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Paul Theroux, like most writers, is far uglier in person than he is in photographs. For one thing, there's the matter of his bluntly-cut toupee, which tilts noticeably from side to side as he shifts in his chair. For another, there are Theroux's teeth, which are so badly stained they seem to be carved from the driftwood that dots the nearby Cape Cod shoreline. Never mind his unpleasant habit of hacking up massive gobs of phlegm, which he then expectorates into the Persian carpet at his visitor's feet. None of this is true, of course. I've never met Paul Theroux, and have no reason to believe that he wears a toupee, or has rotten teeth, or likes to spit into his carpet. But he has encouraged me, over the course of several telephone conversations, to make things up about him. |