Russell Smith (1)Resenhas

I can't say this is what I was expecting. The primary focus was on suits. That is not what I was looking for as someone who already has such things. I was hoping to find out how to look better when I dress casually.

The stories in Russell Smith's collection, Confidence, continue mining the vein he has carved out for himself through four novels and an earlier collection of stories, skewering the social and artistic pretensions of a mostly abhorrent class of upwardly mobile, conceited, self-absorbed young professional. Moreover, they do so with a degree of exuberance that suggests the author remains enthusiastically engaged in this particular brand of social satire more than two decades into his writing career.

Smith’s characters are envious and dissatisfied, morally compromised or living through some sort of relationship or emotional turmoil, usually self-inflicted. Life has brought them to a point where it seems that a big opportunity is just around the corner. But when they gaze at the darkened streets through an alcohol- or drug-induced haze from the back seat of a taxi, or survey the view from their bar stool or their seat in a restaurant, what they see are others who have more money, nicer possessions, cuter girlfriends (or boyfriends) and better prospects. In Smith’s fiction, social encounters do not take place innocently. Conversations between men and women carry more than a hint of sexual calculation. When two men talk, you can be sure a negotiation is taking place. The stories are fluent in the language of casual drug use. People getting high is the rule rather than the exception. The laughs are frequent, because Smith’s characters are self-medicating in order to dull the sting of failure. When forced to make an impression they can puff themselves up and appear cool. But reality lands with a thud in the morning light. What they want and what they get are often two very different things. Paradoxically, nobody is very sure of themselves. Confidence, it turns out, is a scarce commodity in the world depicted here.

These stories bristle with dramatic energy. We may not like Russell Smith's characters. We may not hope that they succeed, and in fact might actively root for them to fail. But there's no denying that Smith is a master when it comes to writing dialogue and setting a scene. Highly entertaining.

I picked up this book not as much for the content but because I was intrigued with the author’s reason for writing it. It is definitely erotica, so for those offended by gratuitous sexual descriptions, don’t even pick it up. Mr. Smith, a self-confessed man about town, did a little impromptu survey and found women thought words could be as erotic as touch … hence he gathered favourite fantasy stories from ladies of his acquaintance and combined them into one character whose adventures form the book … very successfully in my opinion. Because “women don’t want to read erotica written by a male author” this book was originally published under a female pseudonym. It was worth the read (blushing – I cannot deny that I enjoyed the book), but I enjoyed the “back story” just as much.

Smith turns a jaundiced eye on human behaviour once again in this comic novel that skewers artistic pretention. Fun and touching with a lively and engaging cast of characters.

Muriella Pent is a society lady of middle age, widowed and in search of a purpose. Marcus Royston is a Caribbean poet, sent into quasi exile when his post colonial verses fall out of fashion in the new American Caribbean. He becomes the catalyst to change not just Muriella's life.. This is an amusing and engaging book, satirising the world of art, patronage and one upmanships in a fairly gentle but penetrating way.

A fun satire of the Toronto arts scene. Does a nice job of spreading the ridicule around.

This is a routine erotic tale, short on plot and mostly engaged in a steady plod towards its inevitable ending. The male narrator's wife takes a project-orientated job which involves collecting the vital fluids of a large number of men, providing various kinds of support and assistance if they are unable to produce what is required. Of course she comes to enjoy the work rather more than would be dictated by medical ethics, and in the process she meets a few well-endowed and copiously capable men, some of whom she considers 'homework'. She also develops scarcely meaningful relationships with the other medical staff, and the tale culminates in a routine get-together. It's a story directed at aficionados of the relevant fetish, and as erotica it is replete with relevant activity, but its predictability may be found disappointing.

How Insensitive, as it follows the travails of a young man in the big city, wandering drunkenly from one party to the next, meeting models, and so on, all in the early 1990s, reminded me strongly of Jay McInerney. Except that, I hasten to add, it reminded me of Jay McInerney when Jay McInerney was good. That is, the McInerney of Bright Lights, Big City, not the disappointing McInerney of Brightness Falls and then The Good Life.

I hasten to that particular clarification because, unlike the later McInerney, whose pages are clogged with exposition and whose prose is often simply mundane, Russell Smith’s sentences crackle along. His dialogue is good and he never succumbs to the urge to go back and explain things for the sake of the dopey reader. How Insensitive is sharp and funny, and its nomination for the GG was well deserved.

So I find myself wondering why McInerney became a big success, while Smith remains, in the class photo of Canadian novelists, in the second row, behind Atwood and Ondaatje and all the other popular kids, but in front of Whatshername and Whothehellisthat. It’s certainly not for lack of a good book.

The fact that the young lady on the cover is wielding a school-type punishment cane in some editions, this book does not even refer to the erotic possibilities of erotic chastisement. It is therefore misleading, if only in this respect. In fact, this is a strange example of erotic literature, and its untypicality needs to be recognised by prospective readers. The criticism most often levelled at erotic literature is that of endless repetition of essentially the same acts, with only trivial changes distinguishing each instance. Perhaps the author in this case was trying to avoid this pitfall, perhaps even aiming for a work of literature in which descriptions of sexual activities are mere decoration, rather than essence. If the latter, then he/she has failed; it’s a humdrum plot, relying on ambiguously intimate relationships between a man and two women that aren’t particularly gripping. I suspect that the aim was simply to be different, with the difference being that foreplay and anticipation seem at times to be considered more important than any form of consummation. Apart from the odd interesting ‘cameo-style’ insert, the majority of the book is nothing short of a big tease. After half-way things do start to pick up, admittedly. But even then, the narrator shows irritation at the interruption of his enjoyment caused by an orgasm. Hardly a traditional approach. It may well prove that tantric practices can never provide erotic stimulus in written form, but if they can, this book doesn’t. The book it well-written, though, and if its approach suits you, then you’ll enjoy it.

'Cowboy boots. Forget it. They carry with them an inescapable odour of brand-new subdivisions, of airport Holiday Inn lounges... in short, of desperation.'

'And if you think it's amusing to break the rules of formal dressing by matching a dinner jacket with canvas tennis shoes, then you should stop reading immediately. You are angry about something, and want to be talking about politics instead.'

'Remember that salesman can be snooty -- they will judge a customer in superficial ways. They are going to expend more effort in helping you if it looks as if you want to play the game... Before you accept advice from a salesman, judge his own clothing. If he is wearing cowboy boots, tell him you are just browsing and wait for someone else.'

It's not a fantastic book but it's a solid read, maybe a bit above average. It follows James Willing, who isn't a great character but again, solid, and his "journey" through city life, writing for magazines or what have you about things he doesn't seem to care about. Reminds me of Glamorama but I'm not even entirely sure why. Maybe it's the writing style or just the general atmosphere of celebrity worship in it. The writing style is good, but I think the book was supposed to be funnier than it is. Didn't really make me feel anything much by the end either, but nice satire of the "elite" class who listens to classical music and claims faux-intelligence. I enjoyed that aspect quite a bit.

Russell Smith is such a charming and witty (not to mentioned geniunely skilled) writer and to write about something as amusing as fashion so seriously is quite an achievement. He has to be read to be believed!