My Other Life is an interesting novel of Theroux’s life, or what could have been his life, as it were. It’s hard to guess what is fiction and what is fact, but the stories he weaves are beautiful. Of love, falling into it, and his eventual divorce. Of travel, hiding, and discovery. There are some treasures hidden amongst the prose:
Families don’t know what to say, and their eagerness to reassure with platitudes is the coldest comfort. No emptiness on earth can compare with the loss of love — and, after all that struggle and expense, the shameful hardship of being alone. Nothing mitigated my sense of misery and when people — family members mostly — said it was for the best, I knew I had failed.
Anyhow, I really enjoyed it, trying to step for a bit in the fictional (or not) Theroux’s shoes, and learning new things along the way. 8/10.