Kay Nolte Smith (1932–1993)

I'd name Kay Nolte Smith as a favorite author. Her books are all the more precious to me because soon after I discovered them she died of cancer, and I knew there would be no more. Recently I've been purging my book shelves, which I have to do periodically, otherwise those books breed. I took this book down, and thought it might be the time to put it in the discard pile, because this doesn't stick out in my mind the way her two historical novels do, A Tale of the Wind and Venetian Song or her story on the theme of dangers of worshiping genius, Elegy of a Soprano. Then I turned to the first page and read:

She stepped into the store and gazed around with a smile of content. Books. By the yard, the acre, the mile. Stacked in piles and packed in bursting rows, spilling out as if propelled by the energy of their words. And everywhere the smell: must and wood and aging paper and, somehow, a hint of spice. It exhilarated her to plunge into the past, as long as it wasn't her own.

She moved past the table of shiny new review copies, toward the remainders and secondhand books. The shelves were separated by such narrow aisles that she had to walk between them crablike and angle her head to read the spines, so that the long braid of her hair slid to one side.

The book store is never named, but I had to smile. For me it was such a vivid conjuration of one of the wonders of New York City, the Strand Bookstore, and that opening sucked me right in. And it wasn't long before I was feeling a renewed affection for these characters, in particular the protagonist depicted in that opening, Hedy Lucas. Hedy and her mother defected to the United States from the Soviet Union, leaving their father behind. Now, almost twenty years later, her father, a great living composer, is being allowed to travel abroad again to Finland. Hedy travels there to meet her father again and to try to learn why he never joined them in their escape.

I won't claim this is deathless literature or even at the top of the mystery genre in the tradition of a Dorothy Sayers or Agatha Christie. But it is definitely a well-written, at times insightful, and an entertaining mystery with a twist that isn't just clever but has emotional impact--and I find I can't part with this book in the name of a freed up space after all.… (altro)

I really enjoyed this one. I do have a complaint about the style. Ever since reading a review of the author's A Tale of the Wind on Amazon pointing it out, I find it impossible not to notice Smith's over-fondness for the simile. I can't help but feel it would be a stronger book if just about every phrase tacked on with a "like" or "as" were ruthlessly cut away. Yet despite that stylistic tic, I can't help but be fond of this story. The author was herself an actress, and that experience, and obviously meticulous historical research, shows in the way she brings alive her tale of a troupe of players in sixteenth century Venice. But more than setting and plot, what has always shined to me in Smith's books are her characters and her way of making you care about them. In particular Susanna Bardi. Born into a noble merchant house, she was scarred as a child and as a young woman forced into an unbearable marriage. She runs away from her husband and is found on the streets by a member of the players and taken in, and the way she changes as a result of her time with them is wonderful to see.

I loved Smith's other work of historical fiction, A Tale of the Wind, set in nineteenth century France even more--I think it a richer tale. But this is nevertheless a diverting, enjoyable novel for those who love historical fiction blended with romance.… (altro)

This book really speaks to me, because I think it asks questions that are so close to the author's own experience. The novel is a mystery involving Vardis Wolf, an opera singer whose career, repertoire and voice is closely modeled on that of Maria Callas. As a fan of Callas and opera the glimpses of that world in the book itself holds some fascination--but there's another ghost in between the lines of this book--Ayn Rand.

Kay Nolte Smith was once part of the inner circle hovering about Ayn Rand. This was a woman whose values and artistry she deeply admired, and if you know much about Rand's beliefs, you can see her continuing influence in the writing and themes and worldview of the book. But Rand was also someone it was destructive to get close to, someone who espoused liberty and individualism who nevertheless carried on something close to a cult from which ranks Smith found herself expelled from. It's impossible for me not to see the parallels in this novel, in which Smith examines artistry and genius and admiration and the contradictions and complexities and dynamics in such a figure and her followers.

It's also a solid mystery in a classic whodunit sense. Well-written, in a less baroque style that of her later books. Years later I still remember a powerful image in the book, of a baby thrown in the garbage with eggshells in her hair. And it does something in the end I quite admire in terms of being honest about consequences to her characters.… (altro)

I last read this when it first came out in hardcover about 20 years ago--and reading it again, I find I still love it. Set in nineteenth century Paris, the novel follows three generations of women, Jeanne, a ragpicker's daughter, her daughter Gabrielle and her daughter Simone. Each is drawn into the life and art of Paris and Smith skillfully weaves in the politics, art and social mores of the day and how they intertwined. The book impressed upon me how turbulent was this period from 1827 to 1885 with France continually bouncing back and forth between a republic and monarchy. It's also a story about the importance of living authentically and the power of family--especially the ones we make beyond those of mere blood.

Yes, I can see problems. I think the biggest is a particular stylistic tic of Smith's. There doesn't seem to be a metaphor or simile she didn't like. So many are tacked on, after descriptions:

She had dozens of frocks–especially yellow and pink, in which her mother loved to dress her, all lavishly trimmed, so that as she ran about the house and the garden, she was like a flower shaking petals of ribbons and lace.

I simply opened the book at random and jotted down the first instance--it's a frequent habit, and reminds me of the wisdom of the "RUE" principle in writing--"Resist the Urge to Explain" that admonishes against overwriting. I do think Smith is often guilty of that.

So why do I rate this book so highly? Partly because I do love books that like this one can take me to a time and place not my own and make me feel I got to know it better. But what makes the novel special to me are the characters, who Smith made me care about greatly. Particularly Nandou. He's the man with the voice, the talent and intellect that should have let him play great dramatic roles--but he's trapped in the body of a dwarf. He's the one that changes Jeanne's fate, when he takes her off the streets and brings her into his life when she's a young girl. He's one of those characters I rather love--with unexpected facets and flaws and handicaps but endearing and larger than life.

Kay Nolte Smith's writing career was a short one--only about ten years before she died of cancer and she had only seven novels to her credit. I don't think any are still in print, which I think a shame. I loved best her two last novels, both works of historical fiction, this one, A Tale of the Wind and Venetian Song set in Renaissance Venice. Both have a permanent place on my bookshelves for good reason.… (altro)