I'm tired, she says.—from Autumn, by Ali Smith.
It's only two miles, Elisabeth says.
That's not what I mean, she says. I'm tired of the news. I'm tired of the way it makes things spectacular that aren't, and deals so simplistically with what's truly appalling. I'm tired of the vitriol. I'm tired of anger. I'm tired of the meanness. I'm tired of the selfishness. I'm tired of how we're doing nothing to stop it. I'm tired of how we're encouraging it. I'm tired of the violence that's on its way, that's coming, that hasn't happened yet. I'm tired of liars. I'm tired of sanctified liars. I'm tired of how those liars have let this happen. I'm tired of having to wonder whether they did it out of stupidity or did it on purpose. I'm tired of lying governments. I'm tired of people not caring whether they're being lied to anymore. I'm tired of being made to feel this fearful. I'm tired of animosity. I'm tired of pusillanimosity.
I don't think that's actually a word, Elisabeth says.
I'm tired of not knowing the right words, her mother says.
Post-Brexit novel, indeed.
1 comment:
*nods*
Every time I've seen this one on the "new" shelves at the library, I've picked it up. Then, I put it back, because I keep telling myself that I need to catch up with the other Ali Smith's I've missed, because I used to be such a fan, but fell off somewhere in the middle there. And, then, I read a passage like this one, and I think maybe I'll snap it up the next time I see it and I shan't let go!
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