Alexander louis theroux jack beatty essay

Alexander Theroux, a year older than Paul, has acquired a considerable tation of his own. His 1972 novel, “Three Wags,” received very favorable notice both here and in England.

They were “robbed of inspiration” by their brothers, in Alexander's view. A less recondite interpretation, perhaps, is that their mother, Anne Theroux, issued a tacit decree condemning them to become housewives rather than novelists. But the women harbor no apparent resentment. “I have never been in competition with the boys,” insists

Like latter‐day disciples of William Morris, the Therouxs are communal artisans, collaborating‐as Alexander once said of his aspirations‐”to make Medford Venice.” Such a metamorphosis would require strenuous labor indeed.

Surely he has in mind here his own family, the “nine unexampled wits” — in his own phrase — from Medford, Mass., whose accomplishments and activities’ belie Tolstoy's claim that “all happy families resemble one another.” For the Therouxs are a singular family indeed. The public knows Paul Theroux well.