Autumn is a 2016 novel by Scottish author Ali Smith, first published by Hamish Hamilton. It is the first of four seasonal ‘state of the nation’ works. Written rapidly after the United Kingdom's 2016 European Union membership referendum, it was widely regarded as the first 'post-Brexit novel' dealing with the issues raised by the voters' decision. In July 2017, Autumn was longlisted for the 2017 Man Booker Prize for Fiction and in September 2017 it was announced as one of six books to make the shortlist. Many newspapers viewed it as the most likely candidate for winning; it was beaten by George Saunders' Lincoln in the Bardo.The book was named by The New York Times as one of the 10 Best Books of 2017.
This novel takes what could be rightly described as a stream-of-consciousness narrative and gives it substance, even something close to order. Concerned very much with the perception and passage of time, 'Autumn' may be mistakenly described as a novel without much of a plot, but I firmly believe that is exactly what Smith intended with it.
I tried hard to like this book, but I just could not make progress. Perhaps I am not in the right mood for this style of writing. It all seemed rather smug in places, and even the more interesting lyrical passages would get wrecked by a nod and a wink to the reader. For instance, p.181:
'...Daniel Gluck taking leaf of his senses at last, his tongue a broad green leaf, leaves growing through the sockets of his eyes, leaves thrustling (very good word for it) out of his ears, leaves tendrilling down through the caves of his nostrils and out and round till he's swathed in foliage, leafskin, relief.'
I would usually like writing like this, especially the poetic license on words like 'thrustling' and 'tendrilling'. But that parenthesis troubles me. I do not want the narrator telling me what is a 'good word' or not, unless it is …
I tried hard to like this book, but I just could not make progress. Perhaps I am not in the right mood for this style of writing. It all seemed rather smug in places, and even the more interesting lyrical passages would get wrecked by a nod and a wink to the reader. For instance, p.181:
'...Daniel Gluck taking leaf of his senses at last, his tongue a broad green leaf, leaves growing through the sockets of his eyes, leaves thrustling (very good word for it) out of his ears, leaves tendrilling down through the caves of his nostrils and out and round till he's swathed in foliage, leafskin, relief.'
I would usually like writing like this, especially the poetic license on words like 'thrustling' and 'tendrilling'. But that parenthesis troubles me. I do not want the narrator telling me what is a 'good word' or not, unless it is clear that this passage is indeed an interior monologue. Perhaps it is? At this stage of the book I was confused and a bit irritated by the whole thing. So upon reading this passage - which was almost great - I put the book down and will read no further. I have given this book too many chances, and life is too short to read to the end and face further disappointment.
