#23. Blinding Light: Paul Theroux

I'm conscious that I'm becoming a bit of a whinger on this blog. But really, I've had a bad run with books lately. Unfortunately, this one is no different. (Fortunately, this run of bad choices has definitely ended, as I am reading Chocolat by Joanne Harris at the moment and enjoying it immensely - a chocolatier/witch in a French village is just what I need.) First of all, I'm placing a temporary ban on any books with writers as their central characters. I get the whole 'write what you know' thing, but really, after about six books so far this year, it gets a little tiresome, and given that I find myself mired in the writing process on a daily basis, doesn't really provide the escapism I'm looking for in my fiction.
I hated this book. I hated the misogynistic, self-indulgent character of Slade Steadman, a one-hit-wonder writer who was fabulously successful and made a fortune from travel goods, who goes on a 'drug tour' of Ecuador and finds a hallucinogen that makes him able to pen a brilliant second book, through rendering him temporary blind. I hated that this long-awaited masterpiece was just about him reliving his various sexual experiences (like it was so fascinating to others). I hated that he managed to get his supposedly intelligent doctor girlfriend Ava to act like a glorified dictaphone and then in her time off, become his sexual puppet. I hated the weird introduction of Bill Clinton's infidelity into the storyline. And I particularly hated the continuing fiction he acted out in his life about being really blind, when he was just doping himself up every day.
In fact the only part I liked about the book was when he eventually got his comeuppance. But my short-lived enjoyment was ruined when two-dimensional Ava turned into a conniving, malicious lesbian. At first I wanted to applaud that she finally shook off whatever was keeping her in his thrall, but she was so nasty it just didn't make sense. Where was that backbone when he was being such a pain? The 'twist' in the story was reminiscent of some well-worn morality tale, and held about all the interest.
Just don't go there.
For the time being, I'm also swearing off gritty realism. You can have far too much of a good thing.