I just finished reading The Magic Island by the travel journalist and amateur anthropologist William Seabrook. I had never heard of Seabrook until my aunt caught the genealogy bug and discovered he was I in fact my great-great-uncle. The Magic Island recounts Seabrook’s adventures in Haiti, where he participated in voodoo sacrifice, dined with the President and climbed the island’s highest mountain, which the natives believed haunted by evil. He also travelled to Arabia and Africa and gained notoriety for his description of human flesh as tasting “like good, fully developed veal.” His experiment with cannibalism, like all his bold endeavors, stemmed from an insatiable curiosity about the world and all the ways humans have of living in it. For its time (1929), his treatment of Haitian culture is remarkably nuanced and open-minded, far less racist than I expected it to be, though still full of phrasing that would jar any modern reader.
Sadly, my adventurous ancestor shared not only my enthusiasm for exploration, but also my disposition towards depression and addiction. A contemporary of Fitzgerald and Hemingway, Seabrook was also an alcoholic. His alcoholism drove him to commit himself to a mental facility and subsequently destroyed his marriage. In 1945 he committed suicide by overdose.
Seabrook came from a time when anthropology could still make for lurid and exciting reading. I’m impressed by his gift for description and his teasing narrative reveals. I’m proud to be a part of this writerly lineage, despite all the baggage that seems to come with it. It’s inspired me to try to capture more of my journeys in prose, from Bangladesh to the high Sierra. When I summit the highest peak in this country, I’ll think of Uncle William’s adventurous spirit and smile.
Whitney Calls 