“Time has whittled you small,” observes one of several embittered old men in The Vanishing Point, Paul Theroux’s new collection of stories. “I’d lost most of my hair, many of my teeth, my arm strength, my mojo,” notes another. The wilderness of old age feels like a fitting destination for an octogenarian novelist and travel writer who has made a career out of exploring extremes.
Theroux’s assortment of shorter fiction — each originally written for a periodical, website or anthology — coalesces into an illuminating survey of the humiliations, consolations and revelations involved in the process of ageing. It also highlights the joys and frustrations of reading late-period Theroux.
The title story chronicles the professional and romantic disappointments of Guy Petit, a placid handyman in Maine who wants nothing more than a stocked bookshelf, a selection of socket wrenches and the “rapture of solitude”. Guy works as a studio assistant for Elliott Stanger, a successful painter in the Mark Rothko mould, whose works feature flat panels of colour, stripes and circles. Guy prefers perspective.
Guy is an innocent buffeted by the whims of others who, in his sunset years, realises that he “had never thought of happiness as a goal but only of the contentment of having enough.” It’s a bittersweet tale in which maintenance and consistency ultimately triumphs over ambition and change.
The remaining stories are split into three sections: those with a Hawaiian backdrop; a sprinkling of others set in some of Theroux’s favourite regions (south-east Asia, Africa); and a loose series titled “Aide-Mémoires”, which address key moments in the life of novelist Andre Parent, Theroux’s historical alter ego. These literary snapshots — a rowdy boyhood summer camp, a visit to a carnival stripper, an elegiac chess game — are poignant and well honed.
While entertaining, the collection has two flaws, similar to those with Theroux’s recent novel Under the Wave at Waimea. There are a lot of repetitive phrases, particularly conspicuous in a short story, and sharp character studies are often let down by hammy endings. And then there’s the sex: Theroux has a queasy authorial fascination with young prostitutes.
In Theroux’s fiction, relations between the sexes tend to fray at points of transaction. His men remain emotionally distant while his women are either nagging wives or service providers to a carnal “itch”. These are not stories for those of a Gen-Z disposition. His wrinkly male protagonists ogle “surf bunnies” and “bosomy” teenagers. And while Theroux is ambiguous about such behaviour, he at least acknowledges that it is unfashionable: one of Andre’s novels gets cancelled due to “Curriculum-based trauma. Trigger issues. Objectifying women.”
The best stories are twisters akin to Roald Dahl’s Tales of the Unexpected. In “Navigational Hazard”, a retired English skipper in Singapore recalls a case of maritime revenge on the South China Sea (Theroux is particularly good at portraying expats in tight spots); while “A Charmed Life” takes an unexpected turn into the supernatural with a fable about a man blessed — or cursed — with the ability to shape fate.
And a wry humour prevails. “Two main rules if you’re a travel writer and married,” explains another of Theroux’s gone-to-seed grouches: “Number one, don’t whistle while you pack . . . Number two, don’t come back with a tan.” It appears that time hasn’t whittled away Theroux’s ability to amuse and provoke.
The Vanishing Point by Paul Theroux Hamish Hamilton £20, 336 pages
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