Brains!

I’ve continued reading the Theroux book, looking for salvation from its dreary start. Theroux who’s first travel descriptions consist of sentences like “this place felt English and twee”, “the mountains I was passing by are named this, this and this…” and then suddenly he’s hiked into a valley, over another ridge and to a hut, playing scrabble with obnoxious human beings. He doesn't dwell on something for very long. Or maybe I'm just not noticing it. Bryson seems to piece together his journey so well, that I feel like I've actuall spent time in that place too, I remember names of poeple and places even. Theroux will not linger on much for long. But then again the book is thick, if he did, it might be twice as long.

Also it’s like he can’t find a single person who is acceptable, every human and human related thing is tainted, it seems he would much rather describe the scenary, or be in it at least.

But I’ve also neglected to mention that he’s trekking through New Zealand’s Fiordland after having just split with his wife, after the removal of what might be a melanoma on his arm. I guess I could give the guy a break. He drops some magnificent sentences and thoughts, amidst the most depressing anecdotes.

But I’ve decided I’m quite burnt out on the South Pacific, more then I thought. So I’m going to wait and read Theroux at a later date. Although I can't resist but to type out a three paragraph quote from the book that describes Fiordland New Zealand. It's probably the lengthiest description of something in the book so far, and one of my favorites.

Deeper in the valley I was among ancient trees; and that last half hour, before darkness fell, was like a walk through an enchanted forest, the trees literally as old as the hills, grotesquely twisted and very damp and pungent. A forest that is more than a thousand years old, and that has never been touched or interfered with, has a ghostly look, of layer upon layer of living things, and the whole forest clinging together-roots and trunks and branches mingled with moss and rocks, and everything aboveground hung with tufts of lichen called "old man's beard."

It was so dark and damp here the moss grew on all sides of the trunks - the sunlight hardly struck them. The moss softened them, making them into huge, tired, misshapen monsters with great spongy arms. Everything was padded and wrapped because of the dampness, and hte boughs were blackish green; the forest floor was deep in ferns, and every protruding rock was upholstered in velvety moss. Here and there was a chuchle of water running among the roots and ferns. I was followed by friendlyrobins.

It was all visibly alive and wonderful, and in places had a subterranean gleam of wetness. It was like a forest in a fairy story, the pretty and perfect wilderness of sprites and fairies, which is the child's version of paradise - a lovely Disneyish glade where birds eat out of your hand and you konw you will come to no harm.

I began to feel hopeful about my life. Maybe I didn't have cancer after all.

Pretty much what the picture shows, Theroux has done in words!