Ali Smith's latest novel, Glyph, is a searing exploration of the war in Gaza that dares to confront the most uncomfortable truths with unflinching honesty. The book follows sisters Petra and Patch as they grapple with the loss of their mother and the finality of death, but it soon expands its scope to tackle the Israeli government's apartheid and genocide in Palestine.
At its core, Glyph is a novel about language - not just the words we use, but the way they resonate with each other, and how they can be used to manipulate and control. Smith's etymological resonance and inference are as powerful as ever, drawing attention to the ways in which names can reveal character and context. Petra, meaning "stone" from Greek, is a potent symbol of solidity and authority, while Patch, meaning "to repair", conveys care, survival, and persistence.
The novel's central images - including a haunting story about a young soldier flattened by a tank - draw their power from the everyday horror of expansionist slaughter. Smith is not just playing with the question of what makes a character "flat" versus three-dimensional; she is also raising vital questions about representation and silence. When Patch's teenage daughter watches a distressing video of a horse trapped under rubble, she notes that it was probably Gaza - leaving no doubt in the reader's mind.
Smith's tonal skill as a writer is on full display when dealing with the bureaucratic absurdity of the British state. The arrest of Patch's daughter for waving a scarf "aggressively" serves as a scathing critique of the government's attempts to justify its inaction in the face of Israeli war crimes.
Glyph is a bold and unflinching novel that challenges the perceived aesthetic orthodoxy of distance and irony. Smith's relentless focus on language makes her particularly well-suited to this task, and she proves herself to be a master of grappling with the avalanche of passive-voice headlines, asymmetric categorisations, and semantic absurdities that have accompanied the justifications of the unjustifiable.
Ultimately, Glyph is not just a novel - it's an act of bearing witness. As Smith so eloquently puts it, "we can never say we did not see" when faced with the atrocities committed in Gaza. This is a book that demands to be read, and reckoned with, in all its unflinching honesty.
At its core, Glyph is a novel about language - not just the words we use, but the way they resonate with each other, and how they can be used to manipulate and control. Smith's etymological resonance and inference are as powerful as ever, drawing attention to the ways in which names can reveal character and context. Petra, meaning "stone" from Greek, is a potent symbol of solidity and authority, while Patch, meaning "to repair", conveys care, survival, and persistence.
The novel's central images - including a haunting story about a young soldier flattened by a tank - draw their power from the everyday horror of expansionist slaughter. Smith is not just playing with the question of what makes a character "flat" versus three-dimensional; she is also raising vital questions about representation and silence. When Patch's teenage daughter watches a distressing video of a horse trapped under rubble, she notes that it was probably Gaza - leaving no doubt in the reader's mind.
Smith's tonal skill as a writer is on full display when dealing with the bureaucratic absurdity of the British state. The arrest of Patch's daughter for waving a scarf "aggressively" serves as a scathing critique of the government's attempts to justify its inaction in the face of Israeli war crimes.
Glyph is a bold and unflinching novel that challenges the perceived aesthetic orthodoxy of distance and irony. Smith's relentless focus on language makes her particularly well-suited to this task, and she proves herself to be a master of grappling with the avalanche of passive-voice headlines, asymmetric categorisations, and semantic absurdities that have accompanied the justifications of the unjustifiable.
Ultimately, Glyph is not just a novel - it's an act of bearing witness. As Smith so eloquently puts it, "we can never say we did not see" when faced with the atrocities committed in Gaza. This is a book that demands to be read, and reckoned with, in all its unflinching honesty.