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There's An Enduring American Compulsion To Be On The Side Of The Angels. Expediency Alone Has Never Been An Adequate American Reason For Doing Anything. When Actions Are Judged, They Go Before The Bar Of God, Where Mom And The Flag Closely Flank His Presence.

-Jonathan Raban

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There's An Enduring American

Jonathan Raban

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There's An Enduring American Compulsion To Be On The Side Of The Angels. Expediency Alone Has Never Been An Adequate American Reason For Doing Anything. When Actions Are Judged, They Go Before The Bar Of God, Where Mom And The Flag Closely Flank His Presence.

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Good Travel Books Are Novels At Heart.

It Always Seems To Me Odd To Call A Place A Wilderness When Every Wilderness Area In The Us Bristles With Rules And Regulations As To How You Can Behave, What You're Allowed To Do, And Is Patrolled By Armed Rangers Enforcing The Small Print. They're Parks, Of Course, Not Wildernesses At All.

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One Classic American Landscape Haunts All Of American Literature. It Is A Picture Of Eden, Perceived At The Instant Of History When Corruption Has Just Begun To Set It. The Serpent Has Shown His Scaly Head In The Undergrowth. The Apple Gleams On The Tree. The Old Drama Of The Fall Is Ready To Start All Over Again.

Trouble Defies The Law Of Gravity. It's Easier To Pick Up Than To Drop.

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In Rural Areas The Majority Of The Victims Of Violent Crime Know Their Assailants (indeed, Are Probably Married To Them); In Cities, The Killer And The Mugger Come Out Of The Anonymous Dark, Their Faces Unrecognized, Their Motives Obscure.

Sociology And Anthropology Are Not Disciplines Which Take Easily To Situations Where People Are Able To Live Out Their Fantasies, Not Just In The Symbolic Action Of Ritual, But In The Concrete Theater Of Society At Large.

Life, As The Most Ancient Of All Metaphors Insists, Is A Journey; And The Travel Book, In Its Deceptive Simulation Of The Journey's Fits And Starts, Rehearses Life's Own Fragmentation. More Even Than The Novel, It Embraces The Contingency Of Things.

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There's An Enduring American Compulsion To Be On The Side Of The Angels. Expediency Alone Has Never Been An Adequate American Reason For Doing Anything. When Actions Are Judged, They Go Before The Bar Of God, Where Mom And The Flag Closely Flank His Presence.

The [travel] Writer, Looking Back At The Journey From A Distance Of A Year Or Two (or Three), Is A Different Character From The Hapless Character Who Undertook The Trip: Wise After The Event, With The Leisure To Tease Out Meanings From The Experience That The Distracted Traveler Never Had, And Often Impatient With His Alter Ego's Blinkered And Unsatisfactory Version Of Things.

Critics? Don't Talk To Me Of Critics! You Think Some Jackanapes Journalist, His Soul Eaten Away By The Maggots Of Jealousy And Failure, Has Anything Worthwhile To Say Of Art? I Don't.

Seattle Was Built Out On Pilings Over The Sea, And At High Tide The Whole City Seemed To Come Afloat Like A Ship Lifting Free From A Mud Berth And Swaying In Its Chains.

Travel. It Was An Intransitive Verb. It Didn't Involve Any Destinations. It Was Going To The Going's Sake, To Be Anywhere But Where You Were, With Motion Itself As The Only Object.

The City Has Always Been An Embodiment Of Hope And A Source Of Feeling Guilt; A Dream Pursued, And Found Vain, Wanting, And Destructive.

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