Written by Nurel Javissyarqi
Translated by Agus B. Harianto
Zadie has birth name Sadie Smith, British author who born in northwest of London at October 25, 1975. Zadie’s mother, Yvonne McLean, emigrated from Jamaica to England in 1969, Zadie’s father, Harvey Smith, was the second marriage of her mother. Zadie’s childhood loved dancing. When in teenager Zadie became actress of musical theater, and Zadie’s tuition came from sung the jazz. When Zadie was 14 years old, Zadie changed her name be “Zadie.” Zadie went to Malorees Junior High School, Hampstead Comprehensive School and King’s College, Cambridge University for studying English literature. Her first novel White Teeth won the Whitbread First Novel Prize in 2000, the patterned novel of magical realism were stirring in England during the year 2000. Like Zadie herself, the main character of White Teeth is half British (mixed blood) who was born in the mid-1970s.
The main character of her second novel is The Autograph Man (2002), a citizen of London mixed Jewish-Chinese. Zadie met Nick Laird at Cambridge University, married in 2004 at the Chapel of King’s College. Zadie’s third novel, On Beauty (2005) nominated for Booker Prize winner in 2005. (From Encyclopedia of World Literature, Anton Kurnia, i: boekoe 2006 and / / www.facebook.com/pages/Zadie-Smith/36287826148?v=info)
Honestly, I’ve never read any sentence of Zadie’s novel, but I tried to observe Zadie through reflection of seven pictures in Zadie’s facebook: Zadie is Jamaican bloody cheerful woman, there is a flower sticking out of her mind, the day of tomorrow the sun sink into her.
Supple step to sing rhythms of life, her eyes is sharp through all the objects into poetic spaces. And her fingers touches are fated to enliven, eyebrows across affirm assertiveness, as if there is a supernatural being following her motion reflecting on confidence.
The light of Toughness traveled up the ladder of possibility passed through with the time of full moon soon arrived. There are no faded charms from mixed blood of artist’s talent that inflames fever of searching every day, simmered and the soul is baked wonder on the life.
Distance of her observations is as flexible as the shook wind to sprinkle the meaning, but the sudden wreaks ghost of memory to break contemplations. It will not take long because the sharp visions disperse the shadow to increase knowledge and arise from the doubt.
I think every character in her novel seems the personality comprehension and seen so bright in the spaces, like the painting which is fulfilled by the spirit of magic between abstract and surreal. Resembling like the burden of stage is black, covered by the light sweet-scented to enter into the smell that is late to feel.
Simple step confirms the natural attitude, when asked something lightly eyebrows followed by the rising of eyebrows like crescent moon that is promised by waited nights. Who like to hang out is eloquent to observes the niche of souls out without words but to be loyal to remoteness of her mystery.
Zadie believe that the future had outlined by ancestors, she just lived to do what had been told similar the flowers are waiting for the season circulated by the cloud, blue sky of night stars, voices are far away behind the eyes. The flowers will not bloom unless assisted by briskly beetle legs, mature smiling of sweet lips kisses with concentration to determine what happen next.
Zadie is self admirer, how she trust her self to measure the point of view of coloring of the reflected light, almost all are carefully calculated. But her laughs and jokes break anything, or this is the balance of regular waves hit the reef caress the grain of sand, like the black and white color shows prestige and fades the ridiculous charms.
The faces are created from forged awaked nights, anxieties are never get aside, though the firm soul gets the meaning to pursue the meaning in the self. Whether carefulness or had understood when chanted went over schools of the issue and admirable determination.
I quoted the opinion of magical realism novelist Gabriel García Márquez; “… a fact is not written on paper, but whom lives in us and determines the moments of daily death that is countless, transformed the source of creativity that had gone out, fully suffering and the beauty … ”
Perhaps there was a way out of control at working, the flying of souls of feeling from inner hermitage to spew unbelievable gore. Also going down the alley of language and transformed of wars reality which is endless to visit over the eternal experiment time.
The other side means trance and tension as if calm to arrest mysteriousness that hard to describe, although in the period of the most intimate time. Or that’s a funny reflection of cheerfully smiling released by the fingers of words, embellishes defect to cover-reproachful that is untouched by the light.
And composure determines the balance of words, whether facing down to the earth with the flying dreams or staring at the sky that is saved singularity. I think the childhood guides the conscience to the ocean of sorrow of quiet on sea shore memories, but as if the life without limits are running to chant the hearts.
Stop for a moment before the maturity of view of understanding increased but the time is getting faster, only the seriousness had etched. Read a book in comfort to reveal the secret behind the writing that is sailed as far as a throwing, blink of joy also hate.
This entry reminded me to the poet Wislawa Szymborska and play director Samira Makhmalbaf, there is no coupling with them but may be related closely. At least, they run the reality of life with the aura of inner innocence to attractive what is going on the soul that is sometimes shocked dragged by the storm of searching toward the sun is really quiet.
Finally, I quoted the words of Imre Kertész; “Later, he had to rely on his own description of potential readers, the expectations that he felt came from readers, and imagine the impact he want to accomplish.