The Accidental Tourist

The taxi bounced over the cobblestones. The driver whistled a tune between his teeth. Macon found that bracing himself on one arm protected his back somewhat from the jolts. Every now and then, though, a pothole caught him off guard.

And if dead people aged, wouldn’t it be a comfort? To think of Ethan growing up in heaven — fourteen years old now instead of twelve — eased the grief a little. Oh, it was their immunity to time that made the dead so heartbreaking. (Look at the husband who dies young, the wife aging on without him; how sad to imagine the husband coming back to find her so changed.) Macon gazed out the cab window, considering the notion in his mind. He felt a kind of inner rush, a racing forward. The real adventure, he thought, is the flow of time; it’s as much adventure as anyone could wish. And if he pictured Ethan still part of that flow — in some other place, however unreachable — he believed he might be able to bear it after all.

The taxi passed Macon’s hotel — brown and tidy, strangely home-like. A man was just emerging with a small anxious dog on his arm. And there on the curb stood Muriel, surrounded by suitcases and string-handled shopping bags and cardboard cartons overflowing with red velvet. She was frantically waving down taxis — first one ahead, then Macon’s own. “Arrêtez!” Macon cried to the driver. The taxi lurched to a halt. A sudden flash of sunlight hit the windshield, and spangles flew across the glass. The spangles were old water spots, or maybe the markings of leaves, but for a moment Macon thought they were something else. They were so bright and festive, for a moment he thought they were confetti.

The Accidental Tourist ANNE TYLER A Reader’s Guide

A Conversation with Anne Tyler

Q: Can Macon be described as an accidental tourist in his own life? Can we all?

AT: Certainly Macon can, but I wouldn’t say that accidental tourism is a universal condition. Some people seem to have very meticulous itineraries for their lives.

Q: Ethan’s tragic death looms over all of the characters in this novel. Why are so many characters angry at, or at least disapproving of, Macon for his manner of grieving?

AT: Because to someone not very perceptive, Macon’s manner of grieving doesn’t really look like grief.

Q: Is it simply inertia that prevents Macon from dealing with Edward’s misbehavior for so long? Why does he find the process of training Edward to be so difficult and painful?

AT: While I was writing this book, I wondered the same thing. I asked myself, Why do I seem to be going on and on about this ridiculous dog, who has nothing to do with the main plot? Then when Muriel asked Macon, “Do you want a dog who’s angry all the time?” (or words to that effect), I thought, Oh! Of course! That’s exactly what he wants! This dog is angry for him!

Q: Would you agree that Edward’s reactions to Muriel mirror Macon’s to some degree?

AT: Oh, I think Edward is way ahead of Macon in his reactions.

Q: What does Singleton Street represent for Macon?

AT: Otherness. The opposite of his own narrow self.

Q: Macon, like many characters in this novel, feels trapped by other people’s perceptions of him. Does Muriel see Macon as he truly is, or as someone he wants to be?

AT: Neither, really. She sees the person she herself wants him to be; but since she’s an accepting and non-judgmental type, who he really is turns out to be all right with her.

Q: Macon’s friends and family are mostly disapproving of “that Muriel person.” Is it simply a matter of class prejudice?

AT: Class for the most part; but also personality style. To a family so undemonstrative, Muriel would be a bit daunting.

Q: If not for Muriel’s persistence, would Macon have made a different choice?

AT: Yes, certainly. Muriel is a pretty powerful force.