Ali Smith’s Gliff is set “once upon a time, not very far from now”. It is a kind of fairytale of the future in which two children, Briar and Rose, navigate a world which seems increasingly baffling and hostile.
Gliff is the first of a planned pair of novels – the second to be called Glyph. Although the two words sound identical, their meanings are quite different. The Scottish word “gliff” means a shock, fright or sudden glimpse. A “glyph”, meanwhile, is a written character or symbol. There’s similarly insistent wordplay in Gliff. It reflects its preoccupation with how meaning is created – and destroyed.
Smith’s latest novel shares many of the same concerns as her recent Seasonal Quartet (2016-2020): the effects of climate change, the plight of refugees, the growth of intolerance and authoritarianism. But Gliff is set in a dystopian Britain where all these problems have intensified in frightening ways. Smith therefore follows in the footsteps of a growing number of literary novelists who have turned to science fiction in recent years, as boundaries between genres become less rigid.
Some of the predictions – extreme surveillance, blistering summers, widespread penal servitude – are familiar science fiction themes. But other elements of Gliff are more surreal and fantastical. A particularly strange plot element is the use of a device called the “supera bounder”, a clunky machine which “looked like an invention made by an amateur for a joke”. This is used to spray red paint around houses, people, vehicles and animals which are targeted for removal or destruction.
When Briar and Rose find a red paint circle around first their house, then their campervan, they are forced into hiding. They lurk on the margins of society, hoping they can escape being packed off to a “reeducation centre”.
Exploring marginalisation
The sinister red paint circles are an effective symbol for the more subtle ways in which societies exclude or marginalise “undesirables” of various types. The device fits in with a long tradition of science fiction writers offering the reader a distorted reflection of the ways in which inequality and prejudice operate in society. The invisible barriers which separate rich from poor, for example, are often reimagined as literal walls or fences.
Smith gives a horrifying vision of a future world of work in which unprotected or unwanted children are forced to scavenge metal from waste in dangerous conditions and adult workers are ruthlessly surveilled, punished, fined and controlled.
One reason this is so shocking is because the novel is set solely in Britain. Under globalisation, we are already dependent on goods produced under similar conditions – but in countries which are safely remote from us. Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games trilogy can be read as a similar parable of globalisation.
Gliff can be compared with other recent works of speculative fiction which combine dystopian themes with more surreal or fantastical elements. Rumaan Alam’s acclaimed Leave the World Behind (2020), for example, uses a mysterious, undefined national emergency as the springboard for reflections on racism, over-reliance on technology, and climate change. But it also draws on fairytale motifs.
Separated from their parents, Briar and Rose resemble a science fictional Hansel and Gretel. Towards the end of the novel – through both its themes and landscapes – there are also echoes of Alan Garner’s powerful children’s fantasies. And Gliff the horse is invested with an almost mythical charge, harking back to Smith’s earlier use of magical tales from Ovid’s Metamorphoses in her novel Girl Meets Boy (2007).
Gliff demonstrates Ali Smith’s characteristic strengths as a novelist. The narrative is accessible and engaging, yet at the same time complex and subtle. Many puzzles are set for the reader – only some are resolved.
Looking for something good? Cut through the noise with a carefully curated selection of the latest releases, live events and exhibitions, straight to your inbox every fortnight, on Fridays. Sign up here.
Sarah Annes Brown does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.
