Zadie Smith's Indecision | The Nation


Zadie Smith's Indecision

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It's all the more disappointing, then, that On Beauty is so feeble. Instead of building on the strengths of The Autograph Man, Smith has fallen back into the weaknesses of White Teeth, but without recovering its particular strengths. The satirical eye is still there--Smith is unfailingly great at rendering the texture of social and especially family life, its moment-by-moment play of habit and hypocrisy, self-dramatization and self-pity--though without generating the same humor as before. The narrative voice is also flatter, less exuberant and inventive. And while On Beauty is as long as White Teeth, it has neither the earlier novel's scope nor its ambition. White Teeth was an attempt to bite off the whole of contemporary English society, or at least a healthy chunk of it, by telling the stories of three interlinked families. On Beauty tells of only one family, their story stands for nothing beyond itself, and the novel goes on as long as it does out of nothing more than an aimless search for its own stopping point.

About the Author

William Deresiewicz
William Deresiewicz is a Nation contributing writer whose Excellent Sheep: The Miseducation of the American Elite and...

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The Belseys are a mixed-raced family living in Wellington, a fictional college town near Boston. Howard is an English academic with working-class roots, Kiki an African-American with roots in Florida. He's coping with his inability to finish a long-delayed monograph on Rembrandt; she's coping with the extra hundred or so pounds she's put on in the last few years. Their children--Jerome, nearing graduation from Brown; Zora, just starting at Wellington; and Levi, still immured in prep school--are trying out various flavors of adolescent rebellion. The novel follows them around each in turn, picking up various characters and plot lines--Choo, a Haitian immigrant whom Levi gloms onto; Carl, a young rapper from Roxbury whom Zora gets a crush on; Monty Kipps, a right-wing West Indian scholar and Howard's archrival, who comes to town as a visiting professor--plays with them for a while, and then drops them. Possibilities hinted at remain undeveloped, confrontations elaborately prepared for pass by undramatized. We get a raft of familiar narrative gambits--infidelity, academic politics, fish out of water--but no center, nothing that holds the novel together except the fact that its main characters belong to the same family.

As the foregoing description suggests, Smith hasn't cast her imagination as widely as usual. Mixed-race families and West Indians are very close to home for her. As for Bostonian academics, she spent some time at Harvard after finishing The Autograph Man. There's nothing wrong with this, of course, but it has the paradoxical effect of making her figures less real. It seems in retrospect that Smith came to know her characters in The Autograph Man so intimately precisely because she had to work so hard to know them at all. Here, the more time we spend with Howard and the rest, the less they seem like people with real emotional lives and a genuine capacity to take their creator by surprise, the more like mere types: the pretentious university brat (Zora), the self-hating middle-class black kid (Levi), the right-wing hypocrite (Monty). Even Howard, the central figure, ends up as little more than a straw man, the midget academic who realizes he's wrong about everything. For this is, alas, a campus novel--yes, another one--and it hits the same clichés as all the rest: sex with students, sex with colleagues, petty jealousy, bureaucratic infighting, political correctness. Smith might at least have bothered to get the basics right: Undergraduates don't write dissertations, people don't come up for tenure after decades as professors, especially not if they already have named chairs, and no one who's still tenureless at 57 is going to get hired by Columbia, or anyplace else.

On Beauty derives its name, as well as the name of its final chapter, from Elaine Scarry's On Beauty and Being Just. Any further connection between the two texts remains obscure, beyond the very general and intermittent interest the novel shows in its titular subject. In fact, as sloppy as its plot is (and one would have thought that the least a novel called On Beauty could have done was try to be beautiful), its thematic structure is even more of a mess. Or to put it simply, this is a book that seems to have no idea what it wants to be about: Beauty? Religion? Family dynamics? Racial identity? Political ideology? By trying to deal with all of these things, Smith ends up dealing with none of them.

She also doesn't help her cause by inviting comparison to E.M. Forster. On Beauty's opening scenes replay, even parody, the opening scenes of Howards End ("One may as well begin with Jerome's e-mails to his father," etc.). The rivalry between "Kipps and Belsey" (the title of the first chapter) is offered as an updated version of the conflict between Schlegel and Wilcox, with Jerome in the Helen role, Kiki as Margaret, Monty's wife as Mrs. Wilcox and Howard (Howard!) as Aunt Juley. But once this initial ploy runs its course, Smith more or less loses interest in everything the earlier novel has to say. Kiki and Mrs. Kipps do eventually re-enact the relationship between Margaret and the dying Mrs. Wilcox (with a valuable painting standing in for Howards End itself), and Monty remains Howard's antagonist, but the point and power of Forster's oppositions and crossings are utterly lost. Schlegel and Wilcox embody two antithetical approaches to life--liberalism versus the business ethos--and their encounter drives the novel. Helen, initially attracted to the Wilcoxes' energy and decision, is propelled by self-righteous fury into a disastrous relationship with Leonard Bast, a young clerk, while Margaret, in finally marrying her friend's widower, comes to intuit that "Schlegel" and "Wilcox" must balance each other if a fully authentic relationship to one's society is to be achieved. Forster, the great liberal, is challenging liberalism at its core, and nothing less than the future of England is at stake.

But Smith fritters all this away. Jerome, having served his function, all but drops out of the novel, while Leonard is only faintly echoed in Carl, the Roxbury rapper. Where the passing of the estate to Margaret signifies, in Lionel Trilling's phrase, "who shall inherit England," the passing of the painting to Kiki signifies, well, nothing. Most important, Kipps and Belsey never achieve a synthesis the way Schlegel and Wilcox do--and if they had, it wouldn't have meant anything anyway. Howard may be a leftist postmodernist and Monty a religious conservative, but these are merely positions they espouse, not large social principles they embody. In fact, as professors, they occupy the exact same position within society--embody, willy-nilly, the same values--and their clash amounts to an academic pissing match. Nothing more than the future of Howard is at stake. Smith avows in her acknowledgments that "all my fiction is indebted" to Forster. Her word for what she does to him here is hommage. A better one might be dommage.

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