I have struggled with Zadie Smith in the past but found that it was well worth persevering. Not in this case. The Autograph Man has been described as "wonderfully funny" and "witty". While there are certainly many attempts at humour, I did not find the usually drunken or doped meanderings of Alex Li Tandem appealing to my sense of humour. The most moving part of the book was the description of Alex's father's death, which appears to be the instigation of Alex's career as an autograph man. His obsession with Kitty Alexander is believable although strange, but then Alex is a rather odd character. Then there is the Jewishness, which permeates the small band of friends - Alex, Adam and Rubinfine. Smith appears much less at ease here than with the Bangladeshis in White Teeth. Something is lost with the lack of any generational span. Alex's quest to find Kitty in New York with the notorious Honey did revive my interest in the story but the return to London and concluding events failed to sustain it.

Not Zadie Smith at her finest - but nonetheless a very accomplished, intriguing and of course brilliantly written novel as well as an interesting insight into the bizarre world of celebrity obsession and autograph trading.

I let this book's bad reviews sway me and didn't read it until now. I thought it was great and I'm ashamed of myself.

not a flawless work of fiction (whatever that means) but i've got a soft spot for zadie smith.

the thing is, i have taken it upon myself to handle this thing called literature in a logical and thoroughly disciplined manner. this means i do not usually forray into the 21st century, not until i get my head around what shaped it.

but then come those moments when i need a breather from all the high brow genius and all the modern classics or, as i call it, 'books unsuitable for my daily commute'. so this time around i ditched nabokov in favour of something that does not require the reader to remain awe-struck from the very first word to the last. something that does not need superhuman brain powers. something that can be read on a bloody bus.

now, this is not to say that zadie smith is undemanding. zadie smith is nothing short of top-notch! this book here was not as good as i remember her other works to be but it still gave me what i needed. the contemporary, the urban, the relatable, the british!
it's funny that out of all writers in the world, nabokov was the one to be put on hold by my intelletually exhausted self, in favour of smith. because it's quite clear that smith is nabokov's girl through and through and, just like her master, she seems to like her readers competent and knowledgeable.

but then she's that much more approachable. and tons more credible.

i found the plot of this particular novel a bit sloppy (at times) and slightly chaotic (but it had moments ) but as far as language is concerned, smith is at her very best. i think she is such a wonderfully balanced stylist. there's just the right amount of everything. the language is current without the threat of ever becoming dated, urban without being ridiculously slangy, elegant but never annoyingly polished and rich minus the unnecessary flourish.

i truly wish there were more writers out there who do not let their learned craft stifle their natural brilliance but still possess that bloody craft in the first place.
nothing better than 'a voice of the generation' who actually knows her stuff!

ORIGINAL REVIEW:

James Wood in his  thesis review covers all the thoughts I had on this one (and more and more) and is the most worthwhile review of this book around. For those who aren’t that interested, let me sum up the basics: lapsed Anglo-Chinese Jew Alex-Li is an autograph hunter fixated on Kitty Alexander, fictional Hollywood starlet of the 1950s. He spends his time writing a book on Jews v. Christians, spurning his faith, squabbling with rabbis, upsetting his bald girlfriend and cavorting with fellow autograph hunters. In the latter half of the book he meets his idol and develops inner demons.

Smith’s other novels are vast multi-character epics and her towering authorial presence benefits from having numerous dummies to manipulate, rather than the one insubstantial dummy. This novel could have benefitted from a less grandiose scope for quite a thin plot and morose protagonist: a slim 250 pages over a hoggish 419. On the plus side, the prose is as comic, stylish and rhythmic as ever, though her longer meandering passages feel like failed snippets from White Teeth. Hats off for writing a radically different second book—Zadie put up  with some hostility in the UK round about this time.

APPENDED MOAN FOUND IN DOCUMENTS FOLDER:

It does bug me quite how many readers think they have the right to desecrate a writer’s work on here with their off-handed dismissals and oh-so-clever putdowns, usually “steaming pile of . . . ” or “a complete waste of . . . ” What gives a casual reader the right to take such a stance about someone else’s passionate labour other than sheer spite? Where is this spite coming from? Has the book personally offended you?

OK, so you dislike the book. Fine! I can understand the plot or characters didn’t ring your bell, but honestly . . . haven’t we grown as readers enough to weigh a book on its merits? Unless a book offends on a level of stance, in terms of the author’s questionable views, the reviewer should give due weight to each element of the writer’s craft. If they still find it wanting after this, fine! But the arrogance of these people who dismiss books with witless rejoinders—“written by a sophomore student,” or—“I’ve could churned out something better in grad school.” ARE YOU ALL MAD?

This book, and Zadie Smith in particular, is a fine example of this bizarre persecution. Do you know how difficult it is to write a book like The Autograph Man? This is why the publishing desks are clotted with ream after ream of dreck: people flinging themselves into writing who haven’t the ability to appreciate an example of lyrical, witty and vital prose, what makes writer like Smith simultaneously as popular as she is cutting-edge.

This disgruntlement is part of a wider beef about our obsession with “grading” artworks on their merits—surely, with such a ruthless system of critical appraisal around books, music, cinema, TV, we’d filter what is “allowed” to get made, what people might want to see based on the endless chatter of feedback—but instead, we have a mainstream that celebrates the lowest common denominator, and an avant-garde relentlessly bitching over what gets published and deemed “cutting edge.” The line between popular and artistic is being tugged to breaking point, whereas a writer like Smith straddles this line, offering a neutral pleasure for both territories. And we moan and moan!

OK. I’m done.

As a certified Smithtie, I have a hard time making sense of this book. While definitely more ambitious and formally inventive than any other book I’ve read by her, the sheer bizarreness of this plot and its perhaps overly drawn out narrative just made for a mildly stilted read. I thought this was probably one of the funniest novels I’ve ever read while also a fascinating study of Kabbalism, celebrity worship, despondency, and grief - yet somehow I could still oscillate between loving the characters and not caring about them at all from chapter to chapter. Maybe that was the point: that people are complicated and favourability at any time is tenuous at best. In that case, the form of this book complements its content impressively. But since (as with all great literature) there’s no sure way to know what Smith wanted the reader to take away from this one, I am left feeling a mixture of delighted, disappointed, and profoundly intrigued still by what this book has to say.

Given Smith has said that its protagonist, the immature Jewish-Chinese-Englishman Alex Li-Tandem, is the character she most resonates with in her body of work, I thought reading this would illuminate new facets of her mind and writing practice but LEMME TELL YA that certainly was not the case. I really have no idea what to make of this one but as the last line goes:
“(And Alex wondered what this meant)”
So, too, do I.

Maybe a foundational sense of bewilderment (something central to Jewish philosophy and mysticism as well!) was the goal here. In which case, bravo Zadie Smith, you nailed it.

(3.5/5 stars)

How can you possibly follow up White Teeth? Well you can't, but Smith gives us a very different but equally enjoyable novel. The plot of The Autograph Man is, shall we say, a bit more conventional than White Teeth. Smith's wonderful ability to capture speech in her prose is as admirable here as ever and importantly, it's funny! Sadly this novel has been relegated to the sidelines by all of her other novels but true Smith fans will read this and keep it as their dirty little secret.

I'm only about 35 pages in and I can't remember the last time a book made me laugh so hard I was brought to tears. Zadie's descriptions and voices are brilliant and funny at the same time and I'm reminded of Bukowski!

I can't wait for the rest of this book.

Happy Wednesday!

A bit bizarre. All the niche groups that Smith included in her book made it hard for me to understand the characters as full people. The job of “autograph man” especially still confuses me, even though it was at the center of the book. Religion also plays a huge part, but everyone has a different relationship to it and then there’s the main character who seems to have no relationship with it at all. Finally, I really disliked the main character Alex. I can get on board with a little dislike, main characters don’t need to be perfect, but this guy was terrible! The drinking and the cheating were one thing, but he was also a terrible friend and the choices he made always made no sense. I’m a bit dazed, thinking, “what did I just read?”

*Li-Jin opens his eyes and groans. What is it she’s reading these days that makes her speak to him like a self-help book in the middle of the night? His head hurts.
*<...> and then turns his eyes to the wall and watches the cornered arcs of light from passing traffic climb from the window over the ceiling and then draw in towards them both like a series of embraces.
*It was at this point he began to feel more comfortable. It was like reaching the twenty-seventh minute of a French film, the point at which he usually began to have some hazy idea of what was going on.
*Whenever she hugs children she looks over their little shoulders to the parents and smiles to prove she does not hate children.
*It is odd to me, because I always believe I hate my father for marrying this woman, and now I spend my time and all of this money saving his things. Most of them I don’t even like. But in its way it is a gesture, I think. You never know, until it happens, what you will owe the dead.”
*The trees, newly cut back, thrust their twisted fists into the air.

I’m ashamed I didn’t enjoy this book more. Zadie Smith is an exceptional writer, her observations sometimes mirror my own experience precisely, and she’s funny. But the main character has no redeeming qualities! That, and the slow pace, soured the experience for me.

There is a reason this is Zadie Smith’s least-known book.