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A review by emilybryk
Hotel Honolulu by Paul Theroux
3.0
Two real issues here: repetitiveness and the ladies.
See, Paul Theroux had a great idea here: 1 story per room for the dissipated Hotel Honolulu. The problem, though, was that he maybe didn't actually have 88 separate stories to write about it. Instead, we get a half-dozen stories relating to women who were once sexually abused and then became prostitutes, another three or four of Buddy Hamsa telling not-quite-true stories about his sexual exploits, and a couple based entirely on dialect. While Mr. Theroux does a lovely job tying stories together in delightful (and unexpected!) ways, perhaps we'd have felt a little better with only, say, 70 stories. It would still be impressive, dude. Don't worry.
My real issue, I think, is the presence of women in the stories. They're self-described (or narrator-described, alternately) coconut princess beach bunnies, each of whom the narrator informs us are beautiful and hot-bodied but are unbearable, indescribably stupid. Oh holy heaven are they stupid. The narrator's daughter is the only woman who escapes such a fate and, straight-up, it's so profound that I keep wondering at exactly what point in her life (puberty?) she'll BECOME stupid. I'm curious.
This flaw, pretty much, would be okay if Paul Theroux lived 150 years or so ago, which I often suspect he maybe thinks he does. If so, then yeah, we'd just be able to overlook the dopey women and the crafty, crafty natives. But as is? It's just weirdly antiquated and upsetting.
See, Paul Theroux had a great idea here: 1 story per room for the dissipated Hotel Honolulu. The problem, though, was that he maybe didn't actually have 88 separate stories to write about it. Instead, we get a half-dozen stories relating to women who were once sexually abused and then became prostitutes, another three or four of Buddy Hamsa telling not-quite-true stories about his sexual exploits, and a couple based entirely on dialect. While Mr. Theroux does a lovely job tying stories together in delightful (and unexpected!) ways, perhaps we'd have felt a little better with only, say, 70 stories. It would still be impressive, dude. Don't worry.
My real issue, I think, is the presence of women in the stories. They're self-described (or narrator-described, alternately) coconut princess beach bunnies, each of whom the narrator informs us are beautiful and hot-bodied but are unbearable, indescribably stupid. Oh holy heaven are they stupid. The narrator's daughter is the only woman who escapes such a fate and, straight-up, it's so profound that I keep wondering at exactly what point in her life (puberty?) she'll BECOME stupid. I'm curious.
This flaw, pretty much, would be okay if Paul Theroux lived 150 years or so ago, which I often suspect he maybe thinks he does. If so, then yeah, we'd just be able to overlook the dopey women and the crafty, crafty natives. But as is? It's just weirdly antiquated and upsetting.