InDigest: Bedside Stacks Issue 4

This will be a short but sweet edition of Bedside Stacks, but fear not, for I have recently returned from the Associated Writers & Writing Programs Conference in New York City, brimming with new books and an urgent need to tell you all about them. But that’s for next time. For now, you’ll just have to settle for one review of one fantastic short-story collection. There are many perks of being a reviewer; the instant fame, the fawning fan mail, and the free review copies of books come to mind. Perhaps one of the more profound pleasures comes in finishing a book by a superb young writer and knowing you get to expose people to a unique new sensibility. This is the feeling I had after reading Bang Crunch, the debut collection of short stories by Neil Smith. The Montreal native has recently found himself in the singular position of having many publishers from all over the world vie for the rights to his first book; in the United States, Bang Crunch was recently brought out by Vintage Books. From the first page of the book, it becomes clear why so many literary types were anxious to lay claim to Bang Crunch. There is a tremendous scope of experience contained in the stories, and a wider variety of perspectives than you are likely to find in any other collection. Smith is a chameleon —he is equally convincing writing in the voices of a cynical single mother, a teenaged Montreal jock struggling with his sexuality, and a girl with a mysterious ailment that causes her to age at the rate of one year per day. If that fails to impress, consider that one story (“Extremities”) is told from the point of view of a pair of calfskin gloves, interspersed with the angry tirades of a severed foot. The only other author I know who could pull that off is George Saunders ( In Persuasion Nation); indeed, the two share the same twisted, absurd sensibility that allows them to slice through modern life to find the pockets of creepy truth hiding deep within.

Despite their apparent differences, all of Smith’s protagonists share a sense of puzzled detachment. In “Isolettes,” a young woman finds herself in the unexpected role of being the mother of a premature baby. Although she intentionally got pregnant (fertilizing herself with a cupful of her ex-boyfriend’s sperm), she seems absolutely clueless about how to mother the frail, tiny creature she cannot quite think of as her child. In lieu of maternal warmth, she feels contempt for all the well-meaning parents of the other preemies, who, in trying to cheer her up, only drive her crazy. “The B9ers” centers on a cleaning-product salesman who has recently had a benign tumor removed from his groin; in an effort to make sense of his despondency, he decides to form a support group for other victims of benign tumors. With nothing else in common, the group soon finds a sinister outlet for its rage and depression. “Scrapbook” and “Jaybird” are the book’s strongest stories; each is told in a series of vignettes, and each explores what it means to find oneself playing an unexpected part in one’s own life story. “Scrapbook” is the tightly-written tale of a woman whose boyfriend has escaped from a school shooting, and the fragile way in which the couple gropes through the aftermath of the tragedy. “Jaybird,” about a pompous actor whose world is upended after he participates in an experimental performance, is surprisingly tense and atmospheric; the conclusion seems destined to be a let-down, but in refusing to offer up a neat ending, Smith displays a sense of self-control that is missing from some of the other stories. Indeed, it is the stories’ often abrupt conclusions that betray Smith’s inexperience; they demonstrate a striving for easy closure tempered by a self-conscious refusal to answer any of the reader’s lingering questions. Still, if the worst that can be said of a young author’s debut is that his stories could have more satisfying endings, I would say he’s doing something right. Smith is currently at work on a novel, and I wonder how he will handle the transition to a longer form. I hope he doesn’t lose that voice which swings wildly and yet manages to alight safely in a place of unexpected, and unexpectedly dark, beauty.