Since her last appearance before the critics, with 2002’s The Autograph Man, Zadie Smith has, in no particular order, been to America, hung out with the McSweeney’s crowd, introduced a terrible collection of contemporary Americana (Zadie Smith Introduces ‘The Burned Children of America’), got married, and had rather a lot to say on the subject of Vladimir Nabokov. Much of this may be inferred from her new novel, which is, among other topics, about marriage, the black American experience, family life and the nature of art, and has perhaps the worst title that anyone ever devised for a book since Norman Mailer’s Of Women and Their Elegance.

Sep 2005

Biographer’s Luck

Something to Read in the Evenings

Dusting off the Crystal Ball

Piano Man

Whatever Happened to the Establishment?

Author of Himself

Old Stench of Death

Told by a Dog

The History of Mart

They Finished Their Drinks and Left

Nero to Zero

Porn Again

It is Good She Has Gone to America

‘He Wrote This Specially For Me’

Sorrowing in Sunlight

A Life Less Extraordinary

Passage to Hampstead

Naked in Nottingham

In Defence of the Hack

East Coast Escapades

Mart – The Return

The American Delusion

The Solace of Solitude

Hour of the Egoist

Where Mischief Starts

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