Books: A Saga within a Saga

I brought one book with me when I flew to Bogota: The One-Straw Revolution by Masanobu Fukuoka. It was a quick read and good preparation for understanding the philosophy behind the farm where I'll be staying in Argentina. I trusted that en route I would manage to find reading material as I needed it. And I have done, in more ways than I expected.

In Bogota one of my CouchSurfing hosts gave me another book: El Alquimista by Paolo Coelho. An easy read in Spanish, great for relaxing while still practicing the language. I learned one word every five pages.

In Quito I found an English-language bookshop where I bought The Old Patagonian Express by Paul Theroux. I also offered to sell The One-Straw Revolution; the bespectacled English shopkeeper had never heard of it, but a pair of fellow browsers vouched for its popularity and he duly gave me a couple of bucks.

I tore through the Theroux, delighting in his excellent writing, acerbic wit, and characterizations of many places I've also traveled. In Cuenca I found another Theroux, The Kingdom by the Sea, on a book exchange shelf at a bar, and planned to go back later to exchange it for El Alquimista. But, hell and death, when I went back the bar was closed! And I had to leave town. So instead I bought As I Lay Dying, my first Faulkner, at a little bookshop down the street.

Faulkner astounded and maddened me, itching at my thoughts like a hair shirt. I thought I didn't like it, but then I read it again on the lower Urubamba and realized it was simply amazing.

The Australian family I traveled with for two days--an anthropologist couple with 7- and 9-year old daughters--traded books with me: The Old Patagonian Express for What I Loved by Siri Hustvedt. I liked this New Yorky novel for its sensitively drawn characters, portraits of deep adult friendships, and intellectualism. I also read it a second time while stuck in the jungle, for lack of other material.

The third book that I read twice while in the jungle was The Art of Travel by Alain de Botton. An endearing, softspoken Scottish traveler gave it to me in Iquitos. I think I would have enjoyed the book a lot more if it had had a different title. The Art of Travel is a book that Paul Theroux ought to have written, whereas de Botton's book was chiefly interesting for its well-chosen quotes from Flaubert, Wordsworth, John Ruskin, Pascal, and others. Its personal narrative seemed more self-indulgent than anything, with nothing enlightening to say about traveling. But the quotes, such as this one by Flaubert, were priceless: "What stops me from taking myself seriously, even though I'm essentially a serious person, is that I find myself extremely ridiculous--not in the sense of the small-scale ridiculousness of slapstick comedy, but rather in the sense of a ridiculousness that seems intrinsic to human life and that manifests itself in the simplest actions and most ordinary gestures. For example, I can never shave without starting to laugh; it seems so idiotic."

I expected that once I got to Cusco I would be in gringo book heaven, but this was not the case. Books were either expensive ($30 for a beat-up copy of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time?!), crappy, or difficult to find. Eventually I stumbled upon a bookstore whose owner resembled Fidel Castro wearing Buddy Holly glasses. Selling him my Faulkner sparked his literary enthusiasm: he'd read Faulkner's entire ouerve in translation (gesturing to a series of hardbound volumes high on a shelf); Faulkner was the only writer to really pry open man's psychology; Faulkner was the only Nobel winner to actually deserve the prize. Marquez? Not really. Neruda? Definitely not--and Cesar Vallejos was far better anyway. But Faulkner was the pinnacle of all literature.

I came away from this shop with The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai and Radio Romance by Garrison Keillor, both of which I have yet to read.

In a hostel I wandered into to use the bathroom, I spied The Celestine Prophecy and An Introduction to Zen Buddhism by D.T. Suzuki on a shelf and made off with them. I felt I ought to read The Celestine Prophecy as a classic of New Age literature, especially while in Peru, where it's set. I finished it confused by its popularity: it struck me as pure tripe. Suzuki's little book, on the other hand, is a gem.

Today, on a recommendation, I found a magical little cluster of book stands with everything from Ken Follett to Algebra textbooks to Osho books in Spanish. I picked up The Thorn Birds and Crónica de una muerte anunciada by Marquez. So I'm prepared for the unknown territory ahead, fully loaded with four unopened books.