Ali Smith's latest novel, Glyph, is a scathing indictment of the Israeli government's apartheid policies in Palestine, one that dares to confront readers with the brutal realities of occupation and genocide. In this deeply affecting and thought-provoking work, Smith strips away the veneer of distance and irony that often characterizes literary explorations of politics, instead opting for a morally unflinching gaze.
The novel's central characters, sisters Petra and Patch, serve as vessels for the author's exploration of language and its relationship to power. Their names, which hold deep significance in the Greek and Hebrew traditions, provide a poignant counterpoint to the violence and dispossession that permeates the narrative. The sisters' story is one of grappling with mortality and the impermanence of life, but it is also a powerful indictment of the ways in which language can be used to erase or justify the suffering of others.
One of the most striking aspects of Glyph is its use of imagery and metaphor. Smith draws on a range of sources, from ancient myths to modern-day news headlines, to create a sense of disorientation and unease. The character of a young soldier flattened by a tank in World War II serves as a powerful symbol of the dehumanizing effects of violence, while the repeated image of snipers shooting at civilians becomes a haunting refrain.
Throughout the novel, Smith's writing is marked by its precision and subtlety. She tackles the most difficult topics with ease, from the bureaucratic absurdity of the Israeli state to the personal costs of resistance and activism. The description of a teenage girl's arrest for waving a scarf "aggressively" is a particularly striking example of this skill, highlighting the ways in which language can be used to control and manipulate individuals.
Ultimately, Glyph is a novel that challenges its readers to engage with the world in a more direct and intimate way. Smith's relentless focus on language and her refusal to shy away from difficult topics make for a reading experience that is both intellectually stimulating and emotionally demanding. As she so powerfully demonstrates, witness and participant are not mutually exclusive states – they are, rather, two sides of the same coin.
In Glyph, Smith has created a work of fiction that is as much about language and politics as it is about family and memory. It is a novel that will leave readers changed, perhaps even haunted, by its unflinching portrayal of one of the world's most pressing crises. As such, it is a powerful reminder of the enduring power of literature to bear witness to the darkest moments of human history, and to demand justice and accountability from those in power.
The novel's central characters, sisters Petra and Patch, serve as vessels for the author's exploration of language and its relationship to power. Their names, which hold deep significance in the Greek and Hebrew traditions, provide a poignant counterpoint to the violence and dispossession that permeates the narrative. The sisters' story is one of grappling with mortality and the impermanence of life, but it is also a powerful indictment of the ways in which language can be used to erase or justify the suffering of others.
One of the most striking aspects of Glyph is its use of imagery and metaphor. Smith draws on a range of sources, from ancient myths to modern-day news headlines, to create a sense of disorientation and unease. The character of a young soldier flattened by a tank in World War II serves as a powerful symbol of the dehumanizing effects of violence, while the repeated image of snipers shooting at civilians becomes a haunting refrain.
Throughout the novel, Smith's writing is marked by its precision and subtlety. She tackles the most difficult topics with ease, from the bureaucratic absurdity of the Israeli state to the personal costs of resistance and activism. The description of a teenage girl's arrest for waving a scarf "aggressively" is a particularly striking example of this skill, highlighting the ways in which language can be used to control and manipulate individuals.
Ultimately, Glyph is a novel that challenges its readers to engage with the world in a more direct and intimate way. Smith's relentless focus on language and her refusal to shy away from difficult topics make for a reading experience that is both intellectually stimulating and emotionally demanding. As she so powerfully demonstrates, witness and participant are not mutually exclusive states – they are, rather, two sides of the same coin.
In Glyph, Smith has created a work of fiction that is as much about language and politics as it is about family and memory. It is a novel that will leave readers changed, perhaps even haunted, by its unflinching portrayal of one of the world's most pressing crises. As such, it is a powerful reminder of the enduring power of literature to bear witness to the darkest moments of human history, and to demand justice and accountability from those in power.