Thursday, February 2

I have just realized that I hate most travel writing. The whole doomed, formulaic aesthetic of the thing. The evaluative tones of restaurant critics applied to cities and countries and people. The labored wringing of metaphor from landscape. The desperate ennui of authors pacing back and forth across flattened geographies of the mind which must at all costs yield meaning before final paragraphs. Local color. Measured use of dialect. Surprising worldliness. Shocks of recognition. The hopeless sense of displacement. The whole world a dull mirror reflecting the endless indistinguishable constructed selves of privileged interlopers and day-tripping supplicants to some significance supposedly unattainable in native homes.