveals this side, but also unexpected glimpses of Naipaul's kindness (especially as mentor to PT), self-doubt, childish good humor (Naipaul singing calypsos!) and even physical bravery (Naipaul fending off wild dogs in Kampala). It would be easy to turn Naipaul into a "character" (Naipaul loathes "characters"), and Theroux never stoops to this. I certainly think no less of Naipaul as a writer, and now understand his writing and motivations more clearly. There are certainly other Naipaul's -- we all reinvent ourselves for different people -- but here we get Theroux's Naipaul, and it is a fascinating, albeit troublesome portrait. Finally, we get a book which takes us through the entire course of a friendship. Theroux ends the book in shrill and often unfair condemnation of Naipaul (one cannot easily dismiss the writer who gave us Mr Biswas or Bend in the River), but such is the aftermath of many meaningful friendships which die. At one point, Theroux advises Naipaul to return to a land he visited and write with a perspective freshened by time. In the same way, perhaps we will get another look at Naipaul from Theroux's perspective after the wound has set. In any case, SVS is far more substantial than the literary cat-fight which we might have expected from the early press releases.

What began as a mentoring relationship between established novelist V. S. Naipaul and Paul Theroux, a young writer working on his first novel, went on to endure as a "friendship" for thirty years as both writers traveled the world but remained in touch. They met when Theroux was a young ex-Peace Corp worker teaching in Uganda at the university in Makerere in 1966, and Naipaul, nine years his senior, became "writer-in-residence" there, though Naipaul hated teaching and mocked the writing of his students and the Makerere faculty. He did, however, recognize Theroux's talent, and he did help and encourage him to get his novel published. Theroux, in turn, was an astute reader of Naipaul's work, and both benefited from the relationship, at least at first.

From 1967 - 1977, Theroux published ten successful novels and short story collections, all of which Theroux describes in this book, and all were praised, at least privately, by Naipaul. Somewhat less attention is paid here to the almost equal number of works published by Naipaul, some of which Theroux read and helped proofread. A crusty, critical, and often cruel man, full of contradictions, Naipaul was a difficult "friend," and when he decided that he did not like someone, there was no turning back, no forgiveness for human failings. Theroux managed to navigate that minefield of hostility for thirty years.

In fact, shortly before the first of Naipaul's novels was published in the United States, Theroux (in 1972) wrote an introductory biography and critical assessment of Naipaul's work, full of praise for Naipaul, and helped to create an audience for Naipaul's work in the United States. After this somewhat effusive work was published, however, Theroux refused further interviews or commentary about Naipaul, insisting that "I will never [again] write about Naipaul. He is my friend." That declaration is belied by the publication of this book, the last twenty-percent of which is an uninterrupted excoriation of Naipaul and his second wife at the end of the friendship with Theroux. Here Theroux shows that he is at least as unforgiving as Naipaul, with a mean streak of his own.

In time Theroux would become a literary star with over forty novels and books of non-fiction. Naipaul, a painstaking, often philosophical writer, eventually won the Nobel Prize in 2001, and was knighted. Though this book is fascinating for its picture of the mentoring process and of a friendship which managed to survive despite the pettiness and frequent mean-spiritedness of Naipaul, it is also a portrait of Theroux, who published this book as his own enduring form of payback. n Mary Whipple

In a Free State: A Novel With Two Supporting Narratives, Naipaul's Booker Prize winner
A House for Mr. Biswas, one of Naipaul's most popular works
Dark Star Safari: Overland from Cairo to Capetown, recent Theroux travelogue
The Great Railway Bazaar
The Mosquito Coast, one of Theroux's most popular novels.

I have never been a Naipaul fan. While he is unarguably one of the finest 20th century writers in the English language, his books nonetheless have always left me cold. He seemed so cantankerous & generally misanthropic, ready to pass scathing judgement at the drop of the hat & sometimes with precious little reflection. With this in mind, I rather enjoyed great portions of Theroux' assault on his former friend, as it seemed to comfirm everything I had long guessed to be true about Naipaul. Also, the narrative flows along quite nicely, making the book easy to read. Some reviewers have scored Theroux for not having the necessary literary gifts to make this book work, and that he should stick to his travel books. I did not find this to be the case.

However, when all is said and done, I have a hard time seeing Paul Theroux as the victim here. Innumerable instances of Naipaul being the supreme jerk are recounted for the reader, and yet Theroux' loyalty to his friend never seems to have been seriously challenged. Occasionally, Theroux will describe how he "winced" at his friend's appalling behavior. How can this be? What motivates a man to endure a friend's sometimes horrible treatment of the people around him...people who often did not deserve the disrepect they got from Naipaul?

Evidently, Theroux was willing to tolerate Naipaul's behavior and remain his friend for 30 years because the man is a brilliant writer, or at least this is what he tells us. I cannot help but suspect that Theroux, at the time, saw nothing wrong with this behavior (probably because Theroux himself is renowned for his own rather difficult nature) until, finally, he was on the receiving end of it. Then, so it would appear, all the unsavory aspects of Naipaul's personality suddenly snapped into focus, after three decades of exposure. Hmmmm, I cannot say that I was convinced by Theroux' description of that particular epiphany.

However, I think Theroux' descriptions of his former friend largely hit the mark, and there is something that is just fun about poison-pen works. Just remember that the while Theroux may have some legitimate scores to settle, he was willing to look past those scores for an awfully long time because it served his own interests.

An opinionated writer is often a pleasure to read. A diplomat is always a bore. SIR VIDIA'S SHADOW contains two writers, fully opinionated, and no diplomats. There is much about VS Naipaul in this portrait by Paul Theroux that is the sort of thing that is normally obscured by diplomacy: ambition, egotism, overbearance, intransigence, candor...Naipaul is a real piece of work, and Theroux shows him in all his glory. Perhaps he went further into the personal than was proper, but that is Naipaul's misfortune, not ours.

I've read many other books by Theroux and Naipaul, some good, others less than that. I like the nonfiction of both better than their fiction. But never have I read anything by either of them as compelling as this. I tore through SIR VIDIA'S SHADOW in two sittings. I don't know whether it's due more to Naipaul's charm or the skill of SIR VIDIA'S author, Theroux.

They begin in Uganda, sparring, as writers do, over other writers. Theroux mentions his admiration for Nabokov, whom Naipaul rejects: "Forget Nabokov. Read Death in Venice. Pay close attention to the accumulation of thought." This dismissal was surprising because as the persona of Vidia the Great Writer was developed through the book I was reminded constantly of Nabokov, particularly Nabokov's volume of criticism called STRONG OPINIONS. And Nabokov's scorn of Mann was second only to his scorn of Freud. But Naipaul and Nabokov have in common their legendary erudition, their strong opinions expressed elegantly, seldom dipping into vulgarity, their rootless lives lived mostly far from their natal homes, their wary eyes kept peeled for the brutes of the world--Naipaul sees at once that Uganda is on theverge of anarchy and goes around asking the people what they will do when the "crunch" comes. Just five years later the crunch does come in the form of Idi Amin.

Coming from Third World squalor himself, Naipaul has no patience for the make believe that constitutes Ugandan government, universities, and newspapers. He marries, 30 years later, the same female about whom he says, in a spasm of vituperation, "What a horrible child!" Then the irony becomes still heavier when Theroux, a lover of children, is harshly abused by the new wife of his longtime friend.

Theroux reveal nearly as much of himself as of Naipaul while playing a sort of straight man to his friend's winsome incorrigibility. The pair could hardly be more dissimilar: while Naipaul is driven into a foul mood just by the nearness of African families laughing and playing music on a Sunday, Theroux revels in their society, speaking Swahili, teaching English, and coupling with African women with joyous abandon. Somewhere in Theroux's other writings I'd gotten the impression that he was a bit of a New England puritan. But next to the fastidious Vidia, who is paralyzed with revulsion merely by a workman sitting on his (Naipaul's) bed, Theroux looks positively sybaritic.

The writing is so fluid and well-timed that it looks easy. But there is so much, such exquisite renderings of dozens of day-to-day encounters over the course of 30 years, that Theroux must either have the memory of an Intel chip, or the exuberant creativity of the finest writers of fiction, or both. SIR VIDIA'S SHADOW rises far above mere biography or memoir to become a marvellous work of art.

Forget all the media feeding frenzy over the "betrayal" accusations of Theroux's book about his former mentor and friend. If you're fascinated by Naipaul the writer, and want to know who the man is, this is the book. I have read everything Naipaul's ever written (except, ironically, Theroux's early book about Naipaul's work, cause it can't be found anywhere). He is simply an extraordinary novelist, certainly a candidate for the Nobel Prize (were it not for the politcally correct, who command it, and would be pulverized by those who see Naipaul's frankness as having "racialist" overtones). In the book he is quirky, opinionated, nasty, angry, volcanic, weird, tormented, fearful--all the contradictory qualities found in any artist. And of course artists are seen as strange--particularly in a world of conformists. It is a terrific read if you have followed the writing careers of both men. Of course, Theroux is bitchy and hypocritical and repetitive in the hurts he's suffered, but he also makes it clear that he would perhaps not exist as a writer of some 40 books had it not been for Naipaul's support. If you're not a Naipaul follower, this book won't be of much interest..

Paul Theroux met VS Naipaul in Uganda, where the former was teaching English literature (and ducking 'Nam ... can't blame him for that) at the university in Kampala. The history of the ensuing friendship is the bedrock of this curious memoir.

In many ways "Sir Vidia's Shadow" is typical Theroux: Although there are the many (and well-publicized) jabs at "Sir Vidia," Mr. Theroux comes off as hardheaded and difficult as he does in his other books. Naipaul, of course, comes off far worse. Monomaniacal, misogynistic, racist, cheap, mean, unbearably arrogant and annoying pretentious, with his old Oxford archaisms and his "Nye-Powell" Anglicization, Sir Vidia seems to be the man we always feared he was. Theroux, in fact, seems to be his only friend. Likewise, Naipaul appears to be among the author's few friends - which is the book's saddest aspect. For those who've read and enjoyed the work of both men, who've recognized how each came to affect the eye and writing of the other, it's a shame to witness egos tearing apart such an interesting literary relationship. (Theroux blames the split on Naipaul and his new wife, the insufferable Pakistani half-wit, Naira. As is often the case, the truth is less complex: Pure ego was the culpit.)

A few of the Theroux's points harm his premise: He chides Naipaul for literary vainglory: "This sort of book has never been done before. This is a new form;" and yet Theroux himself states that a memoir like "Sir Vidia's Shadow" has never been done. Further, he claims Naipaul's recent writing is silly and unreadable. Naipaul has never published anything silly or unreadable. Theroux also hints that he's achieved a sort of literary parity with Naipaul. He hasn't. As good as Theroux is, VS Naipaul is the finer writer; Naipaul has the bigger and better expressed ideas; and Theroux benefited more from knowing Sir Vidia than the other way around.

But the book is fascinating, funny and well done.

Paul Theroux's "Sir Vidia's Shadow" has taken quite a beating in some quarters. Many feel Theroux betrayed V.S. Naipaul by writing this memoir, but the fact remains that this is Theroux's story as much as it is Naipaul's. This book has been attacked for being nasty and unfair, but is actually an evenhanded and penetrating look at writing, friendship and human frailties.

Theroux meets Naipaul in Uganda in 1966. Over the next 30 years, they remain friends through wide distances, triumphs and failures, divorces and deaths. Naipaul emerges as an extraordinarily compelling character. Perceptive, brilliant, egocentric and obsessed with writing, he abuses and uses his friends, family and professional acquaintances. He is also generous, needy and sometimes kind. What we end up with is a portrait of a supremely gifted but infantile man who is a fascinating but sometimes repugnant human being. Theroux is brutally honest not just about Naipaul's faults, but his finer qualities. He uses that same objectivity towards himself as well. In the end, "Sir Vidia's Shadow" betrays Theroux's hurt feelings after Naipaul terminates their relationship following his second marriage; it does not display meanspiritedness.

This superb memoir is a gripping read, from the first page to the last. The story it has to tell is well worth reading, and Theroux writes beautifully (as ever). All in all, I highly recommend "Sir Vidia's Shadow."

I guess there are really two questions here. Is this a good book and should the author have written it?

Certainly it is fine writing, excellent characterization, evocative descriptions, and, of course, it is mesmerizing when two top writers have problems and then have a falling out.

Many years ago, a friend did some things I found out about through another friend and, when I confronted him, I eventually started getting some weird letters from his Filipina wife totally distorting all that had gone on between her husband and myself. This is not quite the same thing as what happened with Paul Thereoux but I have been on the receiving end of strange letters from someone who has been schooled but not educated, and someone both immature and insecure who wanted to change the past before closing the door. I think Theroux was both dismayed and hurt by the fax he received which also did this.

In a way, Paul Theroux was betrayed twice. Once by his friend Naipaul and once by his friend allowing - apparently without objection - his new wife to put her spin on the past and to clean house, including Paul. It seems to me that the only sin of Paul Theroux was his naivete. When you deal with the type of person Naipaul is, you should know he is capable of cruelty as well as egocentric behavior.

Paul Theroux wrote this book out of the pain of betrayal but kept it literary and honest. I am pleased this book was written. Absolutely fascinating.

Dean Barrett

Sir Vidia's Shadow tells the story of the thirty-year friendship between Paul Theroux and V. S. Naipaul. They met in Uganda in 1966 where Theroux was teaching English at Makarere University. Naipaul was already famous and had published several books; Theroux was unknown but aspired to be a novelist.

Naipaul takes a liking to Theroux (in his own way) and encourages and helps him. Naipaul introduces Theroux to his British publisher. He invites Theroux to parties where he introduces him as an up and coming author. Meanwhile, even though Naipaul is famous (and is already in the late 60's being referred to as one of the greatest living writers in English), he struggles to earn a living. He takes unappealing teaching and journalism jobs to make ends meet; the very kind of work against which he warns Theroux. Theroux meanwhile, by the early seventies, had published seven books but was still struggling financially. He has a low paying job teaching in Singapore and must endure the humiliation of being ordered to cut his hair by his department head.

Theroux does not become financially secure until he strays away from "pure" writing and writes the first of his travel books. Theroux's fame eventually equals and perhaps surpasses Naipaul. His subsequent travel books are enormously successful. Several of his novels are adapted for motion pictures while Naipaul books are always critically admired but poor selling. Near the end Theroux makes the point that he find many of Naipaul's later works dull and uninteresting; he says that he must skim to get through them. Theroux feels that some of these later works would never have been published had an unknown written them. If you're like me and have read lesser works of famous authors and felt exactly the same way; it's nice to see this sentiment in print.

There are interesting comments on rare and signed books. He describes Naipaul's rage at having to sign copies of his books for others to sell at a huge mark-up. Theroux sees books that he had inscribed and presented to Naipaul and his first wife decades earlier in a rare book dealer's catalogue. This sets in motions the events that cause their friendship to come apart. Meanwhile, Theroux himself collects signed books; he asks his friend to sign his collection of Naipaul's work one day during a visit at his London home. Naipaul refuses. Theroux buys Naipaul's privately printed signed limited edition "Congo Diary" and is upset that his friend did not think to give him one.

There is an interesting passage describing Theroux's participation in the 1979 Booker prize panel, the year when A Bend in the River was considered. The other judges want to award the prize to Naipaul but Theroux vetoes this, saying he didn't like sex scenes or the ending. He suggests an alternative but one of the other judges rejects this, saying "over my dead body." Theroux shows that the awarding of book prizes is mainly a popularity contest; who one's friends are matters much more than writing quality. Theroux discusses the politics involved in awarding the Nobel Prize for literature and (wrongly) concludes that fellow Trinidadian Derek Walcott's award would forever preclude Naipaul.

Theroux also describes the annoyance Naipaul feels when doing book tours. Naipaul savages berates a publicist in Portland, he is upset that she has described Portland as a "small town," screaming at her that he does not visit small towns. This fit of self important megalomania is a rare look at the unselfconscious inner dialogue of authors, the rage these pampered "artistes" feel when they must condescend to come face to face with their adoring public.

The discussion of Theroux's harsh criticism of Naipaul has overshadowed what is great and unique about this book. It gives a rare look at the lonely world of writers. He gives a glimpse of their day-to-day struggles and the tortuous path to becoming a published writer earning a living at writing. This struggle tends to make them insane. Their difficult life may be one factor in why so many talented writers are driven to mental illness and even suicide.

This is the story of Paul Theroux's thirty-year friendship with his fellow-novelist V. S. Naipaul. Part social history, part biography, part autobiography, it is above all a beautifully written and fascinating study of a writer's craft and life.

Both men are prolific and accomplished writers. Naipaul has written novels set in all five continents. His novels include `Guerrillas', `In a Free State' and `A House for Mr Biswas'. He has also written a history of Trinidad, `The Loss of El Dorado'. Theroux is the author of `The Mosquito Coast', `The Great Railway Bazaar' and many other stories, novels and travel books.

Both men are remarkably self-contained; both are wandering scholars. Naipaul is famously rude and difficult. As a visiting professor in New York, he refused to give any classes. He once boasted, "I hate all music." He appears to disparage all contemporary novelists, and most past ones: he said that he hated Jane Austen, Thomas Hardy and Henry James. (He did at least admit to admiring Thomas Mann's `Death in Venice' and Rudyard Kipling's `Plain Tales from the Hills', and he does have a justified contempt for George Orwell.)

Theroux writes, "the best writers are the most fanatical." (Perhaps excellence at any work demands a certain fanaticism?) Certainly, Naipaul's uncompromising attention to his craft, his hatred of cant, of poses and affectation, of style, reveal the monomania necessary, but not sufficient, to creativity. The results in his work are uneven, but Theroux believes that Naipaul has produced one undoubted masterpiece, `A House for Mr Biswas': readers should judge for themselves.

Theroux too is obviously not an easy man: his wanderlust, his unpleasant sexual boasting and his tactless responses to Naipaul's second marriage show how difficult he finds it to form relationships. Consequently this rare long friendship must have meant much to both men: it finished only recently, spurring Theroux to write this account. The book ends in a haunting last encounter, full of confusion, pain and rejection.