Rating: 
Summary: Big and Witty and Full of Scorn
Review: Paul Theroux met VS Naipaul in Uganda, where the former was teaching English literature (and ducking 'Nam ... can't blame him for that) at the university in Kampala. The history of the ensuing friendship is the bedrock of this curious memoir. In many ways "Sir Vidia's Shadow" is typical Theroux: Although there are the many (and well-publicized) jabs at "Sir Vidia," Mr. Theroux comes off as hardheaded and difficult as he does in his other books. Naipaul, of course, comes off far worse. Monomaniacal, misogynistic, racist, cheap, mean, unbearably arrogant and annoying pretentious, with his old Oxford archaisms and his "Nye-Powell" Anglicization, Sir Vidia seems to be the man we always feared he was. Theroux, in fact, seems to be his only friend. Likewise, Naipaul appears to be among the author's few friends - which is the book's saddest aspect. For those who've read and enjoyed the work of both men, who've recognized how each came to affect the eye and writing of the other, it's a shame to witness egos tearing apart such an interesting literary relationship. (Theroux blames the split on Naipaul and his new wife, the insufferable Pakistani half-wit, Naira. As is often the case, the truth is less complex: Pure ego was the culpit.) A few of the Theroux's points harm his premise: He chides Naipaul for literary vainglory: "This sort of book has never been done before. This is a new form;" and yet Theroux himself states that a memoir like "Sir Vidia's Shadow" has never been done. Further, he claims Naipaul's recent writing is silly and unreadable. Naipaul has never published anything silly or unreadable. Theroux also hints that he's achieved a sort of literary parity with Naipaul. He hasn't. As good as Theroux is, VS Naipaul is the finer writer; Naipaul has the bigger and better expressed ideas; and Theroux benefited more from knowing Sir Vidia than the other way around. But the book is fascinating, funny and well done.
Rating: 
Summary: A dip into Narcissus' pool
Review: Paul Theroux writes memoirs about his travels--no travelogue, they are instead very internalized impressions and reactions to what he experiences. And Theroux writes fiction (Mosquito Coast, Half Moon Street, Waldo.) In many of his memoirs he writes about his love of literature and his respect for a number of authors, including V.S. Naipaul. Now, we get a rare view of the intimate friendship between Naipaul and Theroux, something he had previously only alluded to. This is perhaps Theroux's best book. It is not "enjoyable"--reading it is like having a slight headache or sitting on something rather uncomfortable. That's because Naipaul (Vidia to his friends) is a true pain. He dispenses enigmatic advice ("Never keep a diary.") He makes outrageous pronouncements ("Women of sixty think of nothing but sex") and he is a hypocrite. He renounces sex. That is, he renounces sex with his long-suffering wife Pat, but keeps a mistress. This behavior is classic narcissism. Like most narcissists, Vidia has a lot of allure--he's a fascinating character, a celebrated writer. He fostered Theroux from a budding novelist to a respected, much-published author of note, probably for the pleasure of having a disciple. But when the surprise comes at the end of "Sir Vidia's Shadow" it is hardly a surprise, yet, it hurts. Theroux took the expected spanking for publishing a memoir such as this. Friends accused him of betrayal. Journalists tried to trump up a feud, where none existed. Critics came down hard. But I think "Sir Vidia's Shadow" is brave and honest--the difference between his writing and Naipaul's. Well worth reading.
Rating:
Summary: Fascinating and well written
Review: I guess there are really two questions here. Is this a good book and should the author have written it? Certainly it is fine writing, excellent characterization, evocative descriptions, and, of course, it is mesmerizing when two top writers have problems and then have a falling out. Many years ago, a friend did some things I found out about through another friend and, when I confronted him, I eventually started getting some weird letters from his Filipina wife totally distorting all that had gone on between her husband and myself. This is not quite the same thing as what happened with Paul Thereoux but I have been on the receiving end of strange letters from someone who has been schooled but not educated, and someone both immature and insecure who wanted to change the past before closing the door. I think Theroux was both dismayed and hurt by the fax he received which also did this. In a way, Paul Theroux was betrayed twice. Once by his friend Naipaul and once by his friend allowing - apparently without objection - his new wife to put her spin on the past and to clean house, including Paul. It seems to me that the only sin of Paul Theroux was his naivete. When you deal with the type of person Naipaul is, you should know he is capable of cruelty as well as egocentric behavior. Paul Theroux wrote this book out of the pain of betrayal but kept it literary and honest. I am pleased this book was written. Absolutely fascinating. Dean Barrett
Rating:
Summary: A tribute to a difficult man
Review: This is a fascinating book about a fascinating, inscrutable man whose books are widely read since he received the 2001 Nobel Prize for Literature. It is also a book about a friendship that came to an unexpected and painful end. "Sir Vidia's Shadow" has been widely criticized for being petty and revengeful. Unexpectedly though, it is not. In a very Naipaulian way, Paul Theroux turns his feelings for Naipaul and his sense of loss into detailed description, and in this imitation of Naipaul's style the book is much more a tribute to Naipaul than a work of slander. "Sir Vidia's Shadow" is at its best when Paul Theroux balances the human weaknesses of Naipaul with his strengths as a writer. For example, when he reminisces, "I was a young man in Africa, trying to make my life. He was one of the strangest men I had ever met, and absolutely the most difficult. He was almost unlovable. He was contradictory, he quizzed me incessantly, he challenged everything I said, he demanded attention, he could be petty, he uttered heresies about Africa, he fussed, he mocked, he made his innocent wife cry, he had impossible standards, he was self-important, he was obsessive on the subject of his health. He hated children, music, and dogs. But he was also brilliant, and passionate in his convictions, and to be with him, as a friend or fellow writer, I had always to be at my best." The book is at its worst when Thoreaux tries to analyze Naipaul: "I also saw that the man who dislikes children and doesn't have any of his own is probably himself childish, and sees other children as a threat. Vidia was the neediest person I have ever known. He fretted incessantly, couldn't cook, never cleaned, wouldn't drive, demanded help, had to be the center of attention." Naipaul comes across as a passionate, dedicated, inspiring, demanding, meticulous, wide-awake, self-confident writer; but also as an often opinionated, fastidious, haughty, dogmatic, self-important, pompous, stingy, snobbish, garrulous, cruel, misogynistic, pampered, blunt, insensitive, angry, intolerant, mean man. "Sir Vidia's Shadow" is well-written, entertaining, and contains some prime examples of Naipaulian political incorrectness ('To me, one of the ugliest sights on earth is a pregnant woman') and humor ("He said he had once received a letter from Penguin Books addressed to 'V.S.Naipull.' It was from a man named Anthony Mott. Vidia replied, typing on the envelope, 'To A Mutt,' and began his letter, 'Dear Mr. Mutt ...'"). My favorite Naipaulian provocation, however, is his claim "that book reviews served their purpose but had no lasting value, except for the jokes."
Rating:
Summary: The Secret Life of Writers
Review: Sir Vidia's Shadow tells the story of the thirty-year friendship between Paul Theroux and V. S. Naipaul. They met in Uganda in 1966 where Theroux was teaching English at Makarere University. Naipaul was already famous and had published several books; Theroux was unknown but aspired to be a novelist. Naipaul takes a liking to Theroux (in his own way) and encourages and helps him. Naipaul introduces Theroux to his British publisher. He invites Theroux to parties where he introduces him as an up and coming author. Meanwhile, even though Naipaul is famous (and is already in the late 60's being referred to as one of the greatest living writers in English), he struggles to earn a living. He takes unappealing teaching and journalism jobs to make ends meet; the very kind of work against which he warns Theroux. Theroux meanwhile, by the early seventies, had published seven books but was still struggling financially. He has a low paying job teaching in Singapore and must endure the humiliation of being ordered to cut his hair by his department head. Theroux does not become financially secure until he strays away from "pure" writing and writes the first of his travel books. Theroux's fame eventually equals and perhaps surpasses Naipaul. His subsequent travel books are enormously successful. Several of his novels are adapted for motion pictures while Naipaul books are always critically admired but poor selling. Near the end Theroux makes the point that he find many of Naipaul's later works dull and uninteresting; he says that he must skim to get through them. Theroux feels that some of these later works would never have been published had an unknown written them. If you're like me and have read lesser works of famous authors and felt exactly the same way; it's nice to see this sentiment in print. There are interesting comments on rare and signed books. He describes Naipaul's rage at having to sign copies of his books for others to sell at a huge mark-up. Theroux sees books that he had inscribed and presented to Naipaul and his first wife decades earlier in a rare book dealer's catalogue. This sets in motions the events that cause their friendship to come apart. Meanwhile, Theroux himself collects signed books; he asks his friend to sign his collection of Naipaul's work one day during a visit at his London home. Naipaul refuses. Theroux buys Naipaul's privately printed signed limited edition "Congo Diary" and is upset that his friend did not think to give him one. There is an interesting passage describing Theroux's participation in the 1979 Booker prize panel, the year when A Bend in the River was considered. The other judges want to award the prize to Naipaul but Theroux vetoes this, saying he didn't like sex scenes or the ending. He suggests an alternative but one of the other judges rejects this, saying "over my dead body." Theroux shows that the awarding of book prizes is mainly a popularity contest; who one's friends are matters much more than writing quality. Theroux discusses the politics involved in awarding the Nobel Prize for literature and (wrongly) concludes that fellow Trinidadian Derek Walcott's award would forever preclude Naipaul. Theroux also describes the annoyance Naipaul feels when doing book tours. Naipaul savages berates a publicist in Portland, he is upset that she has described Portland as a "small town," screaming at her that he does not visit small towns. This fit of self important megalomania is a rare look at the unselfconscious inner dialogue of authors, the rage these pampered "artistes" feel when they must condescend to come face to face with their adoring public. The discussion of Theroux's harsh criticism of Naipaul has overshadowed what is great and unique about this book. It gives a rare look at the lonely world of writers. He gives a glimpse of their day-to-day struggles and the tortuous path to becoming a published writer earning a living at writing. This struggle tends to make them insane. Their difficult life may be one factor in why so many talented writers are driven to mental illness and even suicide.
Rating:
Summary: Shadowy
Review: There is something of Graham Greene in "Sir Vidia's Shadow," Paul Theroux's account of the end of his relationship with Nobel laureate V.S. (Vidia) Naipaul. What sustains the friendship between these two expatriate authors over 30 years? What eventually destroys it? How do place, class, calling, ideas, politics, and pheromones factor in their story? What is friendship anyway? These themes of Theroux also inspire Greene's "The End of the Affair." Two authors -- one established, the other just starting out -- meet in Uganda in 1966. Naipaul, the established one, is crabbed, dismissive, paranoid, needy, fussy, rule-bound, misogynistic, cheap, but immensely talented and eager to mentor. Theroux is accepting, ingratiating, adventuresome, admiring, and willing to pick up every check. Like partners in a bad marriage, they complement each other. Over the years, as friends, they support each other through the usual crises of life. As artists, they read each other's work and carry on a dialogue about writing, books, and other authors. Their shared interest in the writer's craft sustains their friendship, despite their personal differences. Naipaul's wife Pat also supplies some glue. Naipaul treats her shabbily, but Pat nevertheless "loved him -- loved him without condition -- praised him, lived for him, delighted in his success in the most unselfish way.... Possibly there was an element of fear in it -- the fear of losing him, the fear of her own futility and her being rejected.... She was discreet. She was kind, she was generous, she was restrained and magnanimous; she was the soul of politeness, she was grateful; she was all the things Vidia was not." (312) Theroux, who would acquire and lose a family of his own during the course of his relationship with Naipaul, desires Pat almost from the start. Naipaul rejects Pat's body, like a piece of undigestible sinew, in favor of prostitutes and other secret lovers. When Pat dies and Naipaul immediately remarries, his tactless new wife drives a wedge between old friends. Or does she? "Sir Vidia's Shadow" -- part memoir, part biography, part domestic drama, part psychological study, part literary criticism -- is not so clear. Perhaps Theroux, the author of 22 books, simply outgrows his sycophant's role: by book's end, in fact, dueling faxes replace dutiful lessons over lunch, and Sir Vidia's shadow shrinks literally to nothing. Perhaps there is something more, a context to the friendship that, though hinted at, goes unverbalized, thus clouding the book's focus. In fact, Theroux's portrait of Naipaul is extensive, but Naipaul is an independent -- a secretive -- man, and Theroux's portrait of himself is more limited, more guarded still. Besides Graham Greene, in other words, there is something of Henry James in "Sir Vidia's Shadow," but it is James without the information to clearly distinguish the protagonists from the victims.
Rating:
Summary: Unexpectedly Quite Good
Review: First off, I think that when it comes to travel narratives, Paul Theroux is unsurpassed. His ability to describe the misery of a trip is classic. When it comes to fiction I am convinced Paul Theroux should stick to travel narratives. As good as he is on a train, he stinks in a fictional setting. I expected the novelist Theroux in Sir Vidius's Shadow. I got the travel essayist. Who cares about sour grapes. That's life. Sour grapes put into words is something to be savored. Whereas I have read The Great Railway Bazaar et.al many times. Sir V's Shadow is a "one and done." Still, it was unexpectedly quite good.
Rating:
Summary: Fascinating, infuriating Sir Vidia comes to life
Review: "Sir Vidia's Shadow" is the sort of book Boswell might have written had he broken relations with Johnson while the great man was alive. Although in person the Nobel laureate Naipaul is very short and almost fragile (according to Theroux) he must have been in many ways a very large man to cast so great a shadow on so many people. The story is easily told. In 1966 Theroux is a twentyish university lecturer living in Central and Eastern Africa who enjoys the sexual mores of the natives. He meets V. S. Naipaul, then in his mid-thirties, and his wife, Pat. Naipaul has benefitted from a shady foundation's grant and is supposed to teach at Theroux's university. The younger man quickly falls under the spell of the brilliant, imperious, often nasty Naipaul. These are the funniest chapters in the book. Perhaps the best anecdote is when Naipaul (who often refused to teach and to meet with either teachers or students) agreed to act as a judge in a literary competition, but insisted that there should be no first or second prizes, as he believed no entries would deserve such distinctions. Therefore, the prize should be called "Third Prize". Theroux and Naipaul grow close as the former accompanies the latter on several trips, and benefits from Naipaul's fanatical commitment to writing. Naipaul is deeply aware of excellence in writing, although he is too prickly to acknowledge the influence of either living or deceased authors. He would have agreed with Homer's sentiment "I am self-taught". Afterwards, Naipaul moves to London, where he is joined by Theroux, and the gaps when they live on separate continents are bridged only by letters, as neither of them is used to communicating by phone (this is a nice touch). Eventually Theroux settles in England, and Naipaul introduces him to local lights such as Lady Antonia Fraser, Harold Pinter and Naipaul's younger brother Shiva (who makes a rather depressing character in this story). Naipaul is often inconsiderate to Theroux (he forces him to go to expensive restaurants and to pay the tab even though Theroux has no regular income, he ignores Theroux's wife and children, he dismisses his concerns) but Theroux accepts it as the price of being Vidia's friend. As both men grow in their writing vocation, and Theroux succeeds first as a travel writer and then as a novelist, there is still the unspoken assumption that he plays second fiddle to Vidia, a man who does not bear contradiction and who "cuts off" anyone who fails him even in trivial matters, such as punctuality. Vidia bullies all who have to deal with him, such as his wife, his editor, his fellow writers, his friends (of whom there are never too many, as Vidia is too thoughtless and blunt to give anyone much time to get close to him). However, according to this book, Theroux manages to remain his friend until his second marriage to a much younger Pakistani woman, Nadira. The end, when it comes, is swift. Naipaul and Theroux take part in the book fair at Hay-on-Wye, at Theroux's insistence. Vidia is annoyed at the way the event progresses, but says nothing. Months later, Theroux finds out that books he inscribed to Vidia years before have come into the market, and assumes someone is cleaning house. He writes Vidia a fax telling him this, and receives back a demented response from the wife. He knows something is wrong when he cannot get in touch with Naipaul, but hopes against hope that it's only because Nadira wife is intercepting his messages. Eventually he runs into Vidia in London, and the older man cuts him off. When he tries to get an answer, Vidia just says that both of them would have to "take it on the chin and move on". As Theroux moves away from Vidia's shadow he becomes increasingly critical of him both as a person and as a writer, and it seems he derives a certain pleasure from parading Naipaul's faults for everyone to see. This is not surprising. Their relationship lasted longer and was more intense than some marriages. Clearly, it is like one of those contorted love affairs when it ends, and the spurned lover (in this case Theroux) has to pick up the pieces. The book is well written, well paced, and Theroux does not succumb to the temptation, which must have existed, of pre-dating his current feelings to infuse his earlier relationship with Naipaul. He lets the Nobel laureate take center stage. He comes across as dominating and dictatorial a man as Mao Ze Dong in Li Shui Zi's book, or Trujillo in Vargas Llosa's "The Feast of the Goat". He truly is a magnificent beast, one to which it is also dangerous to get too close. As Theroux says, Naipaul is not the writer as buddy, but the writer as priest.
Rating: 
Summary: Still feeding off Naipaul after all these years...
Review: It seems that Paul Theroux has spent his literary lifetime feeding like a leech off the insights, directions and inspiration of other authors. He goes where others have succeeded, but his own attempts are threadbare by comparison. He followed Bruce Chatwin to Patagonia, taking an incredibly boring series of train rides (broken up by undescribed flights between trains) to find some spiritual solace in the plains of Patagonia where, at last, he admits that he spent the bulk of his time on the trains engaged in morose thoughts about his life, rarely speaking with anyone, rarely if ever engaged with his surroundings, environments, histories, cultures. What a disappointment to read Theroux after Chatwin, a real author who became totally engaged in his subject material. But this was to be expected after he had followed Naipaul into the travel genre. Naipaul's writings on his travels to the non-Arab Muslim world and to India are incredibly insightful and followed upon extraordinarily perceptive novels that figured prominently in his being awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature this year. You can be assured that Theroux will never win such a prize as he's a meagre copyist, and a miserly one at that. His various tales of secret sexuality and betrayal, all fictionalized, with perhaps the most disgraceful being the short time he spent in Peace Corps having sex with everything in sight before he was ejected from the country, leaving the American government and Peace Corps with a bloody nose, show the emptiness of this writer, his lack of soul, of depth and, finally, of gratitude to Naipaul, among others, for having opened a career to him in which for some unknown reason he has prospered. I suppose that sex sells. Read Theroux's account of his walk around England and you're almost sure to come away disliking the English. Read his account of his train rides through southeast Asia and you'll find that the only conversation that he has of any length is one in which a fellow tries to pick him up with a trick homosexual story. Japan, to Theroux, is all about a sex show, nothing more. Read about his train trip across Siberia and nothing, absolutely nothing, could be more tedious. And after all of that, to turn on one of the leading authors in the English language and purposely slander him for hundreds of pages, and you find once again in Theroux a half-talent, who betrays a man who trusted in him as a son. Disgraceful.
Rating:
Summary: Superb account of the writer's craft
Review: This is the story of Paul Theroux's thirty-year friendship with his fellow-novelist V. S. Naipaul. Part social history, part biography, part autobiography, it is above all a beautifully written and fascinating study of a writer's craft and life. Both men are prolific and accomplished writers. Naipaul has written novels set in all five continents. His novels include 'Guerrillas', 'In a Free State' and 'A House for Mr Biswas'. He has also written a history of Trinidad, 'The Loss of El Dorado'. Theroux is the author of 'The Mosquito Coast', 'The Great Railway Bazaar' and many other stories, novels and travel books. Both men are remarkably self-contained; both are wandering scholars. Naipaul is famously rude and difficult. As a visiting professor in New York, he refused to give any classes. He once boasted, "I hate all music." He appears to disparage all contemporary novelists, and most past ones: he said that he hated Jane Austen, Thomas Hardy and Henry James. (He did at least admit to admiring Thomas Mann's 'Death in Venice' and Rudyard Kipling's 'Plain Tales from the Hills', and he does have a justified contempt for George Orwell.) Theroux writes, "the best writers are the most fanatical." (Perhaps excellence at any work demands a certain fanaticism?) Certainly, Naipaul's uncompromising attention to his craft, his hatred of cant, of poses and affectation, of style, reveal the monomania necessary, but not sufficient, to creativity. The results in his work are uneven, but Theroux believes that Naipaul has produced one undoubted masterpiece, 'A House for Mr Biswas': readers should judge for themselves. Theroux too is obviously not an easy man: his wanderlust, his unpleasant sexual boasting and his tactless responses to Naipaul's second marriage show how difficult he finds it to form relationships. Consequently this rare long friendship must have meant much to both men: it finished only recently, spurring Theroux to write this account. The book ends in a haunting last encounter, full of confusion, pain and rejection.
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