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saraheatsbookz's review
I was lured in by the self-deprecating title. I was intrigued by a French poet seeking wisdom from eastern cultures at the turn of the 20th century, and while there were fleeting moments of insight - this book was painfully small-minded and racist. For every eloquent thought you had to read through a good ten or fifteen pages of ignorant vitriol. Unless you’re specifically seeking to read a book by a self-superior westerner stating his decrepit colonialist views as gospel - I do not recommend.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Racism
abarrera's review
4.0
What absolute joy was reading this book. Michaux's writing is extraordinary, mixing surrealism, sarcasm, and a certain stream of consciousness. The book lacks correctness in more than one way. It would probably be denounced in our current "Cancel culture" times. However, if you brush aside the grotesque, Michaux's sharp dissections are spot on. He shrouds his perceptions in sarcasm and a clear superiority but this doesn't detract from the incredible and acute points he raises about different cultures. Even more staggering is how deep his thinking goes and the amount of exposure to the key texts of each culture he exposes. It's said he outgrew many of his opinions on the different cultures he portraits, especially about Japan, and I'm sure that if he attacked this travel diary later, he would have written a less sordid and biased text.
Nevertheless, that rawness of thought is, for me, the amazing charm of this book. Don't expect an unbiased or "studied" cultural assessment of the East, but a wonderful dairy of Basho-like humorous haikus on imperfect human perceptions.
Nevertheless, that rawness of thought is, for me, the amazing charm of this book. Don't expect an unbiased or "studied" cultural assessment of the East, but a wonderful dairy of Basho-like humorous haikus on imperfect human perceptions.
jenniferaimee's review against another edition
1.0
Several years ago, I read Sylvia Beach's memoir Shakespeare and Company, grew very interested in her work, and bought this book because it seemed a perfect mixture of my interest in Sylvia Beach (who is the translator), French literature, Asian history, and travel writing.
Having just finished Lands of Lost Borders: Out of Bounds on the Silk Road, a modern-day travel narrative (which, incidentally, I would highly recommend), I decided it was finally time to pick up A Barbarian in Asia.
I knew this book was first published in the mid-20th century, and I knew that I had purchased Beach's translation of the original version, so I expected it to be a little racist. I hoped, however, that Michaux would focus more on the places in Asia he visited than the people he saw in each country. That way, this book would have at least provided a Frenchman's perspective of the geography and history of specific regions of India, China, and Japan. One page in, I realized I was in for a letdown.
Michaux did describe a few locations, and I liked his writing style (as translated by Beach). I particularly liked his description of the Taj Mahal, although even in that section he managed to be condescending:
The thing is, there are plenty of nonfiction books about the India, China, and Japan of the 1930s that show far less harmful biases than this book. I read some colonial literature in college, and this outpaced most of those books for its repetitive generalizations and lack of understanding of the local cultures. While there is some value in reading books like A Barbarian in Asia in order to have a better historical understanding (for example, to make it clear just how culturally blinded Western Europeans/Americans were), I think this book would be best studied in that context (or perhaps not at all). It made me angry, and I can't imagine the way someone from any of the countries he wrote about would feel when reading it. At one point, I pulled my copy of Orientalism off the shelf to see if Said mentioned Michaux. He hadn't (at least according to the index—I haven't read Orientalism in seven years and I wasn't about to start a reread today), but he could have; maybe Said found Michaux too obvious a writer to bother covering.
This was a disappointing read, but not in a surprising way. I've almost picked it up several times since I bought it, and each time I've opened the cover I've felt a similar sense of trepidation. This is privileged white tourism at its most blatant and unapologetic. I understand later editions may have addressed changes in Michaux's viewpoint, but mine did not, so I can't speak to those. If I were still studying the negative impact of colonialist literature, I may have found value in this book. As it was, I was mostly struck by how distasteful Michaux's generalizations were. As I said, the writing wasn't bad. I wouldn't recommend this unless you are studying colonialism and/or travel literature of this very particular type.
Having just finished Lands of Lost Borders: Out of Bounds on the Silk Road, a modern-day travel narrative (which, incidentally, I would highly recommend), I decided it was finally time to pick up A Barbarian in Asia.
I knew this book was first published in the mid-20th century, and I knew that I had purchased Beach's translation of the original version, so I expected it to be a little racist. I hoped, however, that Michaux would focus more on the places in Asia he visited than the people he saw in each country. That way, this book would have at least provided a Frenchman's perspective of the geography and history of specific regions of India, China, and Japan. One page in, I realized I was in for a letdown.
Michaux did describe a few locations, and I liked his writing style (as translated by Beach). I particularly liked his description of the Taj Mahal, although even in that section he managed to be condescending:
In spite of its strictly formal ornamentation, one that is purely geometrical, the Taj Mahal floats. The door gives onto a wave. In the cupola, the immense cupola, there is a trifle too much of something, a mere trifle that everyone is aware of, something that is painful. Everywhere the same unreality. For this whiteness is not real, it has no weight, is not solid. False in the sun. False in the moonlight, a kind of silver fish built by man in nervous excitement. (21)
The thing is, there are plenty of nonfiction books about the India, China, and Japan of the 1930s that show far less harmful biases than this book. I read some colonial literature in college, and this outpaced most of those books for its repetitive generalizations and lack of understanding of the local cultures. While there is some value in reading books like A Barbarian in Asia in order to have a better historical understanding (for example, to make it clear just how culturally blinded Western Europeans/Americans were), I think this book would be best studied in that context (or perhaps not at all). It made me angry, and I can't imagine the way someone from any of the countries he wrote about would feel when reading it. At one point, I pulled my copy of Orientalism off the shelf to see if Said mentioned Michaux. He hadn't (at least according to the index—I haven't read Orientalism in seven years and I wasn't about to start a reread today), but he could have; maybe Said found Michaux too obvious a writer to bother covering.
This was a disappointing read, but not in a surprising way. I've almost picked it up several times since I bought it, and each time I've opened the cover I've felt a similar sense of trepidation. This is privileged white tourism at its most blatant and unapologetic. I understand later editions may have addressed changes in Michaux's viewpoint, but mine did not, so I can't speak to those. If I were still studying the negative impact of colonialist literature, I may have found value in this book. As it was, I was mostly struck by how distasteful Michaux's generalizations were. As I said, the writing wasn't bad. I wouldn't recommend this unless you are studying colonialism and/or travel literature of this very particular type.