A Fly in the Soup

Charles Simic

Charles Simic is a fantastic poet; a case could be made that he is, in fact, the best poet working in the English language today. Pick up any random book of Simic's poetry and you'll be holding a wonder; you might even be holding a masterpiece. He's written enough of them. Which is why I find it so surprising that, while one can't call A Fly in the Soup a mediocre book, it seems to be lacking some sort of spark that turns Simic from a gifted poet into one of the planet's best.

A collection of essays previously published in various spots collected and made into a memoir, A Fly in the Soup presents some truly harrowing pictures; Charles Simic did not, to say the least, have an easy life. Those who cringe at the present spate of "poor, poor pitiful me" memoirs will probably find this one a breath of fresh air, as Simic, even in moments of deepest sorrow, looks back on these situations with wry amusement and a touch of cynicism (his relation of an encounter at a writers' workshop with Daniel Hoffman-- who was flying one of the jets that bombed Belgrade during Simic's WWII childhood-- is itself worth reading this book for). The book is suffused with that same wryness, and while these events are not depicted through rose-colored lenses, they're not seen through the gunmetal grey of many recent memoirs, either; there's much here to like.

And were it any other author, really, I'd call this one of the best memoirs I'd seen in quite a while (not the best; Charles Burns' Black Hole takes that cake). And if I'm going to be fair about it, it really is. It's intellectually engaging, readable, and will at least keep you entertained.

What it is not, though, is great. I know the folly of looking at a great poet and expecting him to be a fantastic short story writer, or vice versa;BarnIndex.html#BUKOWSKICHARLES> Bukowski was a much better poet than short story writer, as much as my admitting that is going to destroy my cred. Raymond Carver is a brilliant prose stylist, but his poetry often leaves me banging my head against the nearest sharp metal object. The number of people who can do both with equal grace and talent is a handful, at best. So when I read this and see a great poet who is a good prose stylist, why do I feel so let down? Eh, I'm raising my review half a star on the general principle that I shouldn't let my expectations rule my impressions.