Interwar Itineraries

Front matter

EMILY O. WITTMAN

Authenticity in Anglophone and French Travel Writing

EMILY O. WITTMAN

Part Two: “Unknown and Prestigious Shores” 47

. Exposing the Secret: Hemingway’s Authentic Spain

. “Speaking Native:” The Sound of Authenticity

. The Romance of Hardship: Questing in Sub-Saharan Africa . Writing and Cultural Translation in Sub-Saharan Africa

. The One-Man Show: Greene, Hemingway, Sub-Saharan Africa, and the End of the Interwar Period

Terminus: Inward Travel Narratives of the War Years

Notes vii

187 215

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing this book has been a fantastic journey. I have had the good luck to join forces with so many learned and generous people over the course of writing this book and they have afforded me indispensable feedback and much support: Abraham Smith, Marton Dornbach, Maria DiBattista, Eve O. Wagner, Lisa Sewell, John Harvey, Alexandra Sterlin, Yolanda Manora, David Deutsch, Joe Hornsby, Bill Ulmer, Albert and Ruth Pionke, David Bellos, Suzanne Nash, Jean Jamin, Nico Israel (sine qua non), Lior Levy, Noah Wittman, Ornela Vorpsi, Yann Apperry, George Thompson, Joshua Wittman, Nadeem Haj, Louise Paige, Omnia El Shakry, Heather Cass White, Hank Lazer, Michael Martone, and the late André Green. Special thanks are due to Sweet Dog for his eternal support, enthusiasm for the project, constant peaceful presence, and for his ability to make me laugh in the face of almost every situation. I thank the two brilliant reviewers of this book—it is a better book for their astute commentary and crucial suggestions. I thank my superb and talented editor Hannah Brooks-Motl for deftly guiding this book through many stages and also offering excellent suggestions, incisive feedback, and enthusiasm. It has been a pleasure working with Amherst College Press and I am thrilled to publish inclusively. I dedicate this book to my parents, Sally and Donald Wittman.

Introduction: The Questers and “That Way of Traveling”

We were all trained in that way of travelling. We were all as scrupulous about visiting the Barrio Chino in Barcelona, the closed quarter in Hamburg, or simply the working-class neighborhoods of Trastevere, as the Germans used to be twenty years earlier about checking through print collections, Baedeker in hand. We too had our Baedekers, but they weren't visible. And that fag-end of an evening I once spent in a Naples brothel where some sailors had taken me—that was still grand tourism.’

—Jean-Paul Sartre, War Diaries: Notebooks from a Phony War, 1939-1940

Stationed in Alsace in 1939 and 1940, during the so-called phony war [dréle de guerre] that preceded Nazi Germany’s invasion of France, Sartre contemplates the structure of adventurous and gritty travel, pitting it against the seemingly mundane practice of tourism, but ultimately locating an indelible link between the two. As he describes it, even his attempts to break through the rigid strictures and plots of tourism by traveling off the beaten path and transgressing the cultural norms of his era were destined to fail because the impulse that guided them was already inherent to the practice of tourism. There is no real difference between tourist and traveler on the existential level; his transgression was merely convention. Sartre’s belated response to the cliché is already a cliché. Yet, in his careful self-analysis, he identifies the logic that he is now wise to, the logic that assigns value to travel abroad when it provides a “true” and “profound” experience of self, other, and place. As he casts it in the epiphanic passage, his attempts to find fresh adventures and discover unseen vistas were themselves the result of a problematic equation between veritableness and genuineness on the one hand, and purity and aesthetic recompense on the other. In the terms of this book, Sartre had been a quester for authenticity.

I argue that, as a quester for authenticity, Sartre can be placed in a group portrait of contemporaries from a number of traditions who go abroad with fundamental questions in mind—both new, era-specific ones and age-old ones—in search of experiences that will function as a key to unlock a seemingly inauthentic present, but are also “harassed [by] questions that must have been known to the caveman,” as Emil Cioran put it.’ Indeed, Sartre’s meditations on the “phony war” and his desire for experiences that he imagines as unique, raw, and unadulterated by commercialism, echo the dying cry of a group of traveling writers from a broad array of traditions. In this book, I identify questers for authenticity among interwar-era travel writers and writers of travel fiction from Anglophone and French traditions. I argue that authenticity becomes both a forceful yet problematic desideratum and a regulatory idea for them as they travel and write about travel. Further, I establish that their searches illuminate our present era as well, telling us much about privilege, gender, and race inter alia, as well as the philosophical concept of authenticity and its many valences.

What follows is an analysis of such questers, including, among others, Graham Greene, André Gide, Michel Leiris, Ernest Hemingway, Isak Dinesen, and Beryl Markham. At the same time, I bring in writers who mock the concept of authenticity, including Peter Fleming and the protofascists Louis-Ferdinand Céline and Evelyn Waugh. I include them precisely because they are not indifferent to the notion of authenticity; indeed, these writers, who mock the concept or write against the grain, have much to tell us about the structure and nature of quests for authenticity in travel narratives from this period, both their hazards as well as their elements of good and bad faith. I simultaneously register the similarity of the questers and anti-questers, as well as their instructive fractures and points of departure.

The title of this book refers to what I argue is the guiding logic that threads these diverse works from a wide range of traditions and two languages, the belief that the goal of authenticity can be attained through carefully curated travel abroad, often in non-European or non-North American places. Questers believe that geographical displacement, particularly when accompanied by ordeals and frustrations, can lead to wisdom and unique insight. Inevitably, questers also arrogate to themselves the role of cultural translator. I look at the questers’ defining ethos, registering solemn but often subtly ludic approaches to their representations of the challenges of travel. In the chapters that follow, authenticity constitutes the blade of the chef’s knife, whereas language is the paring knife with which I slice out crucial microstories and engagements.

Interwar Itineraries began as a comparative study between Hemingway’s Death in the Afternoon (1932) and Green Hills of Africa (1935), Graham Greene’s Journey Without Maps (1936), and Leiris’s Phantom Africa (1934), all of them the fruit of very different kinds of travel: the Spanish bullfight and the East African safari for Hemingway, the trek across Liberia for Greene, and, for Leiris, the Mission Dakar-Djibouti, a large-scale French state-sponsored ethnographic group project that lasted eighteen months and whose participants crossed the African continent from West to East. For many years now, a number of scholars of travel literature (see, for example, Kai Mikkonen and Robert Burden) have productively considered both fictional and nonfictional work, a move that illuminates conventions but also crucial dissentions. When we mix genres, just as we mix national-linguistic traditions, we enlarge the conversation, thereby deepening our understanding of each writer’s project and commitments. I borrow a warrant from Mikkonen, who makes a forceful argument for cross-genre studies when dealing with literature about travel during the interwar period in particular, arguing that the genres are entwined, describing a confluence of “travel writing, autobiographical narrative and journal keeping, and fiction (in particular the novel).”* I engage this warrant throughout the book.

I found provocative thematic and ideological overlap between the works of the post-analysis Englishman, the self-doubting and retiring Frenchman, and the brash and braggadocious American who made spectacles out of the very kind of masculinity the former two lamented. Both Journey Without Maps and Phantom Africa attend, sans le savoir, to the norms of masculinity that Hemingway tests and teases in Death in the Afternoon. Each of these books, I argue, reflects a search for very specific kinds of questions about authenticity, and a desire to make exact what can only be inexact, whether a nascent social science, a self-study, or else an exhaustive body of knowledge about the Spanish bullfight.

In 1939, Leiris reviewed the 1938 French translation of Death in the Afternoon for the storied French journal La Nouvelle Revue francaise. It appears at first blush curious that such an introverted and fastidious writer would write so fondly about a book that is a decidedly unsubtle and even violent one-man show. But then, just as much as Death in the Afternoon is crowded with self-recognition, so is Phantom Africa, in which Leiris, presciently, turns the ethnographic lens back on himself.

This filigree of considerations demonstrates that there are productive ways to bring together these four works of the same period, but from very different traditions and languages. Reading broadly in French and Anglophone travel literature and travel fiction from the interwar period, I found more questers. In addition to Greene, a number of English travel writers are questers and anti-questers, including, among others, D. H. Lawrence, Evelyn Waugh (as noted above), and George Orwell. I borrow Helen Carr’s term “traveling writers” to refer to these and other writers who are writers foremost and travel writers and travel fiction writers second. The English traveling writers whom I look at are young men in their twenties and thirties, the majority of whom came from privileged backgrounds, and benefitted from elite educations. Their gleefully adventurous tone is worth reflecting upon with Leiris in mind. But, like Leiris, all of them, including the refuseniks, are concerned with the authenticity of indigenous peoples as well as their encounters with them. All of them assert their own cultural authority and permit themselves wide latitude as cultural translators.

At the end of the Mission Dakar-Djibouti, Leiris, in Phantom Africa, rewrites the plot of Joseph Conrad’s novel Victory (1915), setting it in colonial Africa as opposed to the Southeast Asian island where Conrad’s protagonist lives in isolation with his daughter. I saw how Leiris’s adaptation of Victory opens an investigation into the multiple valences and pressures of a normative notion of virility. Aware that André Gide, also a traveling writer, had translated Conrad’s Typhoon (1918), I turned to Conrad’s French reception more widely and located his afterlife in French travel literature of the interwar period. It became immediately clear that, for Conrad’s early consecrators and rewriters, Conrad was a powerful source that they could draw on to adjudicate questions about authenticity, travel, and masculinity. As I surveyed relevant reviews, translations, letters, journal entries, and criticism that dealt with his work, the contours of a French Conrad appeared before my eyes like a face developing on a Polaroid. Again and again, Conrad stands as an emblem of authenticity and virility. He is a writer of the prewar world, and a bard of now-obsolete masculine adventures both at sea and on land; he inspires feelings of belatedness among his fellow writers.

Conrad’s consecrators and rewriters were particularly invested in the fact that his early writing was travel themed and narrated stories of adventure abroad, typically in rarely visited places, often, with the exception of the narrator or protagonist, free of European people, and with relatively few amenities. Translated into French, these were double traveling texts influenced, as Yves Hervouet and Paul Kirschner have argued, by nineteenth-century French literature, before returning to France in translation.*

With Heart of Darkness so often an intertext, three of the six chapters in this book deal with travel literature about sub-Saharan Africa. By using the designation “sub-Saharan Africa,” I am in no way ignoring the specificity of any particular countries or regions, and particular countries and regions will certainly be named and honored, but I refer to this region in a more generalized way to capture and investigate the way in which the writers themselves problematically generalized various regions in sub-Saharan Africa into “Africa,” a concept larger than any unique place, the fruit of making totalizing statements about the specific. Greene, for instance, trekked through Liberia but wrote about Africa. Dinesen lived in East Africa and did the same. Leiris, who traveled the most extensively across the African continent, gives perhaps the most weighty nod to this whole tradition by titling his travelogue Phantom Africa [LAfrique fantôme].

I maintain that the quest for authenticity in the works of both Beryl Markham and Isak Dinesen involves belief in an ontological state available only to those who live or have lived long periods in sub-Saharan Africa. Even more than Hemingway in Spain, I argue, theirs is the literature of possession and mastery, their books seemingly intended as books of record, and embraced as such by a grateful readership and by a grateful Hollywood, in the case of Markham and, later, Dinesen.

With regard to Graham Greene’s Journey Without Maps, Hemingway’s Green Hills of Africa, and Leiris’s Phantom Africa, among others, I argue that writers problematically turn to sub-Saharan Africa for personal growth as well as an understanding of the people they encounter, moving from the solemn trek to the hunting safari to the self-shadowed ethnographic journey. I analyze the settler colonialism of Markham and Dinesen in part to remind us that we cannot excuse women from the colonial project or locate them outside the frame of antiblackness. Indeed, these three chapters offer a detailed analysis of the representation of sub- Saharan Africans from a number of places, and I alertly sketch the veins of anti-Blackness that run through this literature. This is also highly relevant to our time, as illustrated by the international Black Lives Matter movement, as well as the injustices and inequalities so starkly illustrated by the global Covid-19 pandemic. As Calvin L. Warren resolutely writes, it is “a world of antiblack brutality, a world in which black torture, dismemberment, fatality and fracturing are routinized and ritualized—a global sadistic pleasure principle.” One of the chief concerns of this book is to think through the twinned interwar-era pleasures of the fetishization of Africa as a backdrop for the discovery and self-fashioning of the Euro-American self, on the one hand, and the realities of Black death and systemic exploitation under colonialism, on the other. Ever-new theories and strategies are needed to combat both subtle and blatant forms of racism and bigotry while understanding their history and etiology. Interwar Itineraries joins that struggle.

Mixed in with antiblackness in this literature are other forms of racism, as well as homophobia and, arguably, transphobia (in Death in the Afternoon). In order to understand writers’ views on authenticity, I often pause at uncomfortable places where derogatory terms are used, and cruel and offensive views articulated. I must warn readers that there are passages that may cause discomfort and other strong emotions. Why turn to such material? I turn to it to argue that racist and homophobic passages alert us to what is problematic about the very notion of authenticity, while also telling us much about racism and homophobia in general. I hope that this book will count, in its way, as a contribution to the dismantling of whiteness and, at many points, hegemonic masculinity. As I argue throughout the monograph, although they have lost their interwar specificity, the terms of these writers’ quests are still with us; we still utter their vocabulary and must know more about their complex racism and homophobia; it is both of its time and of the present. In this way we may, as Mary Louise Pratt puts it, “decolonize knowledge, history, and human relations."

Imbricated with this are, of course, questions about the politics of travel and travel writing overall. In their introduction to The Cambridge History of Travel Writing (2019), Nandini Das and Tim Youngs suggest that racism and murky ethics have not disappeared from Euro-American travel writing:

[T]ravel writing, like travel itself, still depends largely upon the distinction between self and other. Often, that distinction continues to be made through the rehashing of crude stereotypes. Texts that empathize with the other or that experiment with alternative points of view are few and consumed by a minority. We must be wary of assuming that most contemporary travel texts are more enlightened in their outlook [. . .].”’

The look at antiblackness and racism in travel writing thus remains extremely relevant. Like authenticity, travel is a problematic activity imbued with structural racism, and we will see that borne out in travel writing. Complicating the concept of authenticity and studying travel in quests of it, I investigate ideological implications, contribution to crimes, colonial or not, and geopolitical consequences.

Travel and subsequent travel literature both then and now, as Das and Youngs argue, is so often a gesture of ownership, of mastery, of biased knowledge. In an era of enforced mobility and transnational migration, travelers such as these benefitted from great privilege. All of the questers were financially solvent, if not wealthy, travelers; they were passport holders, and, gladly or not, benefitted from and participated in colonialism. They were inevitably allied with colonial power, infrastructure, and ideology, even the most anticolonial among them. Due to economic inequalities, they were able to live life in more lavish and advantaged stations while abroad. They traveled with carriers, cooks, servants, and local informants and guides. In what follows, I argue that the quest for authenticity is tied to these privileges and often makes little sense without them.

The larger cultural world at this time is of course important to consider. James Joyce’s Ulysses and T. S. Eliot’s Waste Land were published in 1922, a banner year for ambitious and innovative (in content as much as form) modernist literature. Over a decade later, Heidegger drafted his essay “The Origin of the Work of Art,” which, among many other tendencies and commitments, valorizes outdoor rural activities, with particular attention to a Van Gogh painting of a pair of worn and dirty, and therefore noble, peasant shoes. Concern with alterity, albeit internal and European, brought the urban professor into an influential one-sided dialogue with men who work with their hands. In the same year, Hemingway published The Sun Also Rises (1926), bringing cultural savoir faire together with sexuality in a way that clashed formidably with the New Humanists and their allies, groups of idealist and culturally conservative thinkers whose strong disapprobation was telegraphed to the American public at large. It was during these years that Pablo Picasso, relevantly for our project, took his cue from cultures and eras deemed “primitive,” covering his canvasses with visual nods to the single-line painting of earlier millennia. With the First World War in mind, Sigmund Freud widened his case studies to examine the fractures of culture at large in Civilization and its Discontents (1930), and the history of a people in Moses and Monotheism (1939).

As noted above, and as I will discuss in the conclusion, it was also during this period that Sartre worked out his conception of authenticity, one that he later presented in his mammoth 1943 treatise Being and Nothingness. While I do not concentrate at length on the works enumerated above, with the exceptions of The Sun Also Rises and Sartre, it is important to understand the context, and I alert readers to any notable overlap of style or content in these and other contemporaneous works. For instance, Graham Greene had just finished Freudian psychoanalysis when he went to Africa, registering his journey as a continuation of that practice, while also using many of its tools and vocabulary.

Few of the writers treated in Interwar Itineraries have been traditionally associated—with the exceptions of Robert Bryon (as Paul Fussell argues) and D. H. Lawrence—with the Anglo-American high modernist project. With the exceptions of Leiris, Céline, and Hemingway, most of the travel writing and travel fiction in this book is more experimental in subject matter than in form, even if writers such as Gide are experimental in their fiction. I argue that the questers form another tradition, coterminous in time, but very different in approach; they are oriented, for the most part, toward the past, and nostalgia is their primary mode, just as authenticity is their ultimate goal. Extreme experimentations with form, with a few exceptions, were, during the interwar years, more the domain of modernist writers such as James Joyce, H.D., T. S. Eliot, and Ezra Pound. While there is something to be said about each literary artifact’s relation to that school, and others could argue that I might further attend to identifying more modernists among the group of writers I do look at, I prefer to limit that discussion, unless instructive, as it is outside the scope of my book. However, even as they differ in form and content, writers typically bring into their travel writing and travel fiction the elements for which they were praised and noted as authors of fiction and more. Waugh is humorous. Hemingway broods and parries. Even as Gide leaves behind the experimentation that characterizes much of his literary work, he remains cerebral and alert but also oriented towards sensation.

The writers under discussion emphatically insist on their difference from the reader. It is axiomatic that, in any instance, writers will be different in countless and inevitable ways from each reader, but it is the insistence on the fact that is worth noting. Indeed, these writers often stress the uniqueness of their accounts. Another way in which this interest in differentiation is played out is through what I refer to as “anticipatory nostalgia,” building on and nuancing work by Ian Baucom and Patricia Rae who, respectively, have written about “proleptic nostalgia” and “proleptic elegy.”

The words “proleptic” and “nostalgia” have been joined together in a variety of ways in several fields in the last decades. Ian Baucom’s use of the term “proleptic nostalgia” (following John Ruskin), in a 1996 article, denotes a way of looking at ruins that “imagines the residue latent in hegemony” and “does not see the wholeness of the ruin, but a promise of the ruin in the whole.”* In his 1999 book, Out of Place: Englishness, Empire, and the Locations of Identity, he further elaborates his theory of the concept:

This proleptic nostalgia, in which the traveler anticipates the bitter pleasure of occupying the present only in memory and thus begins the work of forgetting or evacuating the present in order that it might later be remembered or imaginatively reoccupied, finds its most common moments in the practice of tourism [. . .].°

While my use of nostalgia is also anticipatory, it is also generative and characterized by plenitude rather than vacuity. Indeed, it does not entail an evacuation of the present, or a fetishistic reterritorialization of it through photographs and souvenirs. It functions instead as a strategy of differentiation when the questers deploy an elegiac mode to describe the present, one that signals, once again, the inaccessibility of the world described to the reader, who will never be anything but belated with respect to the writer.”

Anticipatory nostalgia further functions as a strategy of differentiation when these writers, relatedly, put great pressure on the obvious point that things will be different due to the time lapse between composition and publication. The present is in the past; readers are confronted with traveling writers already in mourning. In this, questers for authenticity must be differentiated from Rae’s proleptic elegiasts, who, in 1930s Britain, in anticipation of a seemingly inevitable war, combine a “looking forward’ to sorrows not yet realized with a ‘memory’ of sorrows already experienced.’”" The questers do write in anticipation of sorrow; however, theirs is not the “consolatory writing” of Rae’s proleptic elegiasts, but rather the agonistic writing of questers who create a future past in order to authenticate and intensify the present, distinguishing themselves both from other travelers and future readers.”

Germane and useful to my argument is Ali Behdad’s use of the word “belated” as I used it above. In Belated Travelers (1994), Behdad uses the word as a thick description for a traveler’s disappointment in the face of a much-anticipated foreign destination as well as the scholar’s own necessary belatedness with respect to the material he navigates. All the while conscious of Behdad’s focus on Orientalist nineteenth-century literature, I borrow but nuance the adjective and its usage, as it is a useful descriptor for the imbricated emotional state and response of the traveler of the interwar period as well. At the same time, I argue that it so often results in strategic anticipatory nostalgia that sets up the reader, and not the writer, as belated. I likewise show the writers reproducing, and augmenting, the enabling colonial discourses Behdad identifies in nineteenth-century travel writing.

An account replete with historical detail will follow, but how, at the starting point, and following the cultural indices noted above, to understand the interwar period? What facts about the period can assist this intervention? I have found it most important to think about three things in particular: the legacy of the war, the anxiety about another, and the relative ease and popularity of travel. Ships were powered by steam engines, not sails; cars and airplanes appeared on the scene with luxury ships and express trains. Traveling writers felt deeply ambivalent about these developments and the kind of travel they facilitated. As Orwell wrote in The Road to Wigan Pier (1937), such travel functioned as no less than “a kind of temporary death.” Historians and literary scholars of the interwar period tell us that it was a period of great anxiety. Vincent Sherry describes its “ready conventions of elegy.” The war was, for many of these writers, a kind of test that one had passed, and those who had not passed expressed guilt; a number of them, Greene perhaps most explicitly, also felt that they had missed an opportunity.

As noted above, my search is a bilingual one, and it is my hope that readers who may know one, but not all, of the writers I cover, will stroll across the library floor or scroll online to discover something worthwhile in another region of the world republic of letters. Much of the French work I discuss has been translated. However, I cite previously untranslated writing by, among many others, Gide, Céline, Valery Larbaud, Paul Valéry, and Leiris, all of them part of crucial current scholarly discussions; selections from this untranslated work appear for the first time in my translation. Many of them are noteworthy. For instance, excerpts from Gide’s definitive statement on translation from a 1928 letter to André Thèrive, as well as excerpts from Gide’s memorial essay on Conrad, what remains to us from the four-volume series that he envisioned but never executed. Also translated for this book are passages from a crucial Leiris paratext: his 1951 preface to Phantom Africa, in which he rereads his book from a critical perspective and reflects on the era overall. In addition to this, is a telling passage from a letter he wrote to the Picassos during the Mission Dakar- Djibouti, promising to “play Africa” with their son upon his return. I am excited to offer this material to English-language readers.

This book has benefitted from critical work from a variety of eras that explores the aesthetics, ethos, and politics of travel literature. At its critical inception are Edward Said, who renewed and legitimized the study of travel writing and travel fiction with his monumental Orientalism (1978), and Paul Fussell, whose classic Abroad: British Literary Traveling Between the Wars (1980) treats a small canon of English traveling writers of the interwar period. This canon comprises many of the writers I look at in the third chapter. Orientalism remains a classic and Abroad has not lost its appeal, but its approach has been beneficially reworked with the developments of the last three decades in particular, in terms of finding vocabularies with which to discuss race, class, privilege, colonialism, postcolonialism, and the politics of travel. Recent and contemporary studies of travel and travel fiction are oriented, for the most part, around these concerns.

In the last three decades in particular, following Dennis Porter’s 1991 charge that “written accounts of foreign places and their peoples” have been too “belletristic” and “merit a more sustained” attention, new studies of travel literature have proliferated and travel literature as a genre has seen a rise in literary status, just as it is examined for its complicity with a variety of ideologies and practices." Influential for this book in this regard is Barbara Korte’s wide-ranging study, English Travel Writing: From Pilgrimages to Postcolonial Exploration (2000), in which she complicates— albeit with respect to a longer history of travel writing and not merely the interwar period—many of Fussell’s theses and brings in postcolonial perspectives. Also, in many ways responding to Fussell, Bernard Schweizer’s

Radicals on the Road: The Politics of English Travel Writing in the 1930s (2001) treats many of the same writers as Abroad, setting their work within the various cultural discourses and highly divergent political and ideological contexts of the 1930s. These studies have provided me with important angles of approach to questions of colonialism, neocolonialism, intercultural encounters, modernity, autobiography, and more, as have projects by literature scholars who theorize the project of European imperialism and the inequities of global capitalism.

With respect to scholarship on travel literature specific to the era under consideration, I find it helpful to keep an eye on discussions of modernism and travel writing or travel fiction in order to remember the specificity of the era and its shifting cultural, economic, and moral capital. Key for this project, a number of studies of travel writing and modernism were published in the last dozen years, including, among others, David G. Farley’s Modernist Travel Writing: Intellectuals Abroad (2010), Alexandra Peat’s Travel and Modernist Literature: Sacred and Ethical Journeys (2011), Stacy Burton’s Travel Narrative and the Ends of Modernity (2013), Joyce E. Kelley’s Excursions into Modernism: Women Writers, Travel, and the Body (2015), and Robert Burden’s Travel, Modernism, and Modernity (2016). They show the way in which a study of travel literature can involve fruitful juxtapositions of erudite writing with popular or scientific writing and, in a number of cases, as I note above, fiction with nonfiction.