Paul Davies seems a sort of Renaissance man. Born in 1954, he has already had several careers, including that of antiquarian bookseller, research analyst in frontier oil and gas, and book designer. He began publishing creative writing in the early 1990s; Gelignite Jack, a collection of three stories, is his first complete work of fiction.

The brief biography is helpful in understanding both the strength of the collection, and its weaknesses. Davies possesses a probing intelligence, as well as a philosophical bent of mind, and his writing is most enjoyable when he has created a credible narrative space to explore his interests. “A Sweet Comedy,” the lengthy first story, tells of two young actresses struggling to establish themselves in Toronto. Their lives and ambitions are enriched by their encounters with figures conjured from the Second World War. Davies’ magic realism feels perfunctory, but the tale is otherwise a pleasant meditation on individual destiny. “I often feel my life is dreamy and disconnected,” says one character. Her comment could apply, in a largely positive sense, to “A Sweet Comedy.”

What works in that story, despite some tin-eared dialogue and awkward plotting, doesn’t succeed in either “Apostrophe” or “East Fortieth.” In one, a middle-aged man working in the Arctic awaits a plane and, possibly, a new life; in the other, a woman must deal with her elderly grandmother’s infirmity. While both tales offer solid characterizations, especially the figure of Harold in “Apostrophe,” neither is very compelling. The reader will discern the presence of serious and interesting intentions in the fiction, but Davies’ prose is way too slack, or perhaps simply too uninterested in tactile details, to bring these qualities into the necessary relief.

The nature of Paul Davies’ intellect, in other words, works against him as a fiction writer. He appears to be a cultured man with insights and ideas aplenty. “A Sweet Comedy,” in fact, reads like an extended café chat with good company. As a writer, however, he seeks the graceful blend of narrative and philosophy typified by Milan Kundera. Kundera’s intelligence is indeed aloof, but his work springs from ardent circumstances and passionate, concrete concerns. Gelignite Jack has brains, but no body – that is, no narrative energy: it doesn’t feel essential, the way good fiction must. It is also far from the work of a polished professional.