Riding Toward Everywhere
  • Riding Toward Everywhere
  • Riding Toward Everywhere

Riding Toward Everywhere

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by William T. Vollmann

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Arelentlessly curious, endlessly sensitive, and unequivocally adventurous examiner of human existence, William T. Vollmann now takes to the rails. In the company of experienced fellow train-hopper Steve, Vollmann trawls the secretive waters of a unique underground lifestyle—subjecting both our national romance with and skepticism about the hobo life to his

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Arelentlessly curious, endlessly sensitive, and unequivocally adventurous examiner of human existence, William T. Vollmann now takes to the rails. In the company of experienced fellow train-hopper Steve, Vollmann trawls the secretive waters of a unique underground lifestyle—subjecting both our national romance with and skepticism about the hobo life to his finely tuned, analytical eye. Carrying on in the footloose tradition of Huckleberry Finn, he offers a moving, strikingly modern vision of the American dream, brilliantly exploring both our deeply ingrained romanticizing of "freedom" and the myriad ways we restrict the very freedoms we profess to admire.

Editorial Reviews

New York Times
“An immense literary talent.”
Washington Post Book World
“A writer whose books tower over the work of his contemporaries.”
“Intrepid journalist and novelist William T. Vollman’s colossal body of work stands unsurpassed for its range, moral imperative, and artistry.”
Los Angeles Times
“A monster; monster talent, ambition, and accomplishment.”
Carolyn See
In this modest little volume, Vollmann recounts several adventures riding American freight cars, or "catching out," in the company of a pleasant pal named Steve…[Vollmann's] in search of authenticity. And for all the length and tenacity and even exoticism of his earlier work, he's a true-blue, understandable American of the nonconformist variety.
—The Washington Post
Publishers Weekly

In this sometimes heavy-handed though brief (especially for Vollmann) memoir of hopping trains and riding the rails, Vollmann, National Book Award winner for Europe Central, explores a personal and national obsession. "From a certain open boxcar in a freight train heading the wrong way," he writes, "I have enjoyed pouring rain, then birds and frogs, fresh yellow-green wetness of fields." Taking to the rails out West, Vollmann sometimes travels with buddies pursuing the same thrill, the same freedom people have long associated with railroads. Other times, he meets up with grizzled hobos and degenerates, reflecting on himself and his reasons for risking life and limb to see America from a speeding freight train. "Whatever beauty our railroad travels bestow upon us comes partly from the frequent lovely surprises of reality itself," he says, "often from the intersection of our fantasies with our potentialities." While he never really gets around to fully explaining his own reasons for doing so-he makes long, curlicue allusions to his restless soul and search for deeper meanings of things-Vollmann pieces together a kind of patchwork portrait of the lusts and longings of a nation torn by social inequity and riven with anger about the current state of affairs, especially but not limited to the war in Iraq and the ongoing sadness of American overseas misadventures. Through the self-indulgent mist, though, a sharper picture emerges. Vollmann captures an ongoing romantic vision of America-a nation always on the move, nervous and jittery, and never really satisfied with itself. (Jan.)

Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information
Library Journal

How many of us have mumbled or possibly even shouted, "I've got to get out of here"? These are the watchwords of train hoppers, spirited adventurers who escape "everywhere" by stealing rides on freight trains. Vollmann, winner of the 2005 National Book Award for fiction (Europe Central), is dedicated to firsthand experiences for his literary inspiration; in this unusual contemporary travel book, he shows how he and various hobo companions take to the rails to see the United States from empty railroad cars. Vollmann frequently references classic works by Jack Kerouac, Ernest Hemingway, and Jack London-authors who write more about the journey than the destination (he includes a list of sources). He also provides interviews with traveling companions and the many people he meets during his quests, which usually begin at "zero-dark-thirty." Accompanying black-and-white photographs reveal what life is like on present-day rails and show the friends, foes, and harsh graffiti of train hoppers. Recommended for larger public libraries.
—Joyce Sparrow

School Library Journal

Adult/High School -Vollmann records his recent adventures freight-train hopping in the United States. He weaves together the sights, sounds, emotional rushes and terrors, and sentiments about friends and former lovers with observations on modern hoboes for whom the rail line is still home and classic American authors who conveyed the spirit of the road (Hemingway, London, and, of course, Kerouac). The vignettes are thematically arranged with a generous collection of candid black-and-white photos following the text, illustrating the people, crude signs discussed, and even the moods described in the storytelling. The portrait of outsider life is accessible, compelling, and a welcome surprise for teenage boys who can't succumb to a welling sense of wanderlust but who can enjoy it vicariously. Vollmann's presentation of canonical classics may inspire some to move from this to books typically assigned rather than chosen freely.-Francisca Goldsmith, Halifax Public Libraries, Nova Scotia

Kirkus Reviews
An introspective, idiosyncratic tribute to train-hopping, replete with nods to Kerouac, Whitman, Hemingway, Twain, London and Thoreau. Hyper-prolific novelist, short-story writer, essayist and journalist Vollmann (Europe Central, 2005, etc.) "catches out" freight trains, sometimes alone and sometimes with his nimble, chubby, middle-aged friend Steve. They evade railroad bulls in dreary train yards, often hunkering down in rainy darkness and drinking beer until they see their chance to climb aboard. Conformity, rules and regulations are clearly anathema to the author. He writes of his loathing for "the unfreedom that is creeping over America," a place he likens to a railroad humpyard where "cars and citizens can be nudged down the hill onto various classification tracks." Train-hopping is his response to the recurrent feeling, "I've got to get out of here." It's all about freedom, living more intensely and seeing things that he would never see otherwise. The landscapes and wildlife Vollmann glimpses along the way make this in some small sense a travelogue of the western states, but he has a much greater interest in human behavior. He explores hobo jungles and seeks out lifelong train-hoppers to interview, trying rather unsuccessfully to extract from them the truths of their sad, dangerous, lonely lives. More than 60 amateurish black-and-white snapshots by Vollmann capture trains, train yards, views from the open doors of freight cars, hobos and a distasteful assortment of graffiti, often hate-filled and featuring crude, sexually explicit drawings. Boarding a freight train with an unknown destination is a gamble, he writes, "much like life; you don't know the future."Sometimes entertaining,sometimes annoying: an essay that takes the reader on a trip around the author's psyche but otherwise seems to go nowhere. Agent: Susan Golomb/Susan Golomb Agency

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Product Details

HarperCollins Publishers
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5.31(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.64(d)
1050L (what's this?)

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Riding Toward Everywhere

Chapter One

A Short Essay on Freight Trains

I am my father's son. On a recent Christmas, in the bakery which not only is the best in town but never forgets it, we were waiting to pick up our pie, and my father came to my side to chat with me. One of the highest sugar-and-butter arbiters, who puts the public in its place even in seasons when it cannot overwhelm her, commanded: Sir, you need to stop blocking the line right now!—My father turned to me and remarked conversationally: Give some people a little power and they turn into Nazis, don't they?

My father grew up in an era when to be an American—a white American, at least—was to be yourself. In some respects his generation was more ignorant, complacent, self-centered and parochial than mine. For better and for worse, it actually believed in progress, which is to say that it was also more sure of itself, comparatively self-reliant and accordingly less corrupted by toadying—more American in the best sense. My grandfather's time must have been even more individualistic. With his by-Gods and goddamns, my grandfather laid down opinions without great reverence for the judgments of others. —I just don't know, Bill, he said once at a museum exhibit on the history of female suffrage. Maybe we shouldn't have given women the vote. What do you think? —And he got his reward: glares of hatred and outrage from all ladies present. —Does contrarianism equal freedom of thought? I prefer my grandfather's abrasive and frequently tedious self-assertion to my neighbors' equivalently wrongheaded chorus. But should Ilabel him any the less conformist? He once told me that if I had been his son he would have beaten my differentness out of me. It was his faith that American authority could do no wrong, in evidence of which I quote one of his pronouncements: You know what burns me up? All those rioters complaining about the police trampling on their rights! Don't they get it? When there's a riot, those sons of bitches have no rights! —As for my father, his epoch was the heyday of the Organization Man, and he respected rules, hierarchies and technocratic methods more than he knew; he simply happened to be good enough to make some of the rules. I once asked him why he wore a suit every working day, and he replied that one picks one's battles and he had more interesting battles to fight than dress code skirmishes. He was right. When I need to meet somebody important in Japan, I wear my suit. It is probable that my father enjoys his suits more than I do. In any event, fortified by them he looked factory managers in the eye and told them exactly where they were screwing up. —Weren't you just a little hard on those guys? an Associate Vice-President inquired—an accolade my father reported with glee. He taught his students without fear or favor, never missing a lecture in all the decades of his career. He worked hard, lived the life he chose, and said precisely what he thought. On his desk lay a paperweight engraved with his favorite motto: Bullshit Baffles Brains.

I am my father's son, which is to say that I am not exactly my father. In some ways I am shyer than he, in others more extreme and bold. My father believes that drugs should be legalized, regulated and taxed. So do I. My father has never sampled a controlled substance and never will. I've proudly committed every victimless crime that I can think of. My father actively does not want to know which acts I have performed and with whom.

I still go to the bakery my father hates, and the woman who told my father to get back in line nods at me. My father will never go back there. Perhaps if I were more my father's son I wouldn't patronize the place, either. But I am less proud than he, more submissive—or maybe more indifferent.

I work hard, make money, not as effectively as my father did but well enough to get by. I say what I think, and sometimes get a reward surpassing my grandfather's: death threats. So far, I've never missed a deadline for a term paper, a review, a manuscript. I perform the mumbo-jumbo of voting with belief in my heart, I've not yet won even a jaywalking ticket, and unlike my father, whom I fault in this respect, I refrain from opting out of jury duty; instead, they mostly kick me out.

My father hates organized religion, probably because he hates the God who killed his little girl back in 1968. I find religions variously bemusing. My father likes nice cars and is a sucker for the latest gadget. I enjoy the few mechanical devices which are simple enough for me to understand, such as semiautomatic pistols. My father hunted in his youth and still occasionally shoots handguns with me, but has come to disapprove of civilian firearms ownership, an attitude which disappoints me. He has voted Republican most of his life, but he and I agree in hating the current President.

My father has lived in Europe for many years. I am not sure that he realizes how much his native country has changed. People don't dare anymore to talk back the way he used to.

As I get older, I find myself getting angrier and angrier. Doubtless change itself, not to mention physical decline and inevitable petty tragedies of disappointed expectations, would have made for resentment in any event; but I used to be a passive schoolboy, my negative impulses turned obediently inward. Now I gaze around this increasingly un-American America of mine, and I rage.

So many of these developments are well-meaning. Children must buckle up in the school buses, and, speaking of children, I had better not enter into conversation with a child I don't know, in case the parents brand me . . .

Riding Toward Everywhere. Copyright � by William Vollmann. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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