Theroux pulls no punches in his quest to understand this overlooked margin of American life, finding here, yes, a place oftentimes more Third World than First, but also finding in the land and people a dignity that surprises even himself, the seasoned world traveler.
Although the majority of the book has all the hallmarks of a brilliant Therouxvian travel tale, a few misjudgments poke through and threaten his authority. It is not Theroux who has changed, but us: a white man writing what he thinks about a place as racially charged as the South is uncomfortable, and his tone comes off more as a crotchety old man with outdated views on race and gender rather than a keen observer qualified to write about the complexities of the South.
Regrettably, Deep South reads as disaster porn for those who can’t bother to renew their passports — a Heart of Darkness set in the Southern heartland.
Theroux’s worldliness both informs and beleaguers these 450-odd pages of travelogue. His storytelling is brightest in narrative scenes throbbing with local color. However, the momentum stalls with diversionary lectures (See: seven pages of dogging other travel writers; a 12-page rumination on the N-word) and other reminders of the author’s intellectual and geographic prowess.
When Theroux writes in his own accomplished voice, he is a pleasure to read—informative, vigorous and sharp. But too many of the conversations in Deep South didn't ring true to me.
