It doesn’t take long. In the very first paragraph of his new book, “The Pillars of Hercules: A Grand Tour of the Mediterranean” (Putnam; $27.50), Paul Theroux–visiting Gibraltar–slams the vegetation, the houses and even the rock itself (“a conspicuous pile of limestone”).
And, with just a parenthetical warning–“the person who just muttered, `Oh, there he goes again!’ must read no further”–Theroux is off on his latest, opinionated journey.
In a field dominated by writers–and travelers–who prefer to view the world through rose-colored glasses, Theroux has become the leading travel essayist of our time by being trenchantly observant and entertainingly grumpy.
But he’s a grump with a purpose. “No one,” he explains (the italics are his), “has ever described the place where I have just arrived: this is the emotion that makes me want to travel. It is one of the greatest reasons to go anywhere.”