I wrote the fucking book, didn’t I? Look at my littlest, Abdul-Jimmy. Up in juvenile court next week for swiping fucking VW medallions. I says to ‘im, you fucking stupid of sommink? What the fuck is the point in that? At least steal the fucking car, if that’s the way you feel about it. I mean, why? ‘E says it’s sommink to do wiv some fucking Beetie Boys or some such bollocks. Well, I says to him, that lot are dead as shit if I get hold of ‘em, and I can tell you that for fucking nothing. No sense of tradition, no fucking morality, is the problem.
From White Teeth by Zadie Smith
So, after about a decade of my mother recommending White Teeth to me, I’m finally reading it. I always knew it was going to be good because, you know, everyone says so. Like Life Of Pi, I knew I would eventually get round to listening to everyone and giving it a go. I like funny stuff. I like stuff set in the 70s. Being white and middle-class, I like books about people who aren’t just white and middle class. (See you never, Holden Caulfield.)
Zadie Smith is pretty damn talented, and she phrases things just so. Just sort of knowing and amused, like her narrator understands the irony in life.
Having said that (and it must be said that I am only on chapter three so far, and must not pass judgement prematurely), I have encountered a problem.
Zadie Smith is not John Updike. She is not writing an installment of the Rabbit Angstrom books. I am struggling to see past these two major flaws right now.
