Winter by Ali Smith (2017): A Review

Title: Winter

Author: Ali Smith

Publication Year: 2017

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐

Pages: 322

Source: physical book

Genre: literary fiction, postmodernism, political fiction

Awards: Orwell Prize Nominee for Longlist (2018), Europese Literatuurprijs Nominee (2019)

After reading ten books by Ali Smith, I feel that whatever I write will inevitably become a repetition of whatever I have already said about her work — which, to be fair, is also something she does in her books, though with far more skill and fewer signs of intellectual exhaustion.

One thing I may not have said before, however, is that Smith’s books have an almost transient quality. They move incredibly fast. You can easily read a 300-page novel in a day or two, provided you do not stop every five minutes to look up a reference, an artwork, a political event, a mythological allusion, or a word that suddenly makes you question your entire education.

And this is where the problem begins. The books move quickly, but the intertextualities and references make you want to pause constantly. Being a Smithian marathoner (if such a tragic athletic category exists) means learning to silence that urge and simply go with the flow. At some point, you must tell your brain, gently but firmly, “We are not Googling this. We are surviving.”

By transience, I also mean something stranger: Smith’s books can be difficult to retain in terms of plot and character. I read Winter about ten days ago and made the grave mistake of not writing the review immediately. Now, here I am, consulting Wikipedia, trying to remember who appeared in this novel and what exactly happened to them. I am still unsure whether this is a criticism or a compliment.

This fleeting quality in her work reminds me of Mia Pearlman’s paper installations: temporary, delicate, intricate works that are torn down after the exhibition, leaving only photographs behind as evidence that they once existed. I do not know whether Smith intends her novels to function this way; after all, who writes a book to be forgotten, especially when the book is literally printed on paper? I may be spiralling. This is what happens after ten Ali Smith books.

In Winter, Smith is once again doing what Ali Smith does: seasonal atmosphere, political anxiety, fractured family dynamics, art, memory, language, and the arrival of a catalyst figure (here, Lux) who unsettles and fixes everything. The characters and stories are different, yet somehow familiar, as if each book in the Seasonal Quartet is speaking to the others across weather conditions.

And yes, the confusion is still there. After ten books (did I mention that enough?) I have not mastered it. I have merely developed a more dignified way of being confused.

My main conclusion: Autumn is still my favourite from the Seasonal Quartet.

My serious advice: do not read all of one author’s books in a row. It sounds ambitious and scholarly, but eventually you begin comparing books to temporary paper installations and questioning your life choices.

Three more books to finish this marathon.