Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi in Around the World in 80 Books

Aug 01, 2018 Kent Winward rated it it was amazing

Two novellas juxtaposed on the theme of Eros and Thanatos. Dyer is delving into the world of Lawrence and Mann. (I'm going to have to go back and finish Out of Sheer Rage: Wrestling With D.H. Lawrence). The surrender to the erotic and sensual climaxes in a feeling of death, while the descent into death and the human condition somehow ends up in the ecstatic. The conflicts and contradictions of the human condition are spectacular and like the burning corpse, Dyer managed to shove a stick into my ...more

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Aug 29, 2012 Sam rated it it was ok

Shelves: 1-contemp-literary, setting-india, reviewed, read-2013

Going into Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi, I had no idea what to expect except for great writing. After all, this novel containing two different storylines had glowing reviews when it first came out and Geoff Dyer is a respected writer. The first half of the book as our protagonist, journalist Jeff Atman, spends time in Venice covering the Biennale is a zippy read. The chatty, honest, self-deprecating narration is charming. Basically this entire half is a hedonistic romp through party after p Going into Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi, I had no idea what to expect except for great writing. After all, this novel containing two different storylines had glowing reviews when it first came out and Geoff Dyer is a respected writer. The first half of the book as our protagonist, journalist Jeff Atman, spends time in Venice covering the Biennale is a zippy read. The chatty, honest, self-deprecating narration is charming. Basically this entire half is a hedonistic romp through party after party. There’s a lot of bellini chugging, snorting cocaine, and having sex. I didn’t find any deep meaning here, but didn’t care because I was convinced that the key would be found in the second half of the book, somehow. It was enough that this part was breezy and entertaining.

So when we finally get to Varanasi, we meet up with a guy that could be Jeff, or could be another guy. He’s a freelance journalist who takes a quick trip to the city for a brief article he’s writing, but who ends up staying longer than he planned. Here we still get a wry, charming, curmudgeonly narration, so I was still on board. But after a while, as the guy just keeps hanging out and cataloguing all of the different temples and ghats along the Ganges River, it just gets boring. The book felt like a travelogue, but not even an interesting one. I found the “story arc,” if you even call this section a story, to be one that’s been done before: white guy goes to India, has to adjust to the overstimulation of sights, sounds, people, and animals, slowly becomes used to it and appreciates the beauty and the logic of the place, romanticizes it—even the poverty—finds his own spirituality, and then goes (possibly) mad. Yawn.

I honestly thought that the book would get better—even with just a pinch of pages left, I was totally convinced that something would happen that would throw light onto all that I was suffering through and I’d end up appreciating the point of it all, that the book would somehow subvert that typical story arc of a foreigner going to India and finding spirituality, blah, blah, blah. But it didn’t.

Still convinced that this book had to mean more than I was getting, that it was my fault that I didn’t get the point, I went searching for reviews and write ups of the book, but I’m sorry, the connections between Venice and Varanasi and the symbolism enmeshed in the story as they analyzed it still wasn’t very satisfying. I kept asking, “that is it?”
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