Many of you have heard me call Mark Twain my favorite
all-time American. I quote him frequently
and reread him often.
Since my time with books is never enough, I have taken to
listening to ones that I have read before and want to read again. We New Yorkers spend a lot of time walking,
which creates opportunities to transport oneself and “read” at the same time.
Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn were early candidates
and enormously satisfying, especially when read aloud by folks who managed the
accents and understood the irony.
A Connecticut Yankee
in King Arthur’s Court, what fun.
My next choice, however, has been causing me a lot of
trouble. The Innocents Abroad. I had read
it before. But long ago. The book has not changed. I guess I have. Or something.
I will finish it. But it is
killing me.
Oh, I love the jokes—some of which have made me giggle out
loud, despite the miserable weather, on Fifth Avenue between Twenty-second
Street and Twenty-third. Twain’s
itinerary is a blast. I have been to a
number of the places he visited while writing this travelogue. His reminders of Europe’s wonders—of say, the
palazzi of Genoa or the Cathedral of Milan—bring back my own pleasant memories.
But I find myself wincing more than smiling. The way Twain characterizes the denizens of
the countries he visits is positively painful to read. No one who is not American or English is at
all pleasing to him. He berates the
citizens of France or Spain or Italy for “jabbering” in “foreign” languages. He calls their countries “puppy
republics.” The French are “garlic
chewers.” The Italians are “lazy
spaghetti stuffers.” The Greeks are all
“mendacious.” Everyone is dirty. Everyone is swarthy. Everyone is stupid, except for those who are
too clever at cheating tourists.
Twain feels free to break the laws of the countries he
visits—illegally going a shore when his ship has been quarantined to make sure
there is no cholera on board. Borrowing
someone else’s passport when he had lost his own, and gleeful that the ridiculous
people in the Russian port of Sebastopol could not read the English description
of the passport holder. Serves them
right to be fooled if they can’t read English!
At one point, while illegally sneaking around Athens in the
middle of the night, having broken quarantine, he and his companions steal
grapes from a vineyard—about ten pounds apiece he says. The Greek owner of the grapes notices what
they have done and follows them. Twain
calls the man and his friends “brigands.”
Excuse me, but who are the thieves in this situation? And we are not talking here about frat boy
pranks. Twain and his companions are
grown ups, and wealthy enough to enjoy a months-long cruise
I am sure that Twain’s contemporary American readers were
heartily amused by all of this. I find
it very disappointing. Cheap shots from
the masterful wielder of the verbal scalpel.
I love his language.
I love how alive his prose is. He
is still a beacon of great writing. I
will continue to the end, but I won’t read this book again. Ever.
And I mourn the loss of my idol.
Boohoo.
Annamaria Alfieri
