On Occasional Essays, by Zadie Smith
I wouldn’t have put a penny on my liking Zadie Smith’s writing (simple career envy). Likely why I’ve never read her. But my mate J.C. Sutcliffe tucked Smith’s Occasional Essays under my arm the other day. And wasn’t I thoroughly, and unexpectedly, charmed. The one that interwove a discussion of British comedy with her father’s death was among the best personal essays I’ve read. Her thinking on novels, has a nice breezy way about it that makes for readable criticism—as opposed to so much of what is out there, showy, insincere, incompetent. I liked her prose. Tight, but not overly so. She’s got a fine mind and is free of snobbery. When she’s funny, she’s snot-out-your-nose funny. Now I’m wondering if I should I read her fiction? Or will I undo all the good that her non-fiction has done for me these past few days? If so, where should I start? I don’t know if I can stomach a first novel by anyone right now (loathsome things as a rule). Was her last novel good and a place, perhaps, to begin? I will ask Jules, for one, and see.
