Reading this on the heels of Bellow's Augie March, it was, at first, a mite jarring. Unlike Bellow, who delights in wonderfully long, lyrical and often ribald sentences, Smith's style is by comparison much more spare, direct. But upon completion of the opening story, "In the Night, Heinrich Himmler...," I was seriously hooked. For one, I've always been attracted to works where the unseen writer introduces himself - in Smith's case, subtly - and toys with the reader and the notion of artifice. He admits that the character of Jane Seymour might be nothing more than a figment of his imagination: "I have not managed to give Jane flesh, though I think the nape of her neck was not too badly done."
I won't bother to recount the entire "narrative" of this book - and narrative is purposely in quotes since this is not a conventional novel. In fact, is it even a novel? The first part of the book, Family, consists of four linked stories dealing with the Seymour family: the children Jane and Ian, the parents Bill and Gwen. (Is Seymour a nod to Salinger and his own linked stories of the Glass family?) Death permeates the stories: one suicide, one tragic, and the other by cancer. There's a wonderful complexity to these characters, particularly the parents in the last two stories: for one, despite a long shared life together, we discover that Bill really doesn't know his wife at all. This struck me as particularly perceptive: even though we often share our lives within various relationships, many of us often retain a "secret," hidden life that we don't share even with our closest loved ones. We're all mysterious cats.
The last story in this section, "Serenissima," revolving around the wife Gwen, was absolutely devastating for me. It was wonderfully measured, exquisitely executed and contained a shocking scene of humiliation. It's perhaps one of the best single stories I've read in a long time. (I finished the book a few days ago and waited to write this mini review, to see if that particular story would still resonate. It does.) The book is worth reading for this one story alone.
The second section of the book, The Continental, was more puzzling. Despite sharing certain themes, there doesn't seem to be any relation to the first part. Unless, of course, I totally missed something (which is always a possibility). It tells the story of American Kenniston Thorson, first in late 19th century Paris, then 30 years later on a train rumbling through Europe. Thorson is an odd character: his name is lost to history, yet he also seems to float among noteworthy events and be involved with many important historical figures. It's a perplexing story, but fascinating nonetheless.
In the end, however, I didn't quite understand its inclusion as I couldn't intellectually - and emotionally - link this latter section with the first. (I plan on reading some reviews of the book to give me some additional perspective. Perhaps it's simply an unsophisticated reading on my part.) Still, because I found the first half of this book so strong and compelling, I didn't feel cheated that I was confused with this section. Morever, taken on its own, the Thorson tale is enjoyable.
Ultimately, the real strength of this work is Smith's assertive and limpid (a word he actually uses at least three times!) prose. There's a confidence in his style, a writer who's totally in command of the language. Quite a contrast from my reaction to the Ray Moody book - while Moody can certainly spin a good yarn, Smith's sentences shimmer. While I didn't plan on rating the Canada Reads books, I will admit that it's going to be tough to top my experience of reading this stunning book.
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