The Penguincubator and the Railway Journey
![The Penguincubator and the Railway Journey](/content/images/size/w1200/2024/07/cubator.jpg)
The Express Co-Evolution of Books and Trains
// As a child, I dreaded long drives in the family car. I was a bookish kid, but when I tried to read in the backseat of one of a long line of Volkswagens, I was gradually overtaken by a mounting nausea that would force me to put down Prince Caspian or I, Robot, or whatever epic work of imagination I was engrossed in. That meant hours of staring out the window, wondering how long it would take us to get there, already, so I could get back to talking badgers and sentient androids. I don't think I'm alone in my inability to read in cars, which plagues me to this day: something about the juddering micromovements produced by rubber tires on pavement makes it a struggle to keep your eyes locked on sentences on paper. (Watching a video, however, doesn't seem to be a problem for most people. This leads to the edifying spectacle of children with SUVs strapped to their asses, getting even more screen time.)
Trains, though, never made me sick, and that shouldn't be a surprise. The technology of flanged steel wheels on steel tracks eliminates those vomit-inducing micromovements—especially on modern high-speed trains.
Even on old and freight-distressed lines, with beat-up rails, the side-to-side movement (so conducive to sleeping) doesn't prevent me from reading. On one epic 36-hour train trip on Indian Railways, I worked my way through two-thirds of War and Peace; I'd scored a single window seat, alongside the aisle, with a curtain I could pull closed when I wanted a little privacy. It made for a strange but pleasant juxtaposition: 19th-century Russia unfurled on the page, while the timeless scenes of rural India—kids flying kites from rooftops, sacred cows on train platforms, farmers laying grain out to dry on the roadside—scrolled by through the bars of the window. It's a sustained state of tranquility, a suspension between contemplation and ongoing experience of the world, that Paul Theroux often describes achieving in his non-fiction rail odysseys.