Peter Parker

Theroux carries the action at snail’s pace, piles insignificant detail upon insignificant detail, and says the same things ten times over. A prolix, repetitive, discursive, overwritten book. His grammar is faulty as well—he uses commas when semi-colons are required. And for some mysterious reason Theroux is convinced that 99 percent of the British police force posted in Burma was composed of Scots. I don’t know why in old age he has developed this habit of writing tomes instead of reasonable-length novels. One longs for the young Theroux, the one who wrote “Girls at Play”, “Saint Jack”, “The Consul’s File”, “The Family Arsenal”—tight, compact, compressed narratives. I’m afraid he’s becoming the Joe Biden of American letters: slow, meandering, long-winded, boring.