Culture Vulture: Trivial Pursuits

I wanted to like Trivial Pursuits. I really did. With the book’s gushing testimonials and Raven’s sparkling reputation as a journalist and social commentator, I had put the book on a pedestal before I’d even opened its cover. 

My understanding of Trivial Pursuits is that it was intended to be an ode to the minutiae of modern life, that — despite being insignificant in the grand scheme of things — fill the gap between birth and death. They are, essentially, the components of life, giving it colour, purpose, and meaning. An appealing promise for a book, particularly after the bleak year we’ve just endured.

Having read and relished many of Smith’s articles, I was excited to deep-dive into his paperback debut. He’s adept at capturing the zeitgeist of our generation, and deliciously outrageous whilst doing so. But when a colleague of mine at work shared his criticisms of the book with me, I found myself relieved — I wasn’t alone in thinking the book didn’t quite live up to the hype. 

I’m only too aware that vocalising reservations about Smith’s writing is considered blasphemy in the journalism world. Upon reading through other people’s reviews of the book on goodreads, though, I found this feeling of disappointment to be a common one.

Trivial Pursuits felt more like a bit of a self-indulgent pursuit, with a sense of stream-of-consciousness about it that left little point of access for the reader. Amidst the onslaught of witty anecdotes, it often felt like even Smith himself was lost with what he was trying to say, his ideas pin-balling around with no clear direction. His observations of society were perceptive and resonant, but there wasn’t enough of this to truly satisfy; and whilst the final sentence of each chapter was insightful, the journey to get there was chaotic.

It was hard to find the real content in Smith’s writing amidst the torrent of similes. They constituted the vast majority of the book, sandwiched back-to-back with little substance in between. Whilst demonstrating his cultural breadth and encyclopaedic knowledge of millennial pop culture, it grew tiresome after a while. I’m a sucker for a simile, but even I have my limits. 

In Smith’s quest to make his work ultra accessible, he rendered it inaccessible. It felt like he was trying a little too hard to be witty, to live up to his reputation as ‘Instagram’s funniest man’, the result of which was 272 pages worth of one-liners. I wondered, at times, whether his humour had teetered over the line into inanity. Trivial Pursuits felt like a performance, more self-centric than you would expect from a book that claims to be about the collective experience. At times, the performance even became a little uncomfortable to witness, like watching a friend try too hard to impress a group of new people. 

Smith’s book was clearly an outlet for an existential crisis, containing more questions than it did answers. Constantly going off at tangents, he moved from talking about sibling dynamics to the experience of having sex with a painter in a matter of sentences — a segue which isn’t clear to anyone but himself. He seemed to get easily distracted by his own thoughts, his internal monologue unravelling at a pace that was impossible to keep up with. It was frustrating and frenetic, leaving me tangled up amidst a bunch of loose ends.

In one of the earliest chapters, Smith recounted the difficulty he had starting the book, and I can’t help but wonder whether that’s because the format simply doesn’t suit him. He, himself, admits to being a bit over-the-top, which translates into his writing and makes for a wearing read. Like a friend that is great fun for an evening, but you wouldn’t dare go on holiday with, maybe Smith is best enjoyed in smaller doses.