I am, finally, reading a book by Zadie Smith.
There is a reason why it took me so long, which can neatly be summarized as "baggage caused by College-era envy and other complicated things."
Less neatly and concisely: I went to the same Cambridge college as Zadie Smith. When I arrived, I was told of her book deal's existence, even though I didn't knowingly lay eyes on her for probably the first month. In a college of about 400 undergraduates, with three bars on hand for numerous hours of cheap drinking, you knew everything about everyone. It's just the way it was - incestuous and close.
Over the next year, I learnt more about Zadie (in my head, she's always "Zadie," despite never having said a word to her) that seemed positively unfair. It turned out she was an incredibly good singer (she performed at a college event with a jazz combo, I believe). She also could dance which, in a college full of geeky, undersocialized white teenagers/early 20-somethings, was unusual. Of course, she is also unbelievably beautiful. That she had all these things going for her in addition to being smart and a wonderful writer sort of blew my mind.
Then she became incredibly successful. There is always a Tube book - the book you are guaranteed to see at least one person reading on public transport each time you step into the Underground. For a while, it was The God of Small Things; Trainspotting also was a big one. Harry Potter books, obviously. And, for a while, it was White Teeth. And I did not respond graciously to that, and refused to read it.
Before this seems like a vindictive thing aimed only at Zadie, let me point out that many, many, many of the people I met at Cambridge were similarly over accomplished and incredibly difficult for me to process emotionally. Although I had always been pretty good at sport, and I was clever, I didn't have any other strings to my bow. I went to Cambridge and met all these incredibly bright people who were spectacular musicians; who were much, much, much better at hockey and other sports than my feeble attempts; who were great actors or stand up comedians; who made movies; and who were really good looking. So Zadie was merely emblematic of the envy and weirdness I discovered about myself at Cambridge. Also, when Katharine Hepburn died - star of my favourite movie, The Philadelphia Story - the Guardian published a piece by Zadie on her love for Katharine Hepburn. Gah! (I know what you're thinking - reading this blog, it's hard to understand why I didn't become the acclaimed and highly successful writer).
But it was petty, and childish; and for someone who got to go to one of the best universities in the world which has endlessly opened doors for me, as well as making wonderful friends and meeting my highly significant other, I really don't think I can complain about others' gifts and good fortune. I'm not proud of it; I just want to explain how silly I was, and why I changed my mind. Although that is not complex; I think I just grew up a little and threw off the petty fears and petty pleasures. I was wandering through the Brooklyn Central Library, and there were several of her books on the shelf. And I finally decided to pick one up and check it out - in more ways than one (drum roll!).
For some reason, On Beauty appealed the most - perhaps because I'm now legally tethered to an academic, or because I live in the US and straddle both a British and U.S.-based identity. I'm not really sure, but that's what I chose. I've only just started, but already there has been so much staggeringly lovely writing. It's not flourished, or ornate, but is insightful, well-observed, sharp, and funny:
There is a reason why it took me so long, which can neatly be summarized as "baggage caused by College-era envy and other complicated things."
Less neatly and concisely: I went to the same Cambridge college as Zadie Smith. When I arrived, I was told of her book deal's existence, even though I didn't knowingly lay eyes on her for probably the first month. In a college of about 400 undergraduates, with three bars on hand for numerous hours of cheap drinking, you knew everything about everyone. It's just the way it was - incestuous and close.
Over the next year, I learnt more about Zadie (in my head, she's always "Zadie," despite never having said a word to her) that seemed positively unfair. It turned out she was an incredibly good singer (she performed at a college event with a jazz combo, I believe). She also could dance which, in a college full of geeky, undersocialized white teenagers/early 20-somethings, was unusual. Of course, she is also unbelievably beautiful. That she had all these things going for her in addition to being smart and a wonderful writer sort of blew my mind.
Then she became incredibly successful. There is always a Tube book - the book you are guaranteed to see at least one person reading on public transport each time you step into the Underground. For a while, it was The God of Small Things; Trainspotting also was a big one. Harry Potter books, obviously. And, for a while, it was White Teeth. And I did not respond graciously to that, and refused to read it.
Before this seems like a vindictive thing aimed only at Zadie, let me point out that many, many, many of the people I met at Cambridge were similarly over accomplished and incredibly difficult for me to process emotionally. Although I had always been pretty good at sport, and I was clever, I didn't have any other strings to my bow. I went to Cambridge and met all these incredibly bright people who were spectacular musicians; who were much, much, much better at hockey and other sports than my feeble attempts; who were great actors or stand up comedians; who made movies; and who were really good looking. So Zadie was merely emblematic of the envy and weirdness I discovered about myself at Cambridge. Also, when Katharine Hepburn died - star of my favourite movie, The Philadelphia Story - the Guardian published a piece by Zadie on her love for Katharine Hepburn. Gah! (I know what you're thinking - reading this blog, it's hard to understand why I didn't become the acclaimed and highly successful writer).
But it was petty, and childish; and for someone who got to go to one of the best universities in the world which has endlessly opened doors for me, as well as making wonderful friends and meeting my highly significant other, I really don't think I can complain about others' gifts and good fortune. I'm not proud of it; I just want to explain how silly I was, and why I changed my mind. Although that is not complex; I think I just grew up a little and threw off the petty fears and petty pleasures. I was wandering through the Brooklyn Central Library, and there were several of her books on the shelf. And I finally decided to pick one up and check it out - in more ways than one (drum roll!).
For some reason, On Beauty appealed the most - perhaps because I'm now legally tethered to an academic, or because I live in the US and straddle both a British and U.S.-based identity. I'm not really sure, but that's what I chose. I've only just started, but already there has been so much staggeringly lovely writing. It's not flourished, or ornate, but is insightful, well-observed, sharp, and funny:
When it comes to weather, New Englanders are delusional. In his ten years on the East Coast Howard had lost count of the times some loon from Massachusetts had heard his accent, looked at him pitiably and said something like: Cold over there, huh? Howard's feeling was: look, let's get a few things straight here. England is not warmer than New England in July or August, that's true. Probably not in June either. But it is warmer in October, November, December, January, February, March, April and May - that is, in every month when warmth matters. In England letter-boxes do not jam with snow. Rarely does one see a squirrel tremble. It is not necessary to pick up a shovel in order to unearth your rubbish bins. This is because it is never really very cold in England. It is drizzly, and the wind will blow; hail happens, and there is a breed of Tuesday in January in which time creeps and no light comes and the air is full of water and nobody really loves anybody, but still a decent jumper and a waxen jacket lined with wool is sufficient for every weather England's got to give.This portion I've typed is as much a public service announcement for my U.S. chums. But I particularly love the bolded phrasing, which captures those Tuesdays so perfectly, I can almost feel them. Which, given the current humidity and heatwave, is rather special.
