Paul Theroux celebrates wanderlust.
The mood may steal upon you or it may be a chronic disturbance, but who hasn't felt the urge to be elsewhere? Modes of transport differ – walking boots, lottery ticket, bong – but there's a new and better version somewhere, just waiting, with lots more color, sensuality, possibility, lots more. For many a stymied wayfarer, there's been the solace of the travel narrative. To his readers' delight, Paul Theroux has had a case of ants in his pants for half a century. He likes trains, preferably branch lines and night mails; slow boats will also do the trick. He goes far away, to the other, and we have gone along in rapt thanks. Still, even for Theroux getting on the move hasn't always been an option – perhaps he was busy writing one of his 28 novels – and books were his deliverance to elsewhere.
In The Tao of Travel Theroux has collected snippets from a lifetime's travel reading (and writing), epigrammatic bites of prose poetry with the specific gravity of Viennese desserts. They contain a good selection of his own writings – a strange and wonderful warping of time-space, traveling back to when Theroux vicariously squired you to a distant place – as well as snatched aromatics from others' works. The pieces range all over, from Basho, St. Augustine, and Thoreau on walking, to dining on turtle brain, monkey eye, elephant nose, and – heaven help us – garlic (Sir Richard Burton: "wherever fever and ague abound, the people ignorant of cause but observant of effect, make it a common article of food.")