The Motorcycle Diaries - Ernesto "Che" Guevara

Che Guevara is, to put it lightly, a polarizing figure. Though his deification on some parts of the left makes me a bit queasy given the repressions he oversaw—and to some extent directly imposed—on Cuba’s citizens, the countervailing vilification he receives from the right has always felt a little forced, as the exigencies of revolution and war seem to them acceptable, even laudable, when done by their side, and repugnant when done by others. Basically, Che is the ultimate optical illusion for political partisans: some see two faces chatting, others see a vase, but the pattern of light and shadow is in both cases identical.

But I’m not here to talk about Che Guevara the revolutionary, but Ernesto Guevara, author of a poignant memoir about his travels around South and Central America. It’s called The Motorcycle Diaries, but the eponymous motorcycle dies less than halfway through the book, and anyway it isn’t even really a motorcycle, but a regular bicycle with a jury-rigged motor attached (though come to think of it, putting a motor on a bicycle does make it a motorcycle in the most literal sense, so point to Che there, I guess).

Published nearly 30 years after his death, The Motorcycle Diaries was obviously released without Che’s knowledge, and it’s unclear to me whether he wrote his diary with the intention that anyone would ever read it. There is indeed no overwhelming impulse to apply narrative structure to the text, with passages recounting experiences episodically and often without the connective tissue of segues. A few of his letters to his parents are interspersed between entries. Yet there is undeniably a literary flourish to the work that suggests he hoped it to be read. I am always reluctant to judge the prose style of works read in translation, but I can at least say that Che utilized a surprising degree of lyricism, irony, and humour, giving depth to his more prosaic observations of life among the lower classes of South America. The humour especially surprised me, particularly its sly self-deprecation. I will remember the anecdote about the peaches for the rest of my life.

Also evident (and here the right wingers will roll their eyes and gag) was an undeniable empathy for the people he met. For nearly everyone he writes about, he does so with compassion and kindness, and there seems to be a sincere sorrow at the plight of the poorer folks he encounters. particularly the patients at one of the several leper colonies he visits. Whether this compassion was a genuine fuel for his revolutionary zeal or merely a pretense for later violence is something I’ll leave to others to debate, because frankly I don’t really care. Che was who he was and did what he did, and regardless of these things his writings show insight and talent.

The Road to Little Dribbling - Bill Bryson

I’ve resumed my rereading of the works of Bill Bryson, first with Made In America: An Informal History of the English Language in the United States, which I didn’y have much to say about other than I liked it, as I do all Bill Bryson books, and then with The Road to Little Dribbling.

Dribbling might be my least favourite of Bryson’s books, which is not to say I don’t like it. he’s funny as ever, and his deft writing is always good company. But it always felt to me arbitrary, and suffers from comparison to the inimitable Notes from a Small Island. The book is indeed, something between a sequel and a reboot of Notes. Written for the 20th anniversary of the previous book, Bryson once again tours his adopted homeland, this time following a route that is obstensibly anchored to the Bryson Line—the longest straight line that can be drawn through Britain without crossing over water—and that starts and ends at its termini, but otherwise ventures more or less wherever he pleases.

Bryson makes an effort not to retread too much old territory, but repeat visits are inevitable, and his opining on the state of modern Britain can feel a bit one note. There was always a tone of cranky old man in Bryson’s writing, even when he was a young man, and this element seems to have gained prominence as he’s aged. That being said, Bryson raises crankiness to an art form, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy his acerbic takedowns of foolishness.

All told, Dribbling is a Bryson book and as such worth reading. It likely won’t go on my regular rotation alongside his true masterpieces, but I’m happy to have it on hand on my bookshelf.

Notes from a Small Island - Bill Bryson

Notes from a Small Island is one of Bryson's most beloved works, and for good reason. Though I wouldn't rank it above Thunderbolt Kid or A Walk in the Woods in his catalog of travel literature, it remains a funny and informative exploration of the British land and its culture. His genuine affection for the place doesn't blind him to its flaws, and he is unflinching in his criticism where he feels criticism is warranted.

I don't have much to say about this one apart from that I like it. It's Bryson—probably even Quintessential Bryson—and that's enough for me.

Badlands: A Tourist on the Axis of Evil - Tony Wheeler

You know how sometimes you’ll be halfway through a book or movie, and some small detail will catch your eye and you’ll realize that you’ve actually seen or read it before? I had the opposite experience with Bad Lands. I received a copy for Christmas years ago, and every time I saw it on my bookshelf since, I had clear memories of reading it. I recalled enjoying it, so I picked it up not long ago, looking for something breezy and not too daunting to counterbalance the wieghty works on my reading list.

But after a couple of chapters, it became increasingly clear that I hadn’t simply forgotten large swaths of text; I’d never read the thing in the first place. By the time I’d read about Albania’s history, which included being ruled by the spectacularly named King Zog, it was clear I’d simply fabricated a memory of having read it. i would definitely remember learning about a sovereign named King Zog.

The conceit of the book is a travelogue of countries with some reputation for danger. Bush’s Axis of Evil forms a rough framework, but the book ventures beyond this skeletal structure and into such countries as Burma, Cuba, and the aformentioned Albania (a country that Wheeler admits is no longer dangerous, and that I suspect he included mostly because he found it interesting rather than hewing to the theme). The Islamic world is well represented, with Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq, Saudi Arabia, and Libya all getting a chapter.

Descriptions of historical events and politcal issues intercut with details of Tony’s travels. He concludes with a (somewhat facetious) Evil Meter, ranking the level of corruption and danger indemic to each region, and uses this as a springboard to emphasize that even countries widely see nas Good have a seamier side. The book is arranged not by geography or theme, but alphabetically, which is as good as any other way, I suppos,e but feels a bit lazy.

Wheeler’s writing is straightforward and casual, with light jabs of humor to liven up the litany of places, sites, and historical figures. He’s no prose stylist, but the tone suits the work and kept things running smoothly.