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Nothing Doing [Kindle Edition]

Willie Smith
4.5 out of 5 stars  See all reviews (2 customer reviews)

Print List Price: $19.99
Kindle Price: $7.50
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Book Description

Nothing Doing is underground legend Willie Smith’s shocking, subversive and darkly hilarious ode to misspent childhood, lost innocence and creeping depravity. Written over a period of thirty years, these stories anatomize America’s most vivid perversions and outsider fantasies with unmatched precision and wit.

“When America’s underbelly shows we see that it’s fat, wiggly, and soft, and kind of dirty, and when it will finally get stretched out well and good by the wretched of the world, it will be clear that what looks like dirt is actually a collection of amazing stories by Willie Smith who chronicled the fat, the wiggle, the complacency, and the terror of it like only few writers did, the great ones.” - Andrei Codrescu

Editorial Reviews

Review

"Nothing Doing delivers an insight into the more perverse view on how the developments of twentieth century history have impacted the American psyche, from the industry of commercially manufactured emotions through to the Cold War.” Elinor Walpole, Sabotage

"Willie Smith wheels the Human Condition into the examining room and proceeds to poke, prod, humor and biopsy any suspicious growths with the surgical precision of Franz Kafka and Robert Walser. Should be included in any survival kit.” - Donald Guravich, author of World at Large

"Nothing Doing is masterful in making an all-pervasive sense of absence and discontent run cohesively through a set of diverse stories. And all the more masterful for using beautiful poetic prose to describe distinctly unbeautiful events." - Grace Read, The View From Here

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The horniest picture I ever saw was in National Geographic. It was a spider's asshole magnified fifty times. Resembled a soggy Cheerio on a slate background. I haven't been the same since. Because I wanna do me one, and no live spider is big enough to accommodate. I've tried jacking off on arachnids. Wolf spiders and tarantulas the best. Daddy longlegs impossible. Scorpions a bitch. But I never come near the satisfaction gleaned that afternoon when I first drenched the National Geo full-color centerfold blown up to reveal a teensy parasite wriggling in some jungle spider's O ring. You can't always get what you want. But, if you fixate, sometimes you get what you pay for. Visualize arachnoid roundeye. One night I was jizzing a black widow - ejaculating without orgasm, bored with the universe. I turned some jazz on the radio, while watching the spider struggle under the shroud of ejaculate. Goodman Benny inhaled clarinet. Jack Webb sat in. Max Roach fogged the chamber. They were in mixolydian - I heard a vodka tonic. Willie "The Lion” Smith masturbated the 88. I daydreamed antiaircraft fire. Nazi flak redshifted into what I'd dine upon that night. Turkey Tetrachloride? Veal Hardon Blue? Fish Dicks? Spam Sushi? Only a wizard could decide which TV dinner, when all you got is a radio. Imagine my lack of preparation, daydreaming as I was, when into the room clacked a spider big as a Buick. Eight pale legs supported a hispid, chartreuse body. She spun around. Hiked her crupper. Displayed a taut caterpillar green starfish. Like in a dream, I approached the miracle. The chiton of her legs buckled with anticipation. I ran a finger over the sphincter that was tinier than a dowager's purse. She stood nervous, shy, to all appearances a virgin. She was dry as calculus. I ran to the kitchen for butter. Wow, I thought, yanking open the fridge, a cherry hallucination! I froze, staring at a bearded carrot, a cube of butter, a plastic liter of Rococo Coke and a stutter of roaches that had wormed in under the door. The roaches didn't appreciate the light. Several rotated feelers. But none broke ranks. The fridge was too cold, despite crumbling insulation, for them to panic at such a stimulus. The insect at the head of the line lifted a leg at the grate of the middle shelf, whereon lay the carrot abandoned by Bugs Bunny about the time of Hiroshima. I guess I didn't have any TV dinners after all.

Product Details

  • File Size: 338 KB
  • Print Length: 182 pages
  • Page Numbers Source ISBN: 0956665896
  • Publisher: Honest Publishing (May 22, 2012)
  • Sold by: Amazon Digital Services, Inc.
  • Language: English
  • ASIN: B0085N83D0
  • Text-to-Speech: Enabled
  • X-Ray:
  • Lending: Enabled
  • Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #2,245,721 Paid in Kindle Store (See Top 100 Paid in Kindle Store)
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Customer Reviews

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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
3 of 3 people found the following review helpful
Format:Paperback
Try looking up `Willie Smith' in any of the available sources of information and likely you will have a fruitless search. Without a history (except that this collection of short stories is a collection of works over the past thirty years) we have to depend on picking up this book NOTHING DOING and discover this word artist for ourselves. The cover art (by Alex Chilvers) of a two-headed dog provides a strong hint of what absurdity is inside. But beware! Smith can embarrass you, assault your senses, and make you laugh till it hurts - all the while surprising you with some of the most weird but carefully crafted reportage on the way he envisions our world.

Fortunately for us the new publishing house that has wisely decided to take on this enigmatic writer - Honest Publishing - has provided some quality information about Willie Smith and it is so interesting and so in line with this writer's unique qualities that it bears quoting: ` Willie Smith is deeply ashamed of being human. His work celebrates this horror. He was born in a hospital outside Greenbelt, Maryland, a few short years after Adolf Hitler shot himself in the head while simultaneously crunching down on a cyanide capsule. He grew up in Alexandria, Virginia, just a pack howitzer shot from the White House. In the late sixties he worked as a logger in the same woods D. B. Cooper later jumped into. He received a B.A. in English or creative writing or something from Reed College in 1972. In 1995 he returned to academia to teach writing for exactly one week at Naropa Institute in Boulder, Colorado; he was never asked back.
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1 of 1 people found the following review helpful
4.0 out of 5 stars Just read it. August 24, 2013
By Carol R
Format:Paperback
Blissfully uncomfortable read. Great use of language,if you care about that, and I do! So human at its core,won me over from beginning to end.
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More About the Author

"When America's underbelly shows we see that it's fat, wiggly, and soft, and kind of dirty, and when it will finally get stretched out well and good by the wretched of the world, it will be clear that what looks like dirt is actually a collection of amazing stories by Willie Smith who chronicled the fat, the wiggle, the complacency, and the terror of it like only few writers did, the great ones."

Andrei Codrescu, author of Whatever Gets you Through the Night: A Story of Sheherezade and the Arabian Entertainments

"In this collection of stories, Willie Smith wheels the Human Condition into the examining room and proceeds to poke, prod, humor and biopsy any suspicious growths with the surgical precision of Franz Kafka and Robert Walser. Should be included in any survival kit."

Donald Guravich, author of World at Large

"The sentences are pure poetry, it is here I should be caustic, bitter; it is here I should nip at the ankles; jealousy reduces one to such acts. I order you to buy this book, sit down, place Miles or Monk on the record player, and read the book over and over again."

Paul Kavanagh, author of Iceberg


Willie Smith is deeply ashamed of being human. His work celebrates this horror. He was born in a hospital outside Greenbelt, Maryland, a few short years after Adolf Hitler shot himself in the head while simultaneously crunching down on a cyanide capsule. He grew up in Alexandria, Virginia, just a pack howitzer shot from the White House. In the late sixties he worked as a logger in the same woods D. B. Cooper later jumped into. He received a B.A. in English or creative writing or something from Reed College in 1972. In 1995 he returned to academia to teach writing for exactly one week at Naropa Institute in Boulder, Colorado; he was never asked back.

He spends a lot of time, when he isn't making a living as a flunky in a Welfare office, sitting around reading and writing and waiting to be asked to recite or teach or go on a secret mission to rescue the princess from a gangbang he has secretly himself initiated. He is the proud father of a vasectomy and to the best of his knowledge has never replicated. He is lazy, rather homely and sometimes smells a little funny. He is addicted to classical music, self-pity, stargazing, whole grain, lean meat and fresh produce. He has never owned an automotive vehicle and does not possess a driver's license, valid or otherwise. His religion is walking; the world is his church. You are cordially invited to witness Willie embarrass himself at www.youtube.com/wsmith49

Photo by: Susan J. Sanders




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