The Road to Oxiana (Penguin Classics) [Paperback]

Byron set out to investigate and explore Islamic architecture but he found himself doing far more. I don't doubt his interest and knowledge on the initial subject matter, but I feel it was mainly an excuse to express his unique perspective on all manner of things.
The narrative takes in the people and places surrounding his quest from Persia through to the Oxiana river in Turkestan (present day Afganistan I think). There is a vast cast of characters breezing in and out of the pages which gives it a real Jazz-age feel. This style is of its time and takes a while for the modern reader to be aquainted with the fractured descriptions. Once you get past this the book rewards you with intense dry humour and witty asides. Byron is at his best when recounting his rakish behaviour e.g - passing himself off as Muslim to enter a Mosque, he is also a master at recording and mocking numerous eccentric conversations.
This book is not really for a general readership, by this I mean if you enjoy those 'picking-olive-blossoms-in-the-Tuscan-breeze' type books you may not get into this. If you like well written classics from the Imperial past like Evelyn Waugh, Graham Greene etc you will love this book.

This is a wonderful work, well worthy of the full five stars.

Byron's work concerns his travels around the near east and further afield into Persia (as was) and Afghanistan in search of the true origns of Islamic art and architecture. He is keen to seek out what he sees as the more tasteful genuine article, as opposed to the more overwrought, sentimental, Alhambra-like architecture so beloved of those he dismisses as the "Omar Khayam brigade".

In this respect, Byron's work is firmly in the tradition of other scholar-traveller-writers like John Ruskin. As with a book like the latter's "The Stones of Venice", you will find a lot of meticulous and learned descriptions of the buildings that Byron saw along the way. I found myself re-reading a lot of these descriptive passages, since Byron's descriptions are so careful and evocative that it really is possible to picture in your mind's eye what he saw. This is a very welcome feature of the book for me, since with a young family and the political situation being what it is, I am unlikely to be following Byron's footsteps into Iran or Afghanistan anytime soon!

However, it's not just a digest of architectural wonders. The journey through these lands is just as important to this book. Having now read "The Road to Oxiana" I can clearly see why so many respected writers (Chatwin, Leigh Fermor et al) swear by it and why, in its way, the book initiated a quiet revolution in travel writing. It is written in diary form, and his personalised account of his travels and travails is very entertaining. His description of the journey with its mixture of fun and mishaps along the way serve to keep the narrative moving and to frame his descriptions of the art and architecture he goes in search of. In some passages Byron comes across as both adventurer AND aesthete, entertaining us to descriptions of his often difficult journies to some sites, and then treating us to a vivid description of what he saw when he got there.

If there is a drawback then it is, as Colin Thubron is careful to note in his informative introduction, Byron's stiff and superior attitude to some of the people he encounters. To be frank, he comes across as a sneering toff more than once. Then again, those were the prevailing attitudes at the time in the 30's when Britain was still a colonial power, so you just have to shrug them off. These are lapses into small mindedness and don't detract from the whole, however. What shines out from this book is Byron's irrepressible spirit and his sheer delight in both the countries he travelled in and the Islamic art he found there.

The Road to Oxiana is a heady mix of travelogue, history and... a semi-academic discourse on architectural aesthetics.
OK, so I have to admit that, at very first, the passages on architecture are a very slight chore to read, but Byron's child-like enthusiasm for his subject swept me along until, quite soon, I found myself excited every time a new Kufic script appeared through the throng of the bazaar, or when the author discovers an early example of the squinch.

Squinch?

Before, I had no idea what a squinch even was... and now I notice them supporting London churches and art galleries. Byron artfully and poignantly indicates yet another aspect of the legacy that early Islam and the "Orient" have left for the world; a legacy that is perhaps overlooked.

More importantly, this ability to captivate the reader, irrespective of subject matter, is evidence of a great writer at work. Towards the final pages (tinged with irony and sadness) I felt an uneasy feeling that I was about to say goodbye to a good and interesting friend with whom I had shared an adventure. Byron is foremost an honest writer - there is no self-consciousness of technique here, or contrived attempts to excite. Subtlety most definitely wins the day.

And yes... perhaps he does complain at one point of not having a servant to brew his tea (although I don't remember that bit); and yes, he travels across Asia predominantly by car and truck, but - and you may differ here - I'm not automatically endeared to a travel book by an author having walked through a country (perhaps with an adorable, unexpected mascot thrown in for good measure). I'm not automatically endeared to a travel book by an author having kayaked along the Amazon with a toothpick. Yes, that's potentially very impressive, in the same way as a friend asking to be sponsored for an upcoming marathon, but it doesn't guarantee good literature.

Byron's main aim is to trace Islam's aesthetic legacy, and he does this by whatever means he can. He takes a truck across the Hindu Kush because that's what the Afghans do! He rode horses in north-western Persia (and parts of Afghanistan) because there were no roads! Again, this is a delightful illustration of his lack of pretension.

In Byron's own words:

"I wish I were rich enough to endow a prize for the sensible traveller; £10, 000 for the first man to cover Marco Polo's outward route reading three fresh books a week, and another £10, 000 if he drinks a bottle of wine a day as well. That man might tell one something about the journey. He might or might not be naturally observant. But at least he would use what eyes he had, and would not think it necessary to dress up the result in thrills that never happened and science no deeper than its own jargon."

I sincerely wish he had survived long enough to achieve his ambition. All in all, a dream of a book.