My first Theroux was the story of a photographer told through the pictures she left. My second was a political thriller.
One day at the used-book store, I see one of his books. Used to his genre crossing, I don’t pay attention to the mention of trains. Two hours later I am laid out in the grass reading my first travel book.
I haven’t read everything he’s written. Finding his books takes effort; sometimes they’re in “Fiction,” other times in “Literature,” and they’re seldom in airport newsstands. Maybe if there were more hard-to-label writers they’d create a section called “Storytellers.”