Travel books are, by and large, boring. They lodge uncomfortably

Hearken, O seeker of wisdom, to the words of Arthur Smith, who once declared: “Travel books are, by and large, boring. They lodge uncomfortably between fact, fiction and autobiography.” This is no idle complaint, but the cry of one who has glimpsed the restless soul of human storytelling. For when man wanders the earth and sets his hand to record what he has seen, he too often becomes lost in a fog of half-truths, neither firm in the realm of history nor soaring in the heights of myth. Thus his book lies stranded, like a ship upon shoals, uncertain whether to carry cargo of fact, to unfurl sails of imagination, or to whisper the confessions of his heart.

Indeed, the travel book, by its very nature, sits uneasily between worlds. It pretends to instruct like history, but shuns the weight of full accuracy. It wishes to delight like fiction, but binds itself with the chains of “what really happened.” It longs to reveal the self, as does autobiography, but hides behind the mask of place and scenery. And so it often becomes neither flame nor water, but lukewarm ash, unsatisfying to the reader who yearns for purity of purpose. This is the burden Smith points to: the liminal space where the traveler’s pen cannot decide whether it is chronicler, poet, or confessor.

Consider, my children, the tale of Herodotus, called the Father of History. When he set out to record the lands of the Persians and the wonders of Egypt, many accused him of filling his scrolls with fables. They mocked him for writing of giant ants that carried gold dust, and of phoenixes rising from flames. Yet others praised him for opening the eyes of Greece to worlds beyond their shores. Was he historian? Was he storyteller? Was he autobiographer, weaving his own awe into the tapestry of foreign marvels? In truth, he was all, and thus his writings endure, though they forever dwell in that uneasy place between fact and tale. Here we see that even the ancients wrestled with the same tension Smith describes.

But let us not despise the traveler’s struggle, for within it lies a mirror to our own souls. Are we not, each of us, wanderers through life, telling stories that mix truth and embellishment, memory and desire? When a man speaks of his youth, does he not shine brighter the glories and dim the sorrows? When a woman recounts her journey of love, does she not weave fiction with memory, polishing the tale until it gleams? So too the travel book becomes the symbol of the human voice itself—restless, uncertain, and yet yearning for beauty.

And yet, wisdom teaches us this: the danger lies in timidity. The book that cannot choose becomes pale, whereas the bold voice—whether of truth, or of story, or of confession—strikes the heart like thunder. Herodotus endured because his voice was filled with awe. Marco Polo survived the centuries not because every fact was firm, but because his tales bore the fragrance of wonder. The traveler who fears to step wholly into history, or wholly into fable, or wholly into self, condemns his words to that “boring” limbo which Smith decries.

Therefore, beloved listener, learn this lesson: speak with clarity of heart. If you would write of your journeys, decide what you wish to offer. If it is fact, let it be fact pure and steady, like a stone path. If it is fiction, let it soar freely, untethered by fear. If it is autobiography, let it reveal the soul without shame, as the moon unveils herself to the night. For the strength of a book lies not in its mixture, but in its courage to become wholly itself.

Practical actions lie before you: When you write, ask yourself—“Do I wish to teach? Do I wish to delight? Do I wish to confess?” Choose, and walk that path with unshaken resolve. When you travel, do not merely record the bricks of buildings and the names of streets. Instead, capture the fire of your wonder, or the solemnity of your learning, or the ache of your longing. And when you speak, do not hide in half-voices; let your words ring either as truth, as story, or as revelation. Thus will your tales avoid the curse of boredom, and instead become living torches in the darkness of forgetfulness.

So remember, O traveler of words: the world is vast, but your voice must be true, bold, and whole. Only then will the scroll you leave behind endure, not as a dull stone lodged between categories, but as a living flame carried forward by generations yet unborn.