Suzanne Farrell Smith’s life does not, overall, go very well. In fact, the general run of it is miserable, if we can believe what she tells us in the 30 brief essays that make up her book, “Small Off Things.”

We hear, variously, of a horrendous story about the destruction of her inner ear following a terrible childhood mistake; worst-case-scenario dental problems; the mind-numbing anxiety of having twins in a neonatal intensive care unit; the heart-rending process of a mother dying; a conversation with a mirror that reveals the problem at hand is the abuse of anti-anxiety drugs; a drowning near a bucolic lake house; persistently unstable living situations in New York City; neurotic reflections on life at work; absent boyfriend, absent husband; a developmentally disabled child; a ridiculous story about a city street scam; shady and possibly dangerous home contractors; fretting over whether to feed the neighborhood bear.

In the one-page “Nothing Is Different When My Mother Dies,” the first part dramatizes how life’s inconsequential routines merely go on (after, implicitly, mother’s death). Then the middle observes: “Nothing is different now. Cancer cells still multiply in bodies everywhere. Stenosis squeezes spines. Blood sugar rises in tides. Urinary systems are inundated in bacteria. Depression prevents doctoring. Everywhere, always, newborns and grandmothers fail to thrive.”

The riving content and blank matter-of-factness of these sentences are characteristic of most of the book. Passages arise that seem so ironic you wonder if the ghost of Erma Bombeck has been invoked and you’re supposed to laugh. But you’re not sure, because in most of those passages what’s happening is not funny. The human suffering (see chapter summaries above), whether Farrell’s own or someone else’s, is usually so harrowing that the nearest available recognizable emotion is pity, not humor.

An exception is “The Helping Man,” which really is funny because its pain arises not from physical or mental affliction, but from slapstick naiveté. The family is driving home in their clunker car when a man flags them down at a traffic light and frantically tells them smoke is billowing from the car and he can help. Even though no smoke is coming from the car, they allow the guy to help. The narrator is uncertain of the exact series of events (uncertainty seems to be the theme), but soon there’s a jug of water sizzling on the engine. When the guy wants $300 for assisting them, they’re not sure what to do, even though it is long since obvious that this is an apparently real-life scene from some unused script for “The Sopranos.” The whole thing is so ridiculous you don’t know whether to laugh or cry, as the saying goes. It’s pitiful.

The “writing,” as we term stylistic proficiency, is really very skilled in “Small Off Things.” There are instances of peculiar dramatic irony and deadpan-wry passages and turns of phrase. But be warned: This is a book about misery. It’s probably not going to cheer you up to find out someone has it, overall, possibly worse than you.

Suzanne Farrell Smith lives in Connecticut. “Small Off Things” is available through Littoral Books in Portland.

Off Radar takes note of poetry and books with Maine connections the first Friday of each month. Contact Dana Wilde at dwilde.offradar@gmail.com.

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