Gliff by Ali Smith review: 'entertaining and sophisticated'

Set in a dictatorial state where everyone is under surveillance, the new novel from Ali Smith is a riot of puns, neologisms and quick-fire exchanges, writes Stuart Kelly
Ali SmithAli Smith
Ali Smith | Getty Images

Ali Smith does not need to search far for plaudits: previous works have seen her variously described as transcendental, sublime, a wayward genius, a maestra and more valuable than a whole parliament of politicians. The apex of hyperbole was the description “Scotland’s Nobel Laureate-in-waiting”; and yet the more I think about it, the more inadvertently and problematically apposite that seems. Alfred Nobel’s original stipulation was for “the most outstanding work in an idealistic direction”. What that actually meant is uncertain, and looking at previous citations, phrases like “deep understanding”, “classical humanitarian ideals”, “profound human sympathy” and “indomitable spirit” abound. There is a reason the Nobel never went to Zola, Ibsen or Hardy. The Nobel is for writers who contribute “to the benefit of mankind”. For benefit, betterment might be substituted. The Prize was conceived of as optimistic in nature; and even Samuel Beckett was shoehorned in for work in which “the destitution of modern man acquires its elevation”. By these standards, Ali Smith would fit very neatly indeed.

Gliff is part of a pair, with the homophonous Glyph coming next year: the works can be read separately but have a connection whereby the latter reveals a story hidden in the former. Judgments are therefore to an extent provisional. After the breakneck, up-to-the-minute nature of the seasonal quartet and its epilogue, Gliff aims are something more fabulist and timeless. Bri – possibly Briar – and their sister Rose are left in the care of their mother’s boyfriend, who himself leaves them to search for her. They live in a dictatorial state, where properties and areas can be encircled with red paint, a kind of social quarantine and displacement. Bri and Rose fall in with a local lad, Colon, and more importantly his horse.

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Having been told that he is “a very gliffy horse”, Rose “tried calling it Gliffy in my head but that felt like making it smaller and made it sound like it was an iffy horse. So I took the y off and that felt more right”. There is a whole chapter devoted to the many meanings of gliff, but its significance is its polysemous nature: “he can be everything and anything.” This is in stark contrast to Colon’s role collecting data on people and seeking “Unverifiables”, those outside the datasets of state mass observation.

Bri and Rose’s whistle-blower mother had encouraged a healthy scepticism about this “sousveillance” – “why do you think they call it a net? Why do you think they call it a web?” The State is nothing if not relentless, and they are separated, with Bri becoming “re-ed”, conforming, and controlling a child labour chemical factory. Of course, the break is not clean and the past is unfinished.

Gliff is like a fanfare of the Ali Smith showcase. There are redactions, puns, quick-fire exchanges, malapropisms, neologisms and more. It is replete with cadenzas and the studied impromptu: as regards a story we get the exchange – “What’ll it be about? I don’t know yet, she said. When will you know? How will I know till I’m making it up? she said”.

Identities are always signs of flux, a significant feature in all Smith’s work but especially How To Be Both. Here its most explicit iteration is the dialogue, “are you a boy or a girl?” Yes I am, I said”. Language is both a means of escape and redefinition, and it is inescapable and grounds for imprisonment: “They were largely unverifiable because of words. One person here had been unverified for saying out loud a war was a war… another had been unverified for speaking at a protest about people’s right to protest”. As with Hotel World there is a gradual erasure of words, so “brave new world” is whittled into “rave new o ld:” and “ave n (i) r:” or twisted into “Bravo new world” or “Brave you world”. Of course, it’s a reference to Huxley’s dystopian Brave New World, itself referencing Miranda in The Tempest – the irony being that her exclamation of enthusiasm for this world “that has such people in’t” is directed at would-be fratricides and usurpers, a geriatric and a pair of nonentities. If Gliff encourages us to place hope in the youthful Bri and Rose as radicals, I hope they are less gullible than Miranda.

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Although I can’t say if it is a clue or a red herring, there is a hieroglyph mentioned, as an image of scratches made by a key around a lock, when Bri is dreaming of their sister. Is the glyph – the written attempt to fix – also the moment of separation? It is also hinted at in a flashback to visiting a neolithic cave, where the petroglyphs are a connection to deep time and also a site of erasure and vandalism.

Gliff, of course, is entertaining and sophisticated and clever. But is it serious? A gliff can be a kind of flinch, and when it comes to the reality of evil, Smith blinds the reader with confetti and glitter.

Gliff, by Ali Smith, Hamish Hamilton, £18.99

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