DNF. I don’t get it. Thought it would be an entertaining story of a guy’s autograph-collecting adventures, or when reading the prologue maybe his coming to terms with his father’s death, but instead a whole lot of nothing happens other than rambling about the nature of Jewishness and Alex-Li’s insecurities. I’d rather read a book about some of the supporting characters. Might come back to this sometime later.

liked it a little less than her previous book probably because the main character was such a tool. but i got into it enough.

Ei Zadie Smithin Nimikirjoitusmiehelle voi antaa tähtiä. Välillä on nollaa ja välillä kaikkea ykkösestä vitoseen ja ylikin. Päädyin samaan epätaajuuteen kuin Swing Timeä lukiessa.

Smith on kielensä kanssa uskomattoman taitava. Taitaisin jäädä kakkoseksi, jos joutuisin (tai pääsisin) mukaan Alex-Li Tandemin ja kavereiden dialogeihin.

Nimikirjoitusmies on ihan reaaliaikaista kerrontaa ja vauhtia piisaa. Kun päähenkilöitäkin on vain yksi, kiinalais-juutalainen Alex-Li Tandem, tulee herra nimikirjoitusmieheen pakosti luotua jonkinlainen kiintymyssuhde.

Vaikka en lainkaan ymmärtänyt häntä lapsena - ehkä hän ei sellainen koskaan ollutkaan.

Ongelmia tuotti myös juutalainen nuorisokulttuuri raamatullisine nimineen, kabbaloineen ja rabbikavereineen. Sekä nimikirjoituselämä julkkislistoineen, näyttelijätärpakkomielteineen ja etenkin showpaini, josta se kaikkia alkoi. Ja hyvin paljon tapahtui erilaisten aineiden vaikutuksen alaisena ja muistikatkojen itsesäälissä rypien. Ilmankos Alex-Li Tandemilla oli "taito kuvitella itsensä pikku episodiksi muiden elämässä".

Nimikirjoitusmies oli ilkikurinen, ei mitenkään vakava - eikä siten niin vaikuttava kuin olisin toivonut. Tai sitten olen taipuvainen kolmen kirjan perusteella epäilemään, että Zadie Smithin aura on hänen kirjojaan vaikuttavampi.

This book gives the international gesture of 1 finger down your throat.
Appalling, I deserve a medal or an insanity check for finishing this.

Occasionally I read books that I am enjoying more-or-less until there is some shift in the narrative that either destroys my enjoyment of the book or ratchets it up wildly, but its rare that I read something where that happens at least a dozen times. The Autograph Man was that rare book where I went from loving to loathing to loving over and over, sometimes within a single chapter.

I did not check reviews before reading this, but I could not help noticing the VERY low average rating - a 3.16. Low ratings don't bother me, I find on the whole I am more likely to like a book rated 3.2 than one rated 4.2, but it surprised me for this book. This is not a literary book likely to be picked up by those who like page turners or who like their tragedy to come with tear-jerky wallowing rather than wry observation. Though this was Zadie Smith's second novel she was already a known quantity appealing to a particular type of reader who liked White Teeth, and those readers I figured probably shared my tastes to some degree. Still I dove in.

I started reading the preface, and thought "what is wrong with people, this is genius." And that rather lengthy preface does not falter. Its so good! Sadly, the book does not deliver on the preface's promise. There are parts of the book I might have liked more if I had not been set up by the preface to expect a wonderful rollicking read. In fact the part of the book I liked least was the 50 or so pages immediately following the preface. The story crashes to earth immediately after the preface. I sorta kinda hated that section where we spend time with Alex before he leaves London for NYC. I almost abandoned the book, and if that section had gone on another 10 pages I likely would have done. The book though does pick up in the NYC section, regardless of how improbable the story becomes. I loved the book's end, which made absolute sense though there is no resolution, just the merest whiff of growth and change which given the protagonist's stuntedness is a seismic shift.

Smith takes on some big themes here, themes I would think were very present for her as a young writer who achieved literary It Girl status with her first book. The emptiness of celebrity, and its utter disconnection from craft or art is overarching. I liked that she did not simply dismiss celebrity as silly and shallow, or ignore what appears to be a real human need for iconography. People need things like heroes and faith, which remain unchanged and unchangeable when things and people around us change and disappear at the moments we most need constancy. Smith was much less successful examining the distinctions between faith and tribal identification. I understand why she chose Jewish characters for this meditation, I don't think there are any other major religions or sects where that distinction between faith and tribe is more troubling and profound. Alex's relationship (or lack) to Judaism and to Jews and to Jewish culture is a great set up for that discussion, but I don't think Smith pulls it off.

I know non-Jewish writers who write great Jewish characters, but most don't, and Smith falls into the latter group. Alex-Li and his freinds did not resonate with me, they did not feel familiar or recognizable in any way. They really felt like constructs to illustrate things about what it means to be Jewish. And maybe that was the problem, their Jewishness was so central to everything they did, and that really felt off. And that clunky characterization was not limited to the Jews. I think the weakest most poorly written character in the book is a black buddhist woman, which is how Zadie Smith identifies. So much here is tone deaf which is not usually something I say about Zadie Smith.

In the end there were a lot of poorly drawn characters, a weird conflation of defining oneself and defining one's faith (I know faith is a part of how we define ourselves, but trust me that it would not have been this big a part for Alex, who identifies pretty comfortably as Atheist and who already acknowledges and accepts his tribal connection.), a lot of digressions, and serious structural problems. Still there were swaths of genius that gave me real pleasure and so I am calling the whole a 3. Its easier to afford the optimistic 3 rather than the disappointed 2 when I am reading back-catalogue. When dealing with a new writer I never know if a first brilliant book might have been an aberration. A lot of writers never deliver on the promise of a great first novel so I remain cautious, but I know Zadie Smith gave the world a great next novel (not to mention some spectacular essays) so I can see the way in which this not great novel made later great work possible.

Now I’ve read all of Zadie Smith’s novels. This is my least favorite, but it’s a good novel. It’s a 3.5 for me. What I love about this novel is its humor and quirkiness. The characters are nutty! The storyline is good and zany! I found myself reading the dialogue out loud. What I also liked was the blending of fictional characters who resemble real celebrities. Very good. So why 3.5? The lives of the characters were foreign to me, unrelatable. Though the characters represented different ethnic groups, Smith elected to touch lightly on the issues of race and ethnicity. She does dig deep into Judaism and its mystical variety in this book. But that aspect failed to hook me in deeply.

3.5

This book has performed a necessary feat--revived my love of literature and STORY post a 3-year, year-round, purely academic stint. An unmatched feeling (exclusive to the luxury of reading for pleasure) constantly arises: I read, I stare at a household object or tree and repeat the gifted string of words, thinking, how in the world did anyone know to write this? How did Smith know to wrap up the humour of philography, the elusiveness of fame, the over-the-top sanctity of religious belief, and the ongoing effort to reconcile with death all in one go? It seems absurd in theory, but I seem to have an inimitable connection with the product of her many hours of brilliance.

I've been aching for that feeling of wonder from my younger days for so long--you have no idea. It was previously reserved for classics like "Matilda," then "The Secret Garden," then "The Catcher in the Rye." More recently, "The Namesake." It's come again, with the adorable Alex-Li Tandem and his oddly- or wonderfully-shaped and spoken friends and acquantainces.

Really, this is hardly a magnificent review or an adequate description of the work, just a sentimental few paragraphs of HOW MUCH I LOVE ZADIE SMITH.

But, you should know, concerning points of interest:
Chinese Jewish professional autograph man (check)
African girlfriend with a pacemaker (check)
London, New York (check)
Heaps of tea and booze (check)
Both heaps of Torah and goyishness (check)

A million thanks, Zadie! You are forever my author girl-crush.

(Now, to the end. I don't suspect my feelings will change much.)

This was a bit of a disappointment. I thought this story was chasing its own tail most of the time just like the autograph man, Alex Li Tandem was searching for what exactly, I don't know. Meaning, or identity maybe, hidden somewhere in between his British, Chinese and Jewish heritage? Spending his days making small business decisions, rambling about Jewishness, entertaining his not particularly interesting friends and not being there for his girlfriend …
And then far into the second half of the book a little ray of sunshine - enter Honey Smith. Honey’s reputation is - please forgive my prejudice - basically what you would expect from a person who is called Honey….. but with Alex she appears in an entirely different capacity. She is an unexpected friend whose life wisdom and sense of humor shine brightly in the otherwise rather gray narrative. At the same time we also make an equaintes of Alex’s idol, once world famous and now in her seventies Italian-Russian actress, Kitty Alexander. This part of the book felt as if written by someone else, or at least under a completely different influence. The trio, Alex-Honey-Kitty do what they can, the story takes off with a completely different speed and grace that unfortunately ends all too soon.

Every Zadie Smith novel I've read (all of them) have been good, mostly great actually, but I think this one is the hardest to crack. The way her brain works is incredible: how she settled on a story about a Chinese-Jewish autograph connoisseur is mind boggling, but it made for a story that was at times funny, tender, and introspective.

I feel like this novel starts to scratch the surface of the techniques that were on brilliant display in NW, which is my favorite of hers. It's not a straightforward, linear story, but it absolutely works.

What started out as a promising read quickly turned into a...really crappy one. I know this makes me sound somewhat like a whiny seventh grader when I say this, but god, this book was booooorring. I read the entire thing hoping that at some point it'd turn the corner and pick up the pace, but no, it just basically ground itself out into a completely anti-climactic ending. But before that we got pages and pages of...I don't even know what, I disliked this book so much that I immediately purged it from my mind upon finishing it. I think there were some ramblings about Jewish mysticism, autographs, and then some more Jewish mysticism, and then more about autographs. I wanted to claw my eyes out by the end of the book.

Another thing that also dampened my reading experience was the fact that I hated the main character. I mean, I love as much as the next person the idea of the deeply-flawed-yet-still-very-sympathetic character, but I found nothing at all redeeming about Alex-Li Tandem. Instead, I found myself constantly wishing I could reach into the book and kick him in the head.

In conclusion, I recommend this book to no one.

This book was such a slog to get through, and only partly because I’m finally back at work and no longer a lady of leisure. Is it possible to accuse a novel of being too clever? Zadie Smith is as witty and puckish and sparkling as ever here, but the waggish delight she takes in the farcicality of her characters and the absurd situations they find themselves in somehow detracts from their fullness and veracity. There was simply too much experimentation, too much tongue-in-cheek, epigrammatic humour, too much Zadie Smith the person (who, incidentally, I adore) rather than Zadie Smith the author for the bizarre plot to feel convincing or compelling. I could almost hear the reverberations of her droll, intelligent chuckle on every page. Barthes would roll in his grave.