I’m spending the morning with Zadie Smith, and she’s taking me to a cemetery, the largest one in London. “Ready to get our legs stung?” she asks, as we veer off the gravel path and plunge into thick undergrowth. I’m more concerned about Smith, who is dressed in denim dungaree shorts, a black tank top - “Walmart,” she says apologetically - and Palmaira sandals that look pretty time-worn. Will the literary establishment forgive me if I let one of its finest living novelists trip over an overgrown tombstone and sprain her ankle?
Smith - now 47, having spent the past few decades briskly dispensing of the condescending literary ingénue label that attached itself, remora-like, in the wake of her 2000 debut, White Teeth - is in adventure mode. Various local maps have been shoved under her armpit with determination. That leonine face and the striking, wide-set eyes are today mostly covered up with a cheerfully giant pair of sunglasses, the signature headwrap discarded in favour of braids with golden hair rings. The effect is less artistic luminary and more cool downtown aunt at a farmers’ market.
“I have this really strong urge to speak clearly. Unimpededly. Unsponsored. And free”
One can almost forget that Smith is the winner of numerous awards, including the Women’s Prize for Fiction and a twice-named Granta best young novelist, before she aged out of the category. “I’m very sad about getting old,” she declares, not sounding remotely sad about it, “but I’m trying to take it on the chin.” was named by as one of the 100 best novels and , which she finds particularly pleasing as it also published both Joan Didion and Susan Sontag. “When it comes to novelists, from a British perspective, there’s no one who has had more of an influence on me,” author Caleb Azumah Nelson - both a Smith fan and friend - tells me over the phone, the same month his second book, , hits the bestseller list. “So often I read her turns of phrase and I’m astounded.”
