What's in a name? Little of real value

Book reviewing is ordinarily an honorable process, like say, college admissions, in which righteous judgment flows from disinterested appraisal of a subject's merit. There are, of course, minor abuses now and then. Last year, for instance, Christopher Buckley wrote a dust-jacket blurb for "The Columnist" and then followed up with a gushing review in the Washington Monthly. Or, conversely, Jonathan Franzen's "The Corrections" was denied the National Book Critics Circle award because several years earlier he'd offended a woman who went on to become the tie-breaking judge.

But by and large, the profession remains committed to appearing devoted to the principle that each book should be judged according to its own value, without reference to its mother or father.

At times, though, a book must contend with its siblings, and like a runty younger brother following a golden firstborn, that can set up harsh expectations. Case in point: The extraordinary celebration of Zadie Smith's debut novel, "White Teeth," in 2000 is fueling some extraordinary condemnation of her second, very different novel, "The Autograph Man." An essay in The Atlantic opens with a grinning celebration of "White Teeth" before chewing out her new book for a host of flaws. A review in last week's New York Times was so irate about Smith's fall from greatness that I expected it to end with a call for the novelist's execution.

But what if this new novel didn't have to emit its eerie light next to the blinding gleam of "White Teeth"? Considered on its own, "The Autograph Man" is something strange and remarkable, a rumination on grief that resists its own profundity, trips into pratfalls of slapstick, and exposes the dark longing beneath our fascination with celebrities.

The story opens with a witty description of 12-year-old Alex and his friends on a day trip to the wrestling match of the century between Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks. Alex's father, a Chinese man in London married to a Jew, is desperate to help his son fit in. "He doesn't want Alex standing out from the crowd," the narrator explains. "He knows the boy's life will become difficult, and he hopes that conformity might be his savior."

For this father, the dream of assimilation renders every element of popular culture a kind of talisman – every trite song, television show, and video game his son collects is another clue along the complex path toward suburban normalcy.

Not surprisingly, this plan never succeeds. The second chapter opens 15 years later. Alex has grown into a man just as betwixt and between as his late father. He's uncomfortable as Asian or Jew, a hypochondriac bouncing between Western and alternative medicine, a sophisticate in the tacky trade of celebrity autographs and paraphernalia.

He's so thoroughly versed in the clichés of popular entertainment and advertising that they compose the atmosphere he breathes. They mediate his thoughts, slip into every conversation, and stand ready to preempt or mock every tender moment. "He is one of this generation who watch themselves," the narrator notes.

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