At its best, travel broadens our minds, expands our horizons and allows us to see the world we live in differently. But it has also played an important role in the history of philosophy. Emily Thomas, author of The Meaning of Travel: Philosophers Abroad, explores the connections between her two passionsâphilosophy and travelâat a moment when most of us are unable to leave our houses: perhaps the perfect moment to reflect on travel's significance for human beings.
Before we discuss these books, I wanted to ask why you chose this topic, the philosophy of travel. Itâs a very unusual topic for a philosopher to be interested in.
The simple answer is this topic brings two things I really love together. Iâve spent years of my life backpacking and Iâve always been a bit obsessed with travel. Having spent my entire adult life as a professional philosopher, I was suddenly gripped with the obsessional idea of writing something about philosophy and travel.
When I started, I wasnât sure if I would find anything. Itâs not a topic thatâs talked about anywhere. I thought it was possible I would begin research and find that philosophers are just not interested in travel and that philosophy and travel have never interacted. Yet to my delight I found theyâve interacted a lot and thereâs plenty to look at.
What sort of themes come out in your book, The Meaning of Travel?
So philosophy has affected travel in various unexpected ways. For example, we have the way that new theories about the philosophy of space affected mountain tourismâŠ
Hang on, letâs stop at that one, because itâs not obvious. How could the philosophy of space affect people climbing mountains?
In the 17th century, philosophers were thinking about what space is. Up until then, it was generally thought that space was a product of the human mind or space was associated, even identified, with material things. For various reasons, philosophers like Henry More and Isaac Newton began arguing that space is âabsoluteâ: independent of human minds and material bodies. Space is a thing in itself: a kind of giant container for the universe, and they associated that space with God. They figured that if space is infinite and unchanging and eternal, given that God is the only being thatâs supposed to be infinite and unchanging and eternal, that space must be God in some deep way.
That sounds almost like Spinoza.
Everyone at that time was very anxious not to be like Spinoza.
Because if you are, youâre likely to be some kind of heretic?
Spinoza identified God with the whole of creation, whereas these philosophers are saying, âcreation is separate to God, but God is identical to space.â Any views that eroded the divide between God and creation was to be avoided.
How did that lead to a change in travel? I can see that the Newtonian view of space makes space a candidate for being God, but why go up a mountain?
Various literary scholars and historians have looked at the way that before the 17th century, in the Western world, we thought of mountains as uglyâwarts or protuberances upon the Earth. Suddenly, from the end of the 17th century to the mid 18th century, you get this change when people begin talking about mountains as cathedrals or pillars to God. Scholars have arguedârightly I thinkâthat whatâs going on there is that people have begun to associate empty, large infinite-seeming spaces with God. As space now is God, these places arenât empty wastelands anymore. Theyâre literally where God is in the world.
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So you go up the mountain to get closer to God. Literally. I love it. Can you give another example of how travel and philosophy intersect?
Travel has also affected philosophy in various unexpected ways. So again, back in the 17th century, John Locke was wondering what the nature of the human mind is. People like Descartes and other medieval and early modern philosophers had argued that human minds are born with various innate ideas. These are normally innate ideas about morality and God. So Descartes thoughtâthis is his trademark argumentâthat each one of us is imprinted with a kind of stamp of God and that this idea we have of God is something that all human beings share.
âBefore the 17th century, we thought of mountains as uglyâwarts or protuberances upon the Earth. Suddenly, from the end of the 17th century to the mid 18th century, people begin talking about mountains as cathedrals or pillars to Godâ
John Locke does not want to rely on arguments made a priori through reason nearly as much as Descartes does. He says, âWell hang on. Letâs look at the evidence.â So Locke begins collecting travel books and exchanges from all over the world, from anywhere he can get his hands on them. And what he finds is that there donât seem to be any ideas about morality or God that are universal, that are shared by all human beings on the Earth. He uses these travel reports to mount an argument against innate ideas. And then he claims that there are no ideas that all human beings are born knowing.
So thatâs one way that travel had a huge impact on philosophy.
I can see that. Alison Gopnik wrote a fascinating article about how David Hume, in his views of the self, might have been influenced by Jesuits who had been to Tibet. The reason the Jesuits were going to Tibet and learning the language and learning about the culture and writing about it was to convert the Buddhists, having understood exactly what it was that they believed. Thereâs another example of a philosophy, or at least a religious belief, that motivated travel and then fed back into a view of the nature of the self. I can see how once you start looking there must be a lot of intersections between travel and philosophy. But is that a philosophy of travel or is it more philosophy and travel?
Areas within philosophy include âphilosophy of scienceâ and âphilosophy of artâ, and they simply refer to philosophical topics within science or art. When I talk about âphilosophy of travelâ thatâs exactly what I mean. Philosophical topics within travelâlike innate ideas or the way that Francis Baconâs philosophy of science put travel front and centre. So I do think it is a philosophy of travel.
I can see too, for example, how the motivation for discussing moral relativism originated from a greater knowledge of other cultures. Travel stimulates a certain kind of philosophy and there is a two-way back and forth. People begin asking are these cultures really different from ours? Or is it just superficial and have we misunderstood them? The kind of travel involved in anthropology becomes a source for philosophy.
Thatâs a great way of putting it. Anthropology did become a source for philosophy. It led to various debates, some quite dark. So, for example, some philosophers thought that if there are people around the world who donât have that Christian, innate idea of God then theyâre not people. Theyâre just animals.
Then you have debates about what makes someone a person, which John Locke dives straight into with his argument that a person is a thinking thing. Locke, to his credit, rebuts the racist notion that other people across the world are not people.
Youâve written this book, The Meaning of Travel. I canât think of any course that Iâve seen anywhere in a philosophy department that is on the philosophy of travel. Is your secret ambition that, just as you can today do a course on practical ethics or the philosophy of biology, one day students could take a course on the philosophy of travel?
Yes, I would absolutely love to see that happen. Many of the issues Iâve discussed are covered in other courses. Things like innate ideas you would find in a course on Locke, for example. But collecting them all together and showing how they interlink and the commonalities is something you could only get through a full-blown course. I would be delighted if that happened.
Itâs interesting to take another perspective on familiar things, which is something that is allegedly the result of travel. You go somewhere else and then you look at yourself differently. But if you look at philosophy through the lens of travel, perhaps it takes on a different shape as well.
Anything that gives us new perspectives is good. Philosophy and travel can both aim to strike out into the unknown. Travellers do that when they seek to explore outer space or unexplored caves below the Earth or parts of the ocean. Philosophers also try to do that.
âIf we could map all possible knowledge, huge swathes of the map would be blankâ
If we could map all possible knowledge, huge swathes of the map would be blank. I donât think humans know very much, reallyâon our own planet, biologists are still identifying thousands of new plants and animals every year. We are one species on one planet in an enormous universe, and we havenât been around for that long. I think philosophers often try to map the stuff that we donât know. Theyâre not even necessarily trying to provide us with answers. Theyâre saying, âHey, hereâs this whole area of thought no one has ever conceived of being a thing, but itâs a thing.â
In that respect I think philosophy and travel have a huge amount in common. They both share this desire to map unknown places. They have this deep motivation in common which is not obvious, but itâs very much there.
Which is curiosity, presumably?
Exactly.
One other thing: weâre having this conversation during a global lockdown, where it seems travel is just not available to most people. Obviously when you wrote the book, opportunities for world travel were there, but they may not be for years now. How should that affect how we think about travel?
When I wrote the book, travel was readily available to lots of people. It opens with me overhearing a couple having noisy sex on a train. At the time, that seemed like a problem. Now that pales into insignificance compared to the problems that weâre facing. The book is going to be read in a very different world to the one that it was written in.
Travel has always been a privilege. If you look at the history of leisure travel in the West, it started in the seventeenth century, the province of the extremely rich. In the late 19th century, it opened up to the masses and now many of us can enjoy the privileges of travel, of going out into the world and seeing things in an affordable way. We can expand our minds by seeing new things, meeting new people, and eating unfamiliar foods. Travel can broaden your mind and your experience of the world.
Books can open that experience vicariously. Most of us, most of the time, have learned about other cultures and other ways of living through books or films: not through direct experience.
Yes, travel is not the only way open to us for expanding our minds. Books, documentaries, even these outstanding online platforms where you can explore deserts and museums and the stars. I am so grateful that we have them, and I think thatâs what we have to do during this lockdown. If one strategy isnât open to us, we have to pursue another.
In a sense it might make travel writing more precious to us. When you canât do something, anything that gets close to it is better than nothing.
I think thatâs true. Travel writing is wonderful. Iâm reading lots of it at the moment. Itâs a way of armchair travelling, of learning about new things and seeing different peopleâs point of view. And thatâs great. We need it.
Iâve absolutely met people like that. Itâs important to say that travel can broaden the mind, but itâs not the case that it necessarily does. Thatâs the same in all things. There are people who read books and only take from them what they want to take.
Letâs get on to the books. Whatâs your first choice?
You asked for my five book choices about the philosophy of travel, but the philosophy of travel doesnât exist in a coherent way. So, Iâve simply picked books about travel which engage with various philosophical issues. They are, if you like, thoughtful books about travel.
My first choice is a book by Marjorie Hope Nicolson called Mountain Gloom and Mountain Glory. It was written in the 1950s and it was the very first book, as far as Iâm aware, that makes the argument that the philosophy of space had a huge impact on mountain tourism.
âIn theory she was a professor of literature, but in reality she delved into science and philosophy and anything else that she fanciedâ
Nicolson was a literary scholar at Columbia University. In theory she was a professor of literature, but in reality she delved into science and philosophy and anything else that she fancied. This book is highly readable. She has a very pleasant, direct style. She makes it seem effortless, the way she weaves together the science and the philosophy and poetry.
She explores the ideas around absolute space we discussed earlier, and also absolute time. This is the idea that time is an infinite, eternal container, identified with God. People were also beginning to shrug off biblical ideas of creation as happening four to six thousand years ago. So she argues that people were getting a sense of geological time for the first time and she thinks that that also feeds into this fresh appreciation of mountains. Theyâre giving you a sense of the timescales that God is working at.
Was it in the Enlightenment principally that this began? Because before this conversation, I would have thought the reason that people were drawn to mountains was connected with the Romantic notion of the sublime. The sublime was all about being in awe of these huge, slightly threatening places, the immensity and the fear that was part of the experience, which gave a certain sort of intensity. Romanticism was all about going to sublime places. You might then have made the leap towards God, but itâs more about the effect on human beingsâparticularly in Edmund Burkeâs writings on the sublime, for instance. Itâs about exercising your fight or flight mechanism.
This stuff actually comes first. The way that Nicolson describes it is that these philosophers of space and time are laying the foundations for an aesthetics of the infinite, for an appreciation of infinite-seeming things, like mountain ranges. The sublime comes quite a bit later. These absolute theories of space and time are all invented from 1650 to 1690 and she thinks they began to seep through into poetry and literature and then into travel around the early 1700s, so in the early 18th century.
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She picks on Thomas Burnett, who was a philosopher and a scientist. He wrote an amazing book called The Theory of the Earth that seeks to explain everything in the universe. It starts with the way our Earth was created and the way geology works, how mountains and seas form. She thinks that Burnett was a transitional figure. On the one hand, heâs picking up these ideas about absolute space and time and he seems to be applying them to mountains. He talks with awe about how big they are, how they are Godâs handiwork on Earth. On the other hand, heâs still a bit repulsed by them.
She thinks that he is a midway point between these absolute theories of space and what would become the full-blown aesthetics that you get in poets like Byron, who are describing mountains as cathedrals.
Itâs interesting because in Romanticism, the emphasis is on your own personal experience, but what youâre describing is the objective reality out there. The Romantic poets tended to be fascinated with their own reactions to stuff and not just the stuff out there.
Yes! For these guys, the emphasis is whatâs out there, not their reactions to it.
Your second choice follows on quite nicely: itâs Mary Wollstonecraftâs Letters Written in Sweden, Norway and Denmark. Can you remind us of who she was?
Mary Wollstonecraft was an 18th-century English philosopher. Sheâs best known for authoring a book called A Vindication of the Rights of Women where she argues that women should be treated equally to men, especially with regard to education.
When she was writing in the late 1700s, there was a widespread belief that women didnât have the same mental capacities as men, that they werenât suited to study things like mathematics or science or philosophy. She argued that wasnât trueâwomen just werenât educated in these things. If we were all educated the same, women could participate as well as men. Sheâs best known as a philosopher and in particular as a feminist philosopher, but she also wrote this travel book.
The backstory to this travel book is the stuff that soap operas are made of. She had an affair with an American privateer, Gilbert Imlay. She was living in England and then she moved to Paris for a little while, which is where she met him. They had what appears to be a passionate love affair and she became pregnant. They were married (not legally but informally) so he described her as his âwife.â Although it seems that he was unfaithful, she then went to Scandinavia on his behalf to conduct some business. And it was revealed, in the late 20th century, that she was trying to get hold of some treasure of his that may or may not have been on a ship that had sunk.
 She was on a treasure hunt?
Yes. She went to Scandinavia with her young baby and a maid. She left them behind in one of the cities while she travelled inland through Sweden, Norway and Denmark alone. It was a hell of a thing to do for a woman back then.
She wanted money because she wanted independence from Imlay. So she began writing her Letters. The book is presented as a series of letters to a friend, but of course theyâre not regular lettersâitâs an extremely well-crafted piece of work.
But theyâre published together as a book?
Yes, itâs an epistolary book. Itâs important in a number of ways. One thing that happened in the 17th century was Francis Bacon developed this new philosophy of science. He said that we canât find out about the world by sitting in an armchair; we have to go out and bring back information about it. After Baconâs death, the British Royal Society carried through this project. They began paying sailors, travellers and merchants to bring back all kinds of information about minerals, animals, flowersâwhatever they could think of.
Thatâs more or less what Aristotle did as well, isnât it?
Yes, it is. Aristotle did that and then the whole process was abandoned. There was a lull of more than 1500 years and then Bacon picked it up again.
Something that went hand in hand with this project was that they asked travellers to write in a straightforward, factual style, which had a massive impact on travel writing. Lots of travel writing before this period was frankly made up. If you read books like The Travels of Sir John Mandeville, heâs happily writing about unicorns and men who have the heads of dogs. Separating fact from fiction in travel writing was a problem.
âFrancis Bacon said that we canât find out about the world by sitting in an armchair; we have to go out and bring back information about itâ
So everybody began writing in this dull, third-person, scientific style. Itâs the sort of thing that you still see in Darwinâs Voyage of the Beagle or Captain Cookâs Journals. The tales themselves are gripping, but the writing is often boring. Mary Wollstonecraft was well aware of this. Back in London, she had worked as a writer and an editor for a magazine and read and reviewed dozens of travel books. So in her own travel writing she sets out to do something different. She explains at the start of this book, âI couldnât help but make myself the hero of every little tale. I realize that this is contrary to what normally happens, but Iâm going to do it anyway.â
She goes on to describe, in the first person, her own reactions to mountains and glaciers and lakes. Sheâs knee-deep into the philosophy of the sublime and thereâs been some literary scholarship over the last five years in particular thatâs shown she wasnât just a pioneer of travel writing about the sublimeâshe was a leader.
But Kant wrote on the sublime, and Burke before him.
She wasnât the first person to come up with the theory of the sublime. She was the first person to apply that seriously to travel writing, this feeling of pleasurable terror that you get from looking at a sublime scene.
Is it a good read, or is it just interesting historically?
Itâs a lovely book to read. Sheâs a really engaging writer. She reads as a very modern writer, despite the fact itâs a few centuries old. Itâs also shot through with her observations on the stage of women in these countries. Sheâs furious at the way some women are treated, and she has a cutting pen.
Whatâs your third choice?
My third choice is Walden by Henry David Thoreau. I think Walden is the least readable of the books that Iâve chosen, because it starts with a long, rambling passage about what he thinks about the state of politics and economics. It includes his famous line âthe mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.â
Heâs saying that people are locked into a capitalist system, where they have to borrow money to make their farm work and then they get in debt and have to work even longer hours . . .
Youâre right that itâs important, but itâs hard going. Once you get past that, then suddenly youâre into these beautiful and inspiring descriptions of nature.
He lived in Concord, near Walden Pond, and he bought a hut which he rebuilt next to the lake and lived in, in semi-isolation, for a couple of years, partly to see how much you need to be able to survive, but partly as a reaction to his brotherâs death. His brotherâwith whom he used to go on long walks in the countrysideâcut himself shaving and had a septic reaction; he died very quickly. So that was part of the stimulus for Thoreau leaving society. He wrote very eloquently about his engagement with nature and what itâs like living in that hut on subsistence farming and buying the minimum that he needed to get by to live. He was a proto eco-warrior. Itâs interesting, because he didnât travel very far, it was just a couple of miles from where he lived.
Thoreau did a fair amount of travelling, outside of Walden. In his other books he goes on these long hikes.
Like many philosophers, he absolutely loved walking and he was very much in touch with the seasons, with the wildlife, with the plants.
This book is really about travelling into wilderness. I donât think that travelling need involve going very far. You could travel within a few miles of your house. Whatâs crucial is to put yourself in unfamiliar surroundings. And I think thatâs what he manages to do. There are these amazing, elegant, long passages where he describes sitting in the doorway of his cabin, lost in the sunshine and the birds flitting around the trees. Or where heâs looking out at the pond and describing the way the ice is frozen and the crazing of the cracks. Itâs enchanting and it has inspired swathes of travel nature writingâas well as people going off and building their own cabins in the wilderness.
Thereâs a craze right now for âcabin pornââif you Google it, you will be pleasantly surprised by what you find. So many of the articles about it reference Thoreauâs Walden.
He was a really unusual figure and very much a philosopher reflecting on the nature of what it is to be human within a society. Heâs famous for his writing on civil disobedience as well, and whether you should refuse to pay taxes to an unjust government, for example. So I imagine, probably like Wollstonecraft, that the fact that heâs so immersed in philosophy means that thatâs the filter through which he describes everything. Heâs not a simple nature writer describing what he sees, heâs reflecting on it in terms of what it means for humanity.
Thereâs very much an underlying metaphysicsâtheory of reality. So where his friend (and senior tutor, if you like) Emerson is in love with nature and for Emerson nature is a symbol or a representation of God, for Thoreau nature is God. Thereâs no remove for him. When heâs looking into the ice at Walden Pond, heâs looking into Godâs creation. The whole book, these beautiful nature passages, they feel very strongly anchored in this underlying philosophy of how the world is.
Thereâs also the story of seclusion. You see Wittgenstein going off to live in a hut by a lake in Norway. Rousseau also went to live in a forest at one point in his life. In order to think clearly, some people believe you have to get away from not just the assumptions other people have but from other peopleâs physical presence.
With Thoreau I donât get the vibe that he wants to be solitary in order to think. Rather, he wants to be solitary in order to be closer to nature. Itâs a variation on the theme, but certainly seems very different to Wittgenstein, who wanted to be a solitary genius working out ideas without anyone to bother him.
Though both of them had social contact. Thoreau often gets criticized because he took his washing home and went to have meals with people occasionally, but he never said he was going to live in complete isolation. He was experimenting with how little he could live on.
Yes, itâs an experiment, though if Iâm honest, I personally am much less interested in the social aspects of it. Iâm more interested in the engagement with nature. Thatâs what I really love about the book. Itâs okay that other people like aspects of it that I donât. Thatâs allowed.
Your fourth choice is Alain de Bottonâs The Art of Travel, published back in 2002. Tell us about it.
Itâs a thoughtful account of de Bottonâs engagement with artists about travel. He focuses on painters and novelists with a view to asking what light they can shed on why we travel, and picking up titbits from them for our own travels.
Honestly no, I canât. But it makes for a good couple of paragraphs. For him, these are places where itâs okay to be lonely and thatâs the appeal of them.
Thatâs interesting.
He thinks thatâs what Hopper captured. Thatâs one of the ways that heâs looking at artists who have engaged with travel. Heâs thinking, âWhat can I take away from this?â He uses Hopper to explain why he enjoys being in these sorts of in-between places.
Do you mean itâs okay to be lonely or itâs okay to be alone? Because solitude and loneliness arenât the same thing. Often the best writers travel alone. Someone like Bruce Chatwin seems to be always on his own.
Paul Theroux has a chapter in his Tao of Travel arguing that although many travel writers appear to travel alone, they donâtâincluding Bruce Chatwin. His wife doesnât appear in the books, but apparently there is a long tradition of travel writers doing this: pretending to be travelling alone when in fact they have their partners with them.
I think of Hopper as the painter of disconnectedness, but being in solitude is not the same as being lonely. Itâs an interesting question, people travelling alone. The times Iâve done it I found it particularly satisfying in terms of engaging with people and the places because you are completely in control of where you loiter and where you donât.
Thereâs a lovely quote from Ella Maillart on this. Reflecting on a 3,500 mile trip from Beijing to Kashmir, she writes that she prefers to travel alone because âa companion is in himself a detached âpieceâ of Europe. When I have a companion by my side, together we build a foreign cell, a âresistanceâ which can only with difficulty blend into new surroundingsâ. I think thatâs true. Iâve done almost all of my travelling alone and I wouldnât have it any other way. I think Iâve had more varied experienced as a result. Itâs also been harder, which I think has added to the value for me.
I also think local people are far more willing to talk to you if youâre aloneâthey feel sorry for you, and youâre clearly not a threat. Iâve particularly found that, when Iâm alone, other women approach me happily.
Could you give me another example of an artist from Alain de Bottonâs book?
John Ruskin, the painter. Ruskin is all about these incredibly intricate, realistic drawings of nature. He painted many different things but this is what de Botton focuses on. Ruskin, in his view, shows that painting is one way of absorbing your environment, almost of capturing it.
One way to think about it today is using mindfulness. If you are looking at something so intently that you are capturing every line and curve, then you are paying mindful attention to it. You have to be focused on that thing. De Botton, again, uses this as a way of saying, âthis is one of the things we should do when we travel: we should pay attention to the world around us. And then take that back home with us, take these observations home.â
If you believe in the theory of predictive processingâthat what we notice is change in our environment, not whatâs actually in front of us, most of the time: we make best guesses and then when something changes we suddenly notice it, if weâre luckyâthat fits. Because what travel often does is jolt you into a position where youâre almost overloaded with information. You have to make a series of hypotheses about whatâs going on. Whereas most of our lives, we rely quite usefully on assumptions about whatâs going on.
I went to Thailand recently and the first day I opened the curtains. I was looking out at a paddy field and the birds and the noises and smells and seeing somebody on a bicycle in the distance. Just taking it all in was almost impossible. I had to sit for 20 minutes and gradually let it come into focus. Iâve had that experience in Italy as well. Youâre suddenly in a different place and perception becomes apparent to you in a way that it doesnât at home where, without even looking, I know where to turn left and where to turn right and nothing surprises me too much.
Yes, I agree and it can be invigorating to know how little you know. In our everyday lives we can complacently think, âI know lots of things.â As soon as youâre somewhere unfamiliar you realize, âGosh, I know almost nothing.â You canât speak the language. You canât read the signs. You donât understand the cultural cues that youâre surrounded by. You donât know what the birds are, what the plants are. I think thatâs useful as an experience for humans to have regularly.
Also something that strikes me when travelling is how willing people are to help a traveller, even though they donât know you and donât have any vested interest in you. You might get your wallet stolen in some places, but there are also a lot of people who give you a meal or take you to the place you ask where to go to. Theyâre incredibly warm and generous and itâs kind of gratifying that that exists. For me, thatâs quite a surprise because my instinct is to be cautious in a new place, and think, âOh God, someoneâs going to mug me.â But actually the default seems to be, âYouâre a traveller, youâre a human being like me and you might need help.â
Which is amazing. Itâs a good feeling to go somewhere and people are pleased that youâve arrived, that they want you to see their home.
Alain de Botton is somebody with an interest in philosophy whoâs approaching questions about travel, which is unusual. How does your book differ? How did your approach differ from his?
The most obvious difference is that de Botton is interested in artists. Heâs looking at what novelists and painters can tell us. Every now and then he brings in a philosopher, but the book is focused on novelists and painters, which is very different to what Iâm trying to do, with my focus on what philosophers can tell us about travel. So the people weâre looking at is one of the differences.
Also, what Iâm interested in is telling the story of philosophical engagement with travel since the Age of Discovery, which is when philosophers got interested in travel. Itâs not comprehensive, but Iâm picking out the biggest episodes throughout that history. Thatâs not something that de Botton is doing.
Why would somebody want to read his book?
Heâs a brilliant writer, so itâs an extremely easy read. Itâs enlightening. Itâs not about philosophy, but itâs very good.
Incidentally, de Bottonâs book shares a title with The Art of Travel by Francis Galton. This book is also entertaining, but for different reasons. Itâs got lots of advice for the would-be explorer. Galton was a Victorian explorer and he often travelled with servants because although he was intrepid he was also very rich. So, for example, he warns you that if you are sleepy or deaf, you should never travel without your manservants.
Whatâs your last book choice on the philosophy of travel?
How to Talk About Places Youâve Never Been by Pierre Bayard is perhaps the least philosophical of my choices. Itâs about the importance of armchair travel. Itâs written by a literary professor and itâs a tongue-in-cheek, extended argument as to why armchair travel can be even better than real world travel.
That might be a particularly popular book now . . .Â
Yes, I donât know when we will be able to real world travel again, but in the meantime, this is a great humorous take on why we should all be armchair travelling.
Is it just humorous, or is it serious as well?
Itâs written to be funny, but itâs packed with lots of serious material on the nature of armchair travel. The serious material is not tongue-in-cheek, but throughout the book his thesisâthat armchair travel is always better than real world travelâis, I think, meant to be tongue-in-cheek.
Is it because in real travel, you might be disappointed when you arrive in a place that doesnât live up to your expectationsâwhereas you are never going to be disappointed from your armchair?
Thatâs a theme that you find in de Botton. Earlier, you asked about differences between my book and de Bottonâs. Here is another one. I once read a Guardian review of The Art of Travel that complained de Botton doesnât seem to like travel very much. I get that feeling tooâit comes across in his discussions about the expectation of travelling being better than the reality. I hope, in my book, it comes across that I love it.
Bayard is concerned with a number of things including the fact itâs much safer to travel by armchair than in the real world. Thereâs none of the inconvenience, you can remain sleeping in your own bed, you donât have to faff around with porters or train tickets and endure long and uncomfortable journeys. Itâs a lot easier, you donât run into difficulties and you can learn much more about a place by reading about it than by visiting. And he goes on to provide lots of examples.
âSomething that I loved learning about is the history of travel writing. I hadnât appreciated, for example, that it really exploded in the 17th centuryâ
These include, for example, a French travel writer called Chateaubriand. He wrote lots about visiting the United States and large chunks of it seem to have been made up. There are rivers in his books and places that move around when heâs describing different locations in the Statesâbut that doesnât seem to matter because itâs as though heâs captured the essence of the places, even though he never visited.
The book is brilliantâvery funny. He uses his own system of notations that say things like âNVâ for never visited. He covers the Marco Polo controversy. Marco Polo in theory travelled widely through Asia including China, yet lots of scholars think he never got any further than Constantinople. But perhaps he didnât need to.
Itâs the difference between knowledge by acquaintance or knowledge by description. Those are two ways of writing about travel. I suspect any traveller has to do a bit of synecdoche, the part standing for the whole, because they only experience a tiny time-slice and a tiny geographical slice of the place they visit, and they then usually generalize from that about the place and its people.
I think you could run a Maryâs Room thought argument about this. Mary is sitting in a room, with guidebooks about Japan. If she is then transported to Japan, does she learn anything new?
Whatâs your view? Surely that she does? Isnât the experiential thing important, the qualitative experience of the place part of what youâre advocating? Whereas some of the people youâre discussing are more literary travellers in a sense, theyâre interested in the idea of travel, not in actually traveling so much. Itâs more about how itâs represented, how itâs described, what its historical importance is, its artistic and literary connections. Thatâs not travel itself.
Yes. I certainly think Mary would learn something new where she to step out onto the streets of Japan. But I do think she could learn an awful lot from books as well. I love books as much as I love travelling.
For me itâs a bit like painting. You can have a portrait of somebody where you donât know who they are and donât really care who they are, but it can be an amazing painting. Itâs not just about whatâs represented but itâs about how itâs represented, the kind of formal qualities, the beauty of the thing. Itâs true that as a genre travel writing has been very significant. Thoughtful writing about going somewhere else is a major part of the great legacy of humanity. Whether or not itâs accurate about the place, and whether or not it takes you to the place, as a genre of writing there are so many brilliant examples.
I think so too. Something that I loved learning about is the history of travel writing. I hadnât appreciated, for example, that it really exploded in the 17th century. I thought it would have been around in quantity for a lot longer. The Age of Discovery blew the whole thing up. I suspect the printing press also had something to do with it. Travel to far flung places was easier and books were more readily available.
Is there anything you want to add to what youâve said about Bayardâs book?
The book is not obviously raising philosophical issues, though if you run something like the Maryâs Room thought experiment, you can make it philosophical. But one of the issues simmering below the surface of the entire book is, âwhat is the relationship between fact and fiction?â That is hugely philosophical, the relationship between the world inside our heads and the world out there. That runs like a thread through the whole book and I think itâs fabulous.
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