Now I understand why Mark Twain is considered the quintessential American writer by many people. His dry, sardonic remarks on Old World masterpieces reveal a New World arrogance that many American travelers to Europe in the 19th century (and even today) resonated with. We were the new kid on the block, the one with all the toys and the flair, who lit up the schoolyard with gilded boots and fresh gadgets. Twain was simply channeling the energy of American conscience during his 1867 voyage, using a lengthy itinerary through Southern Europe, the Middle East, and North Africa to spark the interest of his readers, who didn't travel abroad as much as we do today.
His brutal honesty amuses those of us who have already visited some of these places and thought of them similarly. Other times, they offend us who rather enjoyed a piece of art, a mesmerizing church, or an ancient city full of cultural relics. But we can easily forgive him because his anecdotes are hilarious, while the artistry of his descriptions move the soul on many levels. He doesn't mean to insult the Old World; rather, he wishes to express a latent national jealousy glossed over by wit and mockery, for the density of marvels these foreign lands possess, and the man-made beauty some of them emanate; as opposed to his own country, where natural landmarks triumph over human ones. Some of the best passages in this book are where he describes places even he, the master of biting humor, yields to their wondrous power: The Palace of Versailles, Milan Cathedral and the Sphinx come to mind first.
