7 of 7 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Psychotic Reactions and Bacon Egg and Cheese on a Roll, September 25, 2007
This review is from: Just Dirt (Paperback)
"Just Dirt" is a gloriously readable collection of events that may make you draw comparisons to your own experiences or may make you aware of your own relatively uneventful life. The style Smith employs is highly personal, and while he doesn't glorify the dysfunction, he embraces it in a way that helps explain how he has become the man he is today.
His ability to step away from himself and look back with remarkable clarity is impressive.
As a reader, I felt some guilt because I wanted MORE, even though reading his memoirs resulted in a level of discomfort. To say I "enjoyed" the book seems inappropriate, but I couldn't stop reading it, and it's been a long time since I can recall being so captivated.
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3 of 3 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
On Quagmires and Grace Notes, September 17, 2007
This review is from: Just Dirt (Paperback)
"Harrowing" is an over-used word in pop culture criticism, but I can think of few places where it is better and more aptly deployed than in a review of Wilson Smith's "Just Dirt." This loosely chronological memoir is crafted as an integrated series of short, near-still life vignettes (painting brutally honest and specific pictures of moments and places in time) and longer tales of transition (where thing/place/person A becomes thing/place/person B, and where the process, the crucible, is key).
In less deft hands, such a tale could have been ponderous, self-indulgent and dire, but Smith's story-telling skills are sharp, and his language and characterization are rich and evocative, drawing a reader into the emotional peaks and valleys that frame his psychological landscapes. He paints his self-portrait with brutal candor, and does a tremendous job at building tension in some of his longer works. You just know that something awful is going to come of all this, but you can't stop reading until Smith shines the spotlight on the shortcoming or mistake that wishes to expose or expunge, at which point you generally find a hidden element of beauty and grace, where you least expected it.
And ultimately that's what makes this book so lively and lovely: these are dark and troubling tales, but grace and transcendence and growth (and the desire to find them all) permeates the narrative, palpably. There's no treacly ending, no easy answers, no pat wrap-up, just an uplifting sense in the end that, hey, even though we're often our own worst enemies, and even though we may not always like ourselves, we're still something finer and grander than the sum of our molecular matter, and we're not just dirt, not by a longshot.
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2 of 3 people found the following review helpful:
4.0 out of 5 stars
Women never really faint and villains always blink their eyes., September 21, 2007
This review is from: Just Dirt (Paperback)
Wilson Smith, Just Dirt (Lulu, 2007)
I'll start off by saying there's no way I can write an unbiased review of this book. I've been reading Wilson Smith's writing for nigh on a decade now-- as hard as it is for me to believe that stockboy recruited me old pal Mike Burns and me for xnet membership almost ten years ago, such is the case-- and, like most of the list folk, I am well aware that Smith can spin a mighty fine tale when he takes the mike. And I have heard a number of these tales before, either just as they are here or in somewhat rougher form. Besides, I'm actually thanked in the credits. Me? Unbiased? Are you [censored] kidding?
I should also start off by saying that memoirs generally drive me up the wall. And that, interestingly, perhaps what I value most about this book is that Smith nailed why, on the head, in a brief digression in one of these stories. And then went on to write the first truly readable memoir (as opposed to those memoirs-passed-off-as-novels that are far easier to bear, witness Bukowski or Exley or even Jay McInerney's Ransom, his best and most underrated novel) I've come across in... longer than I care to remember. I consider this just payment for having forced myself though 100 Strokes of the Brush Before Bed.
Part of what makes it so readable is that this isn't a memoir in the way you might think of memoirs. It reads more like a collection of short stories. (As a side note, the book's main weakness also comes into play here; there are some times when pieces of a story are repeated. Remember in the Encyclopedia Brown books, where Donald Sobel's first few paragraphs were startlingly similar in every story? You get that here, but only once or twice.) The end result has a sort of concept-album kind of impressionism, a feeling that you're not getting the whole story, just the pieces that matter. Would that a number of other memoirists had thought to do such a thing.
But what really nails it for me is something I found completely surprising. In this scene, Smith finds a number of old stories (from a long-abandoned first draft of the title piece) in his attic, and is re-reading them:
"The stories, though, were non-stop "Show, don't tell" (the first rule of writing, eh?), to a degree of which I'm now mostly incapable. It makes me feel like a hamster on a wheel to try to write that way now."
Now, I'm a big fan of "show, don't tell." A huge fan. It's by far the best way to approach fiction. It's the only way to approach poetry if you want a poem that your public won't laugh at. But when I read that bit, I looked back on all those memoirs I've hated over the past few years, since they got so huge, and I realized that they were all trying way too hard to show (and to show every excruciating minor detail), whereas Smith is just sitting there like the guy next to you at the (juice) bar talking about all the stupid [censored] we did as kids. Well, some of us did as kids. (If you can't find anything in here to identify with, I envy you.) And, wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, it works. I'm not sure it would work in a longer manuscript-- Smith's book weighs in at a light, easy-to-digest-in-one-sitting 132 pages-- but it works here like a charm. (Which begs the question: how well do charms work? And what do they do? My mom's just dangled from her bracelet.)
This may sound like, well, it's just some guy sitting there telling you a story. Anyone who made the mistake of signing up for a first-year psychology class in college knows just how boring that can be (especially if you had my professor). Smith's self-deprecating wit coupled with the basic insanity of the times keep it from ever being boring. (Note: Smith does assume something of a knowledge of those times. If you're not familiar with, for example, the sixties hippie counterculture, you might find yourself confused. Be warned.)
Also, something else of note. As I mentioned; this is a one hundred thirty-two page manuscript. I grant you, I wasn't reading with a proofreaders' eye, but I noticed a total of two typos in the entire book. I can't think of the last book I came across from a major press with two typos. It's unheard of in the realm of print-on-demand books. That alone is reason enough to pick up a copy of this, even if the book itself had sucked. And this one doesn't, not by a stone's throw followed by a world-record chaw spit.
End result: even if you loathe the entire memoir genre, check this one out. It may just change your mind (though, I rush to add, just about itself. The rest of those memoirs? Yeah. Still garbage). *** ½
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