Book Review & Analysis: Cuba by Irene A. Wright

Cuba

by Irene A. Wright

      There is no shortage of information about Cuba in the 20^th century up to the present, especially regarding the post-Revolution years. If you want on-the-ground impressions of the post-independence, turn of the century era, fewer options exist. One source of information might be Irene A. Wright, a journalist and historian who lived on the island in the 1910s. Her first book, Cuba, is more or less a travelogue around the former Spanish colony. It isn’t a book of great insight though.

Wright starts off the book in Havana, the capital city of Cuba, where she worked several years for an American news agency. She begins by describing some landmarks and tourist sights, providing background historical information about each one. This could have been more interesting, but her writing style is like what you would find in a standard travel guide. By that I mean she doesn’t write as well as a Lonely Planet writer would. For some odd reason, the chapter on tourist attractions ends with a long divergence into the subject of Cuban funerals. The subject might be of interest to social scientists or travelers who are less interested in tourism and more interested in cultural experiences. This is actually one of the most interesting parts of the book. But it is certainly misplaced in a chapter on tourist sights. This book overall is poorly organized, especially in its paragraphing.

Wright goes slightly deeper as she writes about Havana. This is mostly a written description of a city map that doesn’t give a sense of what it feels like to be there. She tries a couple times though. One passage is about the evening corso and concerts in a city park. Another part is about carnival when the streets fill with masked revelers. Her description, however, is shallow and patronizing. Rather than participating in the celebration, she stands aloof on the sidelines and watches as if she is too proper to participate. She writes about carnival as though it is a crowd of drunken simpletons having fun by throwing paper streamers at each other. She never takes into consideration what this might mean for the participants.

Her other assessments of Havana’s population aren’t any better. Her opinion of the people are that they are nice and generous, but not very bright. Of course, she doesn’t go into great detail about why this is so. And her assessment of who is Cuban is a bit off too. I don’t know the actual demographic breakdown of Cuba in the 1910s, but I do know the population had a visibly large Afro-Cuban population. But Wrights statistics of Cuban citizens only account for the white population as if the Afro-Cubans are stateless people who just happen to be there for some inexplicable reason.

Throughout the book, Wright barely ever mentions Afro-Cuban people. They are strangely absent in the same way they are absent from American TV shows like Leave It to Beaver where one or two of them might pop into view for a brief moment.

There is one exception though when she gets taken to a Santeria or Nanigo ceremony. If my information is correct, this is the first written account in history of an African diaspora religious ceremony in Cuba. The description is basic though and doesn’t give any real insight. She also conflates Santeria with Abakua which are actually two different practices, but she doesn’t investigate deeply enough to understand that. For her it’s all just some exotic entertainment like something you’d see at Disneyworld. The urban legend that Abakua societies perform human sacrifices also gets mentioned even though that is something that has been disproven long ago. Those were actually rumors spread by colonial Spanish police who wanted to destroy the Abakua societies for being pro-inedepndence. Wright wouldn’t have known that in her time however.

The strongest part of this book is the evaluation of Cuban politics at that time. The 19^th century in was marked by slave rebellions and the Wars of Independence sparked by Jose Marti. In the 1890s, the United States sent troops to Cuba during the Spanish-American War fought in Cuba, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines. After Cuba’s liberation and granting of statehood, the American government stayed in Havana to prop up a national government. After writing the contentious Platt Amendment into Cuba’s constitution, granting America the right to intervene in Cuban politics at will, the American diplomats returned to the North, leaving Cuba to its own affairs. The problem was that the Cuban government attracted politicians who were more concerned with graft and corruption than they were in governing the country. What little infrastructure that got built in Cuba was in the hands of American and European businessmen who had vested interests in making money as opposed to developing the nation. Wright’s assessment of this dilemma is verifiable in other histories of Cuba.

After time spent in Havana, Wright travels by boat around the west coast of the island and onwards to the Isle of Pines. Her descriptions f the beaches and coves along with the interior lands are about what you would expect from tropical Caribbean islands. There are a couple stories about pirates using the Cuban coast for their lairs and folkloric hunts for buried treasure. There is also a brief mention of the coral reef that impeded John F. Kennedy’s disastrous failed Bay of Pigs invasion in the 1960s. If only the CIA knew what other people knew, history would have been a lot different. In the lands beyond the coast, Wright comments more about farming than she does the jungle and natural vegetation. This is somewhat interesting, but not enough to carry the whole book.

Wright’s travels along the coast going east and back west along the southern edge are more of the same. She says little about the sugarcane and tobacco plantations that made Cuba so famous. Instead she writes about the citrus farms, emphasizing those that grow grapefruit and lemons. Most of the farmers she writes about are white Americans, Canadians, or Europeans. Cuban farmers are almost completely absent from the narrative and when they do appear, it is mostly to comment on how poor they are. As patronizing to Cubans as that might be, she isn’t without sympathy for them. She uses the poverty of the farmers to make an argument that Cuba needs to open up to international markets in order to thrive economically. That doesn’t necessarily sound bad on the surface, but what she is actually arguing is that the USA should colonize or annex Cuba for the benefit of the American food industry. She explicitly names the United Fruit Company in her sales pitch, one of the most destructive American corporations to ever do business in Latin America. Most of the second half of the book reads like a solicitation to American land buyers and investors. She writes like Cuba is a ripe fruit ready for the picking by wealthier nations. That might not have seemed so bad in her time, but with hindsight it certainly was a dangerous idea. She is right that Cuba got off to a bad start politically and economically, but her solution is nothing but short sighted and naive considering that Cuba was an emerging nation when she was there and what came later.

The last half of the book is dull. The writing is so monotonous that every town, village, city, and jungle all sound about the same. She uses the same language to describe different places and that doesn’t make for good reading.

Irene A. Wright’s Cuba has some high points, but ultimately is a lifeless book. The author fails to capture the heart and soul of the island and its people. It is of historical importance though since Cuba is the first book written in English about this Latin American nation located just ninety miles south of Miami. I suppose that makes her the first woman to write about Cuba too. That could be a source of pride for feminists even though her writing sucks. Beyond this, Wright went on to write the first comprehensive book on the history of Cuba in any language and it was all based on bone fide methods of historical research, or at least whatever those methods were in her time. This book isn’t great but it is of historical importance. At least it deserves some credit for that.

 

Book Review & Analysis: The Yage Letters by William S. Burroughs & Allen Ginsberg

The Yage Letters

by William S. Burroughs & Allen Ginsberg

      William S. Burroughs wasn’t doing so well in the 1950s. While Naked Lunch and its accompanying obscenity trials put him on the international literary stage, he was also dealing with heroin addiction, alcoholism, and mental illness. He did some time in jail, got peripherally involved in a murder case, and had a son he didn’t want with the woman he married even though he was gay. He ended up shooting the woman and being a lousy father to William Burroughs Jr. So when he wrote The Yage Letters with a passage by Allen Ginsberg, he wasn’t in the best state of mind.

This slim volume is made up of correspondences Burroughs made with Ginsberg soon after he shot his wife Joan, fled from Mexico, and went traveling in South America. He wanted to find the drug yage which is now more commonly known as ayahuasca. His main interest in yage derived from a rumor that it made telepathy possible. Reading between the lines gives a sense that he hoped it would help him to cure his heroin addiction or, at the very least, escape from reality.

The overriding sense of absolute misery is present from the beginning of the book. Burroughs is racist and unfairly judgmental of everybody he encounters as he makes his way through Colombia, Ecuador, and Peru. Other than the man who gives him yage, who may or may not be a legitimate shaman, he encounters researchers and scholars, government bureaucrats, corrupt police, and gay prostitutes. Burroughs can legitimately be criticized for being an asshole in these pages, but you have to admit he didn’t exactly associate with the best and the brightest members of Latin American society. His assessments of the countries he visits are based on his association with marginal people like petty criminals and police who abuse their power. If you think that corrupt police and bureaucrats aren’t a major problem in developing nations then I’d be more than certain that you’ve never set foot in a third world country. The shaman who gives him yage isn’t of high moral standards either since he is more concerned with collecting money for alcohol than he is for administering the drug. Burroughs suggests that he may even be a fraud. And as for the universities, let’s just say that not every researcher in the world is actually interesting to talk to. especially if they’ve gotten so deeply into their rabbit holes that they forget how to relate to other people.

The subjective mind of Burroughs lays like a thick coating of mud, sewage, and vomit over everything he sees. He was struggling with a lot of problems when he wrote this, one of which was a crippling low self-esteem. To make matters worse, dealing with addiction, mental illness, and the guilt of accidentally killing someone by wandering around foreign countries, getting drunk, and taking hallucinogenic drugs isn’t one of the most effective ways of coping with your problems. More than anything, this isn’t a book about South America or the drug experience; it is the details of a man in crisis. After all the racism and disillusionment, he does say one thing to redeem himself while traveling in Peru. Burroughs says he admires the Latin American people for their laid back, easy going approach to life, even believing that their cultural style should be the default for most humans. Maybe such a statement is too little too late, but it does drive home the point that all his nasty comments about the people there are nothing but projections from his own warped perceptions.

And there really isn’t much about taking yage in this book. He tries it once with the alcoholic shaman and not much happens except that he sees blue spots in his eyes and vomits excessively. Telepathy never happens. The one passage written by Allen Ginsberg describes the psychedelic experience under yage, but to be honest if I didn’t know that beforehand, I wouldn’t have known what the hell he was writing about. This book doesn’t do a good job of making me want to try ayahuasca.

But the crafting of the language is so good. Like in Junky, Burroughs writes in short, clear, direct sentences that paint a much bigger picture than what is presented on the surface. He writes the kind of simple sentences that Hemingway tried to write but failed. If there is anything worth recommending about this book, it is the prose itself more than the content, although I will say the content is interesting if you want to pick apart the mind of a deeply troubled man who is so lost in his wretched mind that he can’t see the world with clear eyes. It’s like he is wearing shit colored glasses.

The Yage Letters is a minor work of literature by any standard. It’s probably of little interest to anybody outside the counter-culture literary scene. That’s probably for the best. I wouldn’t judge the works of William S. Burroughs on this book alone. In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if he had regretted writing it when in the later years of his life. 

 

Book Review: Bad Lands by Tony Wheeler

Bad Lands:

A Tourist On the Axis of Evil

by Tony Wheeler

      Some countries are like people. They find themselves living on the wrong side of the tracks. In the various cities I’ve lived in throughout my life, I’ve ventured into and out of all sides of those tracks. What I’ve found is that just because people live in the rougher sides of town, that doesn’t mean they are all rough people. In fact I’ve found the opposite: sometimes living in the bad neighborhoods brings out the best in people. I’ve certainly found that the biggest assholes I’ve ever met have been people living in the nicer neighborhoods or the suburbs. I’ve had a few nasty encounters in some rural areas of America too and in fact, almost all of the crime and violence I have encountered have been in the USA. The same can be said for countries. I’ve lived in and traveled in sixty different countries and most of them were in the Global South. I imagine Tony Wheeler, author of Bad Lands: A Tourist On the Axis of Evil would have a similar view.

Tony Wheeler writes for Lonely Planet, that omnipresent series of guidebooks you used to see in the hands of almost every backpacker and hostel dweller you ever encountered on the road twenty or thirty years ago. In this book he delves into the genre of travel narrative very much in the spirit of what Lobely Planet was all about. Now anybody who prefers to stay at home with their eyes glued to their TV sets or the internet might have the impression that life outside America is both bizarre and dangerous. The truth is that such a viewpoint is about eighty percent wrong. Wheeler visits some of these forbidden zones to find out what they are like.

Something has to be said about what Wheeler means by “badlands” and how he chose his travel destinations. When George W. Bush, the second worst president in American history, made his first State of the Union Address, he identified the countries of Iraq, Iran, and North Korea as being an axis of evil, state sponsors of terrorism that sought to destroy America. Actually Iran was the only one of the three countries that was legitimately a state sponsor of terrorism, but that is neither here no there for the purposes of this book. Those three countries are included in Wheeler’s itinerary. The others he includes are nations that have low regards for human rights; they include Afghanistan, Myanmar, Cuba, Libya, and Saudi Arabia. He also includes Albania because they were a severe violator of civil liberties under the lunatic regime of Enver Hoxha not too long ago in historical terms at least. I myself have traveled in Albania, as well as Myanmar and Saudi Arabia. Note that Wheeler’s selection of destinations are not the most dangerous countries in the world, just the ones that are on the West’s shitlist with the exception of Saudi Arabia, the USA’s darling on the Arabian Peninsula.

So what did Tony Wheeler find on his journey through the badlands? Lots and lots of friendly, helpful, hospitable, and often happy people who were proud to show off their countries. There were lots of visits to tourist sights too. He visits ancient minarets in Afghanistan, castles in Albania, Buddhist temples in Myanmar, classic architecture in Cuba, museums in Iraq, beautiful mosques in Iran, Roman ruins in Libya, bizarre communist monuments in North Korea, and the ancient ruins of Madain Saleh in Saudi Arabia. He relies heavily on local transportation which can be a test of one’s patience when traveling in the third world. This takes him across deserts, through mountains, along seacoasts, and up rivers in shoddy vehicles with stops along the way in small villages. The only real danger he encounters, aside from horrible driving, is a riot in Kabul which he actually is not close to when it happens, although it is bad enough that he hides out in the British embassy while it goes on. Not alll of it is good though; Cuba is decrepit and he says the government treats people there like patients in a mental institution. Saudi Arabia is just a little bit dull. Otherwise you can say that his travels are like ordinary backpacking adventures that just happen to be in countries that America considers to be enemies. The descriptions of what he sees and does are good and for anybody who likes exploring life off the beaten path, this book can resonate well, bringing back memories and making you want to hit the road once again in search of unique experiences.

Being almost twenty years old, it is interesting to see what has changed since it was written. Afghanistan is now entirely governed by the Taliban. Albania has a booming economy and a growing tourist industry; Tirana may even be the next Barcelona. Myanmar has sunk into disaster after Aung San Suu Kyi proved to be a better leader while under house arrest and the Rohingya genocide continues without any interest from the outside world. Or is that genocides aren’t really genocides when they are done by post-colonial people who aren’t white? Cuba has opened up to the rest of the world, but their economy still continues to crumble. The war in Iraq is over and tourists are coming back even though it still is not a safe country. Iran is still Iran. North Korea is still North Korea. Libya has fallen into chaos after the Arab Spring, the assassination of Gaddafi, and the resulting civil war. Saudi Arabia has gone through massive social and legal changes, finally making progress while the rest of the world turns towards authoritarianism. Some countries got better, some got worse. If Tony Wheeler were going to do this again, he probably would need to include Venezuela, Russia, Belarus, Haiti, Syria, Sudan, Yemen, and China. Now that Donald Trump has been tragically elected president a second time, it may not be long before the USA becomes a badland itself.

After finishing Bad Lands, I was reminded of Plato’s famous “Allegory Of the Cave.” Today’s troglodytes are the masses of Americans and Westerners whose perceptions are trapped and distorted in their caves made of movies, TV, news, social media, and cell phone junk. Tony Wheeler is like the guy who leaves the cave and comes back to tell them what the real world is about, but they scoff and call him crazy, going back to their lives of ignorance dominated by sports and political propaganda fed to them by the ruling classes. It’s their loss. Tony Wheeler is right. The world outside the media cave is an amazing place, much more interesting than anything you will ever see on a screen. The world is there for you and everybody else. It’s endlessly fascinating. If the things you watch on your screens are more interesting than what you do in real life, then you are doing life wrong. Go out and live. 

 

Book Review

Arabia:

A Journey Through the Labyrinth

by Jonathan Raban

     As Jonathan Raban’s Arabia: A Journey Through the Labyrinth starts off, the author, while living in London, begins noticing immigrants in his neighborhood. Increasingly he sees more and more Arabs, particularly from the Gulf states of the Arabian Peninsula on the streets, opening up stores and restaurants, and moving into homes nearby. Not only are they more visible because of the traditional clothing they wear, but their insularity also sets them apart, speaking Arabic and little English. They also have seemingly endless amounts of cash. The Londoners are not happy about their presence, but are often too reserved to openly express their contempt so the Arabian people go about their business never knowing how derisive the English people are towards them. Jonathan Raban wanted to know more about these people so at the end of the 1970s, he goes on a prolonged sojourn around the outer edges of Arabia to learn whatever he can.

The travelogue does not get off to a strong start. Raban begins on the tiny island nation of Bahrain, a place like the other Gulf states where foreigners outnumber the native inhabitants. He barely has any contact with Bahraini people and spends most of his time socializing with expats, mostly contract workers and businessmen, who are there for the sake of making money, not out of appreciation for the culture. This is the least exciting chapter until he gets to Egypt.

Things pick up when Raban visits Qatar and the United Arab Emirates. He speaks with more of the local Arabic population, but mostly limits the discourses to government officials, bureaucrats, and businessmen. Other people he speaks with are nationals from the poorer Middle Eastern countries and the Indian subcontinent, all who are there because they are ambitions and tired of living in impoverished countries where their professional skills are going to waste. He also meets a group of Qatari artists employed by the Ministry of Fine Arts to help recreate an imaginary traditional past through the medium of fake folk art. One playwright suffers from severe writer’s block because everything he puts down on paper gets rejected by the ministry cesnors, saying his works are potentially offensive to government officials. It is a good example of how authoritarianism kills creativity.

While skirting around the eastern edge of Arabia, the influence of the oil boom and the expanding economy is transforming the region. Skyscrapers are being built and foreigners are flooding these small emerging nations. The lifestyles, the technology, and the banking systems are changing. Saudis are everywhere with their oversize wads of cash and their indulgence in vices that are forbidden in their home country. Anomie and social dislocation are rampant as menial workers, local citizens, and Bedu tribes-people sink deeper into the pits of poverty while money gets funneled by the ton into the hands of the well-connected. Raban captures the atmosphere and scenery of desert kingdoms with rapidly expanding economies effectively. He arrives and writes at the right time to capture a transitional moment in the Middle East when traditions are fading away and hyper-modernity is rushing in.

And then we get a completely different picture of the Arabian Peninsula when he flies to Sana’a, Yemen, then travels on to Egypt and Jordan. The chapter on Yemen was the best in the book, partly because it is the only country I did not visit when traveling in the Gulf states, but also because he gets so up close and personal with the local people in ways he doesn’t in the previous three countries. While the oil industry is fast-tracking the center and eastern countries of Arabia into the modern age, Yemen is mired in poverty. Yemen is, however, experiencing an economic boom of its own since so many Yemenis go to the richer Gulf states as guest workers and send remittences back home to their families, something that is raising the standards of living for the poorest of all the Middle Eastern countries while not being sufficient to take the country to the next level. Sana’a is described as dirty, noisy, disorienting, and often surreal. The kyat-chewing locals are hospitable and rude in equal measures. Raban experiences some of the best times with impoverished but ambitious young men who go out of their way to explain their isolated country to him. Then he comes close to witnessing a public execution with a carnivalesque atmosphere, feeling confused as whole families eat snacks and take photos, cheering and singing as if they are at a circus while political revolutionaries are blown to pieces by machine gun fire in a public market. For interesting travel stories, this is one that can’t be beat, even if Raba does leave the scene befor the real action begins.

Raban’s visit to Egypt is a real letdown. He treats the city of Cairo as if it is little more than a big red light district full of clueless, airheaded western tourists. Spending almost no time with ordinary Egyptians, he prefers to frequent casinos, go-go bars, and brothels which are almost exclusively packed with men from Saudi Arabia. From what he sees, Raban concludes that Saudis aren’t much fun, even when they are spending all their money on poker, prostitutes, and liquor. It is an interesting insight, but considering how much Egypt has to offer for travelers, this passage falls far short of expectations. If I were Egyptian, I would not be happy with this representation of the country.

Jordan is a different matter as Raban is surprised to see how comfortably the people live despite their miniscule GDP. He hooks up with members at all socio-economic levels of society, encounters its semi-thriving but kitschy art scene, and is shocked when he visits a Palestinian refugee camp to see how comfortably the people are living there.

Jonathan Raban never visits Kuwait, Oman, Saudi Arabia, or any other Arabic country in the Middle East, nor does he visit South Yemen which is dominated by a communist government at the time of writing.

While there are a lot of interesting passages in this book, and some great descriptions as well, alongside some often sarcastic and snarky humor, there are some parts of the book that just don’t work. He sometimes lapses into confused abstractions that make him sound like a drunk muttering to himself in a bar. The chapter on Bahrain was nearly pointless in terms of what Raban set out to accomplish. I will admit though that his impression of Manama was no different than my own in the dozen or so times I visited that country. I even visited the same British social club he writes about. It is still there on the outskirts of Manama to this day. The chapter on Egypt is embarrassing. It is hard to believe he thought it was fit to be included. The other chapters were well-done though and really capture a moment in history that is now past. I really do wish he had visited Saudi Arabia and Oman.

Arabia is an interesting, if erratic and uneven, portrait of the social atmosphere of the Gulf states while the oil boom is beginning to transform the whole region and the whole world along with it. Raban wrote this at the beginning of the Lebanese civil war, before Iraq invaded Iran and Kuwait, before the Burj al-Arab and the Burj Khalifa were built in Dubai, before 9/11, before the Arab Spring, and before glitzy high-end shopping malls began competing with the mosques as centers of Arabian culture. It portrays a world that is no longer with us, but is not too distant as to be incomprehensible. As for the conversations Jonathan Raban had with the people he met, I can tell you after having lived in Saudi Arabia myself that if he were to revisit his journey at this current time, he would find that nothing much has changed in terms of what people would say to him. My biggest complaint about this book is that Jonathan Raban provides a superficial understanding of the Arabian Peninsula; if he had spent more time there, getting to know people on a more intimate level, his perceptions would be different, in some ways more positive and in other ways not so much.  

 

Book Review

A Time of Gifts

by Patrick Leigh Fermor

     What a disappointment. Patrick Leigh Fermor, a British student, drops out of school at the age of eighteen and goes on a walking tour of Europe that starts in the Netherlands and ends in Constantinople (now Istanbul). He sets out in 1934 and sees the interwar continent from ground level while the menace of the Nazi movement begins taking hold in Germany. It sounds like an exciting subject for a book. Unfortunately, A Time of Gifts, the first book in Leigh Fermor’s trilogy about his travels, doesn’t live up to its promise.

The book starts off poorly with a biographical letter written to a friend that serves as an introduction. We learn that the author is a smart student with undying curiosity for all aspects of education, maybe a potential Renaissance man type. He is also a bit of a screw up, lacking in discipline and direction, seeking out the company of bohemian types who prefer partying to studying. So Leigh Fermor drops out of school and walks across Europe, writing about it all along the way. The problem at this point is that his prose is so choppy that it becomes a chore to read almost immediately.

The writing starts getting better as he walks across the flat, winter landscape of the Netherlands and over the border into Germany. Rather than actually describing what he sees, he instead imagines himself entering into the painted world of Flemish painters, most specifically Breughel, and the enchanting winter scenes they depict. It’s certainly an interesting idea, but I would have been more satisfied if he had written more about what he had actually encountered there.

Leigh Fermor’s descriptions of the northern European landscape doesn’t do much to arouse interest. He tries too hard at times to be poetic, sometimes going into flights of abstract language, complete with arcane Britishisms and vocabulary that hasn’t survived to our current day. A dictionary might come in handy here, but if you look up every word he uses that you don’t know, you may never finish the book. Some of the descriptions are just plain awful. There are some long passages where I couldn’t tell if he was described the landscape, a painting, a book, a piece if music, or the clouds in the sky and ended up not caring enough to re-read them for a full understanding. His attempts at describing the history of the regions he walks though are also impossibly muddled to the point of frustration so that I felt like giving up a few times.

On the plus side, the cities and towns he visits are a little more palatable. In the beginning he sets off with the intention of sleeping in forests, fields, and barns along the way, but he has a knack for making friends with the locals and, like Blanche in A Streetcar Named Desire, he always depends on the kindness of strangers. Everywhere he goes he meets up with people who are willing to feed and shelter him. Some of them are more interesting than others. Most of them contact other people they know in places further along the road to Leigh Fermor’s destination so he ditches his plans for sleeping like a vagrant and ends up staying with a network of upper class aristocrats. He starts off sleeping in fields and farms, but ends up staying in chateaus and castles.

His impulses also drive him to debauchery which, unfortunately he never describes in detail. In one passage he stays in an apartment with two beautiful young madchens while their parents are away on business. In this, and other scenarios, he doesn’t say everything that goes on between them, but if you read between the lines it is quite obvious. Leigh Fermor has a strange kind of Victorian approach to his writing style that seems out of place for a twentieth century narrative.

Another thing to notice as he travels through Germany and Austria is the creeping encroachment of the Nazis who he briefly encounters at various times. He expresses disdain for them, and so do most of the people he befriends, but he doesn’t condemn them very loudly. H even socializes with them amicably a couple times; I don’t think his intention is to warm up to them, but rather to keep out of trouble. Being an English citizen in Germany at that time could be risky and he seemed to be mostly concerned with playing it safe, not with sympathizing with their cause. He is actually open to speaking with anybody he meets, even with the Romani and Jewish populations that the European host societies routinely treat as second-class citizens.

The narrative starts improving when the author gets to Vienna. While staying at a Salvation Army homeless shelter, he meets a slightly eccentric man named Konrad who comes from the Frisian Islands off the north coast of the Netherlands. Konrad convinces him to make money by sketching people’s portraits, so Leigh Fermor goes door to door with his sales pitch and does well-enough to live a little more comfortably. The scenes inside the people’s apartments are some of the most amusing and interesting parts of this book. He does a good job of describing urban Vienna too.

From there, Leigh Fermor walks east along the Danube, skirting the southern border of Slovakia and eventually crossing the river into Hungary. What is interesting about this is that the prose continues to get better the farther along he goes. Reading this book is like watching somebody learning how to write and making improvements with each passing page. This only makes me wish that he had revised the first half of the book more effectively; starting a book with disastrous writing and progressing towards smoother, more polished and descriptive prose, albeit prose that is average at best, is not a good writing strategy. But at least the auther redeems himself a bit by the end.

My biggest criticism of this travel narrative is that Leigh Fermor followed a literary axiom too closely. They say a good author not only knows about what to put into their work, but also what to leave out or eliminate. Leigh Fermor leaves out too much. His descriptions of the countryside are sparse, especially in the beginning and he meanders into poorly written explanations of historical events instead, and never getting around to saying what he actually feels as he walks. He never mentions the cold or the wind. His feet never ache or get sore. He never feels tired or hungry. He simply doesn’t address all five of the human senses. When he says he gets drunk, he never explains how that actually feels. He leaves too much up to the imagination so that his prose comes off as flat, shallow, and one dimensional.

A Time of Gifts captured my interest because I have backpacked across Europe and went to a lot of the places that Patrick Leigh Fermor visited. I wanted to see how he described them as they were in the 1930s. His execution of the writing didn’t satisfy my curiosity, but considering it improved a bit in the second half, I wouldn’t say it was a waste of time reading this. Hopefully the second volume of this trilogy will be better.