In White Sands, Geoff Dyer (“one of the funniest writers alive” — Chicago Tribune ) finds himself on the road again, crisscrossing the globe from French Polynesia to northernmost Norway. Throughout his adventures—with a tour guide who may not be a tour guide in the Forbidden City in Beijing; with friends in New Mexico, where D. H. Lawrence famously claimed to have had his “greatest experience from the outside world”; with Don Cherry (or a photo of him, at any rate) at the Watts Towers in Los Angeles—Dyer interweaves fiction and nonfiction to craft an often hilarious, always inquisitive travelogue about the questions we ask when we step outside ourselves. “Surpassingly eloquent. . . . There’s no other writer quite like [Dyer].” — Time “Perhaps the most brilliantly original practitioner of his generation… I here and now acknowledge the work of Geoff Dyer, once and for all, to be forgivable cause for any writer’s jealousy.” —Jan Morris, The Spectator “Entertaining and thought provoking.” — The Times Literary Supplement   “Reading Dyer is like taking a trip around the world with your best-read, wittiest, most interesting friend.” — O, The Oprah Magazine   “A rumination on the meanings we assign the strange destinations of our pilgrimages. . . . [Dyer is] a neurotic Siddhartha, forever going on hopeful pilgrimages that wind up leaving him disappointed and hollow, the brunt of a much larger cosmic joke.” — The New York Times A Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and a member of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, Geoff Dyer has received the Somerset Maugham Award, the E. M. Forster Award, a Lannan Literary Fellowship, a National Book Critics Circle Award for criticism, and the Windham Campbell Prize for nonfiction. The author of four novels and nine works of nonfiction, Dyer is writer in residence at the University of Southern California and lives in Los Angeles. His books have been translated into twenty-four languages. Time in Space   Maybe it is not the natives of Texas or Arizona who fully appreciate the scale of the places where they have grown up. Perhaps you have to be British, to come from ‘an island no bigger than a back garden’—in Lawrence’s con­temptuous phrase—to grasp properly the immensity of the American West. So it’s not surprising that Lawrence considered New Mexico ‘the greatest experience from the outside world that I have ever had.’   The cramped paradox of English life: a tiny island that is often hard and sometimes impossible to get around. You can imagine a prospective visitor from Ari­zona studying a map of England and deciding, ‘Yep, we should be able to do this little puppy in a couple of days.’ But how long does it take to travel from Gloucester to Heathrow? Anything from two and a half hours to . . . Well, best to allow five to be on the safe side.   In the American West you can travel hundreds of miles and calculate your arrival time almost to the min­ute. We had turned up for our rendezvous in Quemado at one o’clock on the dot. From Quemado, Jessica and I drove 450 miles to Springdale, on the edge of Zion, in Utah. There were just two of us now, a husband-and-wife team, and we got to Springdale exactly on time for our dinner reservation. After a couple of nights in Zion we headed to the Spiral Jetty .   Yes, the Spiral Jetty —the wholly elusive grail of Land Art! Instantly iconic, it was transformed into legend by a double negative: the disappearance of the Jetty a mere two years after it was created, followed, a year later, by the premature death of its creator, Robert Smithson. Water levels at the Great Salt Lake in northern Utah were unusually low when the Jetty was built in 1970. When the water returned to its normal depth the Jetty went under. On 20 July 1973, Smithson was in a light aircraft, reconnoitering a work in progress in Amarillo, Texas. The plane ploughed into a hillside, killing every­one onboard: the pilot, a photographer, and the artist. Smithson was thirty-five. After the Jetty sank and his plane crashed, Smithson’s reputation soared. For a quarter of a century the Spiral Jetty was all but invisible. There were amazing photographs of the coils of rock in the variously coloured water—reddish, pink, pale blue—and there was the Zapruder-inflected foot­age of its construction, but the Jetty had gone the way of Atlantis, sinking beneath the waveless waves of the Salt Lake. Then, in 1999, a miracle occurred. Excalibur-like, it emerged from the lake. And not only that. The Jetty was made out of earth and black lumps of basalt (six and a half thousand tonnes of it), but during the long interval of its submersion it had become covered in salt crystals. In newly resurrected form, it was pristine glit­tering white.   Even now, after this spectacular renaissance, the Spiral Jetty is not always visible. If there is exceptionally heavy snowfall, then the thaw does for the lake what the glob­ally heated polar ice pack