‘The Lost Continent’
courtesy of ‘jmerelo’
Bill Bryson is kind of a jerk. This thought crossed my mind once every few chapters as I read his 1989 novel The Lost Continent. This was my first experience reading Bryson, though his name and bookjackets are so ubiquitous I figure he must have some friends at the New York Times or Barnes & Noble or something. Granting room for the possibility that Bill Bryson Narrator is as much a character as any, I found that in The Lost Continent the Bryson Narrator is in turn judgemental, cranky, elitist, disparaging, borderline racist and sadly determined to be unimpressed by most anything. I’m also well-aware that my judgements of Bryson might be unfair, and my observations would have no place here if he had not, 100-some pages into the book, decided to make his way up through Virginia to dedicate roughly 9 pages to a stay in Washington, DC.
The Lost Continent is Bryson’s travelogue of his nearly-14,000-mile trip across and around and within America. I thought maybe for a second that this trip must have been bankrolled by a Tina Fey-esque book advance, but as The Lost Continent pre-dated such tomes as A Walk in the Woods and A Short History of Nearly Everything by more than a decade, I’m not quite sure who ponied up the dough. All I can say is I’m infinitely jealous, which you can add to other wrinkles in my credibility, not least of which being that I was still in diapers when Bryson made his journey. After two decades of living in the UK, Bryson decides to return to Des Moines, Iowa, land of his birth, and set out in search for the America of the American Dream. The America of Leave it to Beaver, where the corner druggist, while he’s out sweeping his stoop, waves to a young Jimmy Stewart-esque individual as he rides his bike down Main Street on his way to the sandlot to play ball. Suffice to say, Bryson winds up disappointed more often than not, as the America he witnesses features less tree-lined avenues and picturesque town squares, and more destitute, ramshackle homes and gaudy and tasteless absurdity. Continue reading →