Ever since the early 19th century, when Thomas Bruce, seventh earl of Elgin, sawed off and crowbarred many of the carvings that ringed the top of the Parthenon and sold them to the British Museum to dodge bankruptcy, the British have been sharply polarized over whether Britain or Greece has the right to these sculptures. For many liberals and radicals, beginning with Lord Byron, Elgin was a vandal who had committed sacrilege. Yet others maintained that he’d acquired the marbles legally, and even that he’d rescued them from inevitable neglect under the Ottoman empire.

In December, The Guardian reported that talks between the Greek government and the British Museum over the potential return of the Parthenon marbles were “well advanced.” Although a final agreement isn’t imminent, this development is significant. Negotiations have been under way for some time, built around an extended loan of the sculptures to Athens in return for the temporary transfer of some Greek treasures to Britain. The Starmer administration is more amenable to a final agreement than the previous government (though it won’t budge on a law that forbids the permanent removal of British Museum artifacts). After nearly two centuries of bitter but worthless wrangling, one of the longest-running cultural quarrels in Europe might soon be entering its epilogue.

For a long time, I was uncertain of my position on this question. On the one hand, it is a plain fact that imperialist powers have dispossessed many nations of much of their cultural patrimony. The present distribution of treasures in museums across the world reflects the global inequality in wealth and power—in favor of Europe and North America. So campaigns for repatriation of these objects are regarded as attempts to redress this imbalance, allowing the formerly colonized to reclaim their rightful property.

Many Greeks believe that this applies to them, too. Their argument is that the marbles are the property of the Greek nation, which freed itself from the Ottoman empire in 1832 after centuries of being its vassal. This seems self-evidently true—until you consider the British Museum’s counterargument, which is that there is great value in the encyclopedic museum: a place where the heritage of many ancient civilizations can be seen, emphasizing the interconnectedness of humanity. In this framing, returning the marbles would be reactionary and nationalist; retaining them is progressive and cosmopolitan. Similar debates have shot through the many battlefronts of the culture wars, such as identity politics and the debate over what books belong in the canon. Does art belong to all of humanity, or is it fundamentally rooted in the particular culture in which it was produced?

Christopher Hitchens, among the most eloquent and forceful advocates of rejoining the Parthenon marbles, helped tilt me toward the cause of repatriation. With great timing, Verso Books has just reissued his slim book The Parthenon Marbles: The Case for Reunification. One of the earliest polemics by the notoriously pugilistic cultural critic, who died in 2011, it was originally published in 1987 under the title Imperial Spoils: The Curious Case of the Elgin Marbles and reissued once before, in 2008, under its current title. The renaming accorded with changing times (referring to the “Elgin marbles” was no longer politically correct); it also revealed a subtle evolution in the point that Hitchens wished to stress: namely, the aesthetic case for reattachment.

[Read: Behind a centuries-old international feud over marbles]

Hitchens’s dedication to this cause wasn’t merely due to a romantic philhellenism rooted in the classical British-private-school curriculum; his life was intertwined with the Hellenic world. As a young socialist and internationalist in the 1970s, he had written and spoken against the Greek military junta that had persecuted his fellow leftists. The independence of Cyprus was among his precious causes, alongside self-determination for the Kurds and the Palestinians—who had long been victims of occupation and imperialist power games. His first wife was a Greek Cypriot, and, as he noted movingly in his memoir Hitch-22, his mother died by suicide in a hotel room overlooking the Acropolis, amid a 1973 anti-junta student uprising. The cause of the Parthenon marbles was therefore both personal and political, emblematic “of a long and honourable solidarity between British liberals and radicals and the cause of a free and independent Greece,” as he wrote in the introduction to the 2008 edition.

And yet he makes his case for repatriating the works almost exclusively on artistic grounds. The argument is simple and, as Hitchens put it, “unanswerable.” One of the great monuments of world culture—a temple garlanded with masterful carvings—the Parthenon was designed by Phidias to celebrate the glory of Athens. Its friezes depict a procession of gods, warriors, and mythical animals; its metopes, single panels within the larger frieze, narrate mythological battles of the Athenians against the Amazonians and the Centaurs, alluding to the Greco-Persian wars. Most of these scenes were—and remain—amputated, disfigured, and scattered. For instance, the body of the goddess Iris is now in London, while her head is in Athens. Poseidon’s front torso is in Athens, the rear part in London. The cavalcade of galloping horsemen is crudely fragmented across several nations. The repair of this travesty, to the extent that it is possible, so that it can be aesthetically appreciated as a united whole, is long overdue.

Many of the anti-unification arguments Hitchens faced in the 1980s have aged badly—chief among them the assertion that Athens won’t be an adequate home for them because of instability, pollution, and a lack of infrastructure. Today it feels patronizing, because it is so obvious, to point out that Greece has been a stable modern democracy for more than 50 years, and that the state-of-the-art Acropolis Museum, opened in 2009, has proved that the Greeks are not just worthy, but superb custodians of their antiquity. Reattaching the marbles to the fragile ruins of the temple, whose roof was blown off by the Venetians in 1687, would be impossible. But within this spacious museum building, visible from the Acropolis, the reunited marbles would be protected against the elements, accessible to visitors, and mounted in the original order on a scale model of the Parthenon’s upper portion.

One retentionist argument, however, has endured, and it is of the slippery-slope variety: that reuniting the marbles will set off an avalanche of claims that every ancient artifact be returned to its land of origin, which together will abolish the very idea of the cosmopolitan museum. Hitchens once dismissed this line of reasoning as the “old last-ditch standby of the bureaucrat.” For one, he wrote sardonically, “there are no Assyrians, Hittites or Babylonians to take up the cry of ‘precedent.’”  

Yet in the years following Hitchens’s death, this charge has accrued some credibility. European and American museums have been beset by campaigns to “decolonize” them. Some pieces, such as the Benin bronzes, ended up in these museums as loot from colonial smash-and-grabs much more brazen than Elgin’s exploits. Hence, the decolonizers argue, museums are symbols of cultural domination. Many of these campaigns have an ethnocentric dimension, in which the volksgeist of the art is placed above its aesthetic virtues. The example of the Benin bronzes represents the potential danger of such campaigns: The government of Nigeria, which encompasses the former kingdom of Benin, overruled a national commission that aimed to house the pieces in a new museum, decreeing instead that all repatriated bronzes are henceforth the personal property of a powerless potentate, the oba of Benin, who can do with them what he will.

[From the October 2022 issue: Who benefits when Western museums return looted art?]

So what makes the Parthenon sculptures different from the bronzes, which were also originally plundered by British colonialists? Can the conclusion that one claim is more valid than the other be ascribed to Western bias?

First, although some of the bronzes were part of a unified work depicting the history and mythology of the kingdom (which was annexed by the British empire in 1897), the majority are stand-alone pieces. People can admire the brilliance of the bracelets and statues as discrete objects whether in London, New York, or Lagos, and perhaps even more so when viewing them in relation to other cultures—because the bronzes themselves were a product of exchange with another culture, the Portuguese. Second, there is no danger of the Parthenon marbles being out of public view. As a general rule, our world’s culture should be accessible to as many people as possible. That means putting it in public museums, rather than the traditional palaces of ceremonial monarchs.

Hitchens was fond of saying of the marbles, “Picture the panel of the Mona Lisa, if it had been sawn in half.” In this hypothetical, any reunification of the Mona Lisa in any museum would do. It needn’t be in Florence, where it was painted. A more apt hypothetical might be: What if, during the British Raj, the dome of the Taj Mahal had been dismantled and detained in the British Museum? This isn’t a flippant analogy; during the Indian mutiny of 1857, British soldiers looted the Taj Mahal, removing rare gems and lapis lazuli. Decades later, Lord Curzon, then viceroy of India, had the good sense to restore it.

Everyone knows what a perversion fragmenting the Taj Mahal would be. We wouldn’t appreciate it with the awe we currently do as the “frozen music” (as Goethe once defined architecture) of Indo-Islamic design. We would be impatient to see what it would look like with its dome reattached—and in Agra, India, for only there can you properly see its marvelous proportions and appreciate the way the marble interacts with the light and the reflecting pools, changing hue depending on the time of day. This nearly magical experience couldn’t be re-created in, say, Manchester.

Whether as a testament to the Athenian enlightenment or Periclean imperialism, the Parthenon is a monument of civilization. For those of us who derive a humanist and democratic ethos from classical Athens, the temple matters greatly. In this sense, the marbles aren’t simply Greek, but belong to all of humanity. The case for reunification has to be made on this cosmopolitan basis. The world deserves to see the story that Phidias intended to tell in whole.

[Read: Christopher Hitchens was fearless]

For decades, Greece has undertaken the painstaking work of conserving and restoring the Parthenon. Of course, the vicissitudes of history have left their irrevocable mark. The temple won’t literally be put back together like it once was; the Byzantines, Venetians, and Ottomans made sure of that. The closest I will ever come to seeing the Parthenon in its original, intact form is by playing Assassin’s Creed Odyssey on PlayStation, or visiting the replica Parthenon in Nashville (which is a bit of a Taj Mahal–in–Manchester experience). Nevertheless, thanks to the spacious Acropolis Museum, visitors could see the ruins of the temple and then the Parthenon marbles in the same afternoon. They could also appreciate the irony of the marbles depicting the glories of the Athenians while the temple itself bears the scars of multiple Greek defeats. That visible damage is part of the great and tragic narrative of this wonder, and always will be. And it can be truly appreciated only once the reunification has been accomplished.

Germany and Italy have already returned fragments from the Parthenon to Athens. Britain should do its part, out of an impulse toward restoration in the most generous sense. Hitchens, as he often did, got the tone just right:

“There is still time to make the act of restitution: not extorted by pressure or complaint but freely offered as a homage to the indivisibility of art and—why not say it without embarrassment?—of justice too.”

Britain's Emma Raducanu is out of the Abu Dhabi Open after losing in straight sets to former Wimbledon champion Marketa Vondrousova in the first round.

Illustrations by Jan Robert Dünnweller

On a late summer’s day in Cambridge, England, the writer Ali Smith sat with me on a wooden bench in a patch of garden across from the brick rowhouse where she works. Her new novel, Gliff, was due out before long; she described it as a “dystopian pony book,” clearly pleased to have invented a new genre. She flashed impatience when I suggested that she frequently expresses political views both in her fiction and outside it. After a tart “Do I?” she continued, “I think I’m always in the realm of fiction.” A pause before she allowed, “Well, I’m a citizen.” At that moment, I knocked over the water glass I’d carelessly balanced on one arm of the bench. It shattered, and Smith said merrily, “See what happens when you talk politics?” I apologized, and she told me, “If you want to break another one, I’ll break one with you.”

Funny, cheerfully provocative, at once friendly and sharp-elbowed: That’s Smith in person, and also in her copious fictional output (13 novels and six story collections over the past 30 years). Her books are challenging—experimental and unabashedly literary—yet welcoming to all, eminently readable even when they’re disorienting; they engage the reader, demanding collaboration. (Her fifth novel, published in 2011, has a fill-in-the-blank title: There but for the.) Most writers with a foot in the avant-garde achieve cult status at best; Smith collects awed reviews at home and abroad, wins prizes and honors, and sells lots and lots of books to avid fans.

She breaks rules with gleeful abandon, mocking convention, asking her publisher to do things that the industry instinctively abhors. After Gliff will come Glyph—a pair of homophone titles guaranteed to trip up booksellers and buyers for years to come. (Smith adores wordplay, the quirks of language: puns, rhymes, bizarre etymologies, neologisms, contronyms—words that have developed contradictory meanings.) According to her publisher, the two books will “belong together.” Could she tell me more about Glyph ? “Absolutely not”—she hadn’t yet started writing. I backed off, reminded of a line from Artful (2012), a novel first delivered as a series of Oxford lectures, much of it literally ghostwritten (that is, written by a ghost): “Sequence will always be most of the word consequence.”

I’ve been thinking about Smith for more than 20 years. In 2006, just after her third novel, The Accidental, was named Whitbread Novel of the Year and shortlisted for the Booker Prize, I reviewed it, and did a little research. I found a short essay by her fellow novelist Jeanette Winterson in which Smith asks, rhetorically, “Do you come to art to be comforted, or do you come to art to be re-skinned?” This is what Smith does: First, she confuses you—Who’s talking? When did this happen? Where am I?—then she hooks you with a flash of storytelling genius or a dazzling formal innovation. You read on, and the world seems strange to you, and you seem strange to yourself. The flimsy illusions offered up by conventional literature seem hollow (life is stranger than fiction), as do the certainties you live by (are you yourself truly a coherent character?). You have been reskinned.

The hook sometimes looks like a gimmick. It’s not. At Smith’s behest, her obliging publisher hurried each of the four books of the Seasonal Quartet (2016 to 2020) onto bookstore shelves only about six weeks after she’d delivered each manuscript—an unthinkably quick turnaround. Smith’s ambition, from the time she conceived the project in the 1990s, had been to graft the rush of current events onto the everlasting cycle of the seasons. Soon after she finally sat down to write the first book at the end of 2015 came the United Kingdom’s Brexit crisis. Galvanized by the shock result of the referendum, she told herself as she began to write, “This book has to meet the contemporary head-on, or there’s no point to this sequence of books.” Hence the superfast schedule: Autumn appeared just four months after the vote.

[Read: Ali Smith’s Autumn is a post-Brexit masterpiece]

Although the press labeled it “the first Brexit novel,” the word Brexit is never uttered in the book. A seemingly random yet oddly menacing chain-link fence, topped with barbed wire and security cameras, is erected near an ordinary English village. A woman battles bureaucracy to renew her passport at the local post office; the petty hurdles are dismaying, ominous, comical. Spanish tourists visiting England are heckled at a train station: “This isn’t Europe … Go back to Europe.” Appalled, a sympathetic witness realizes that “what was happening in that one passing incident was a fraction of something volcanic”—a compact summary of Smith’s narrative strategy.

At the Edinburgh International Book Festival in 2018, Nicola Sturgeon, then first minister of Scotland, interviewed Smith onstage—since when does a nation’s leader host an experimental novelist at a literary festival?—and read aloud a passage from Autumn that for her perfectly captured the post-referendum mood:

All across the country, people felt it was the wrong thing. All across the country, people felt it was the right thing. All across the country, people felt they’d really lost. All across the country, people felt they’d really won. All across the country, people felt they’d done the right thing and other people had done the wrong thing. All across the country, people looked up Google: what is EU? All across the country, people looked up Google: move to Scotland.

The echo of Dickens (the first line of Autumn is “It was the worst of times, it was the worst of times”) carries on and on: 46 consecutive sentences begin with “All across the country.”

Every volume of the Seasonal Quartet was a best seller in the U.K.; the most conspicuously topical of the four, Spring (2019), tackled the “migrant crisis” and reached the top of the Sunday Times best-seller list. Migration has been one of Smith’s abiding concerns. “We’re ignoring it,” she said in an interview more than a dozen years ago. “As our countries and our world become smaller … we’re bordered, everything is about the stranger.” She eventually went to see for herself what detainees in the U.K. are put through and was shocked to find “a razor-wire fence so high and encircling such a tiny yard space that it would pass as a literal example of surreality.” In Spring, a brutal Immigration Removal Centre is described in distressing detail—but Smith also imagines a kind of underground railroad for migrants anxious to avoid the authorities.

Bad guys versus good guys? Part of Smith’s appeal is that she shows us warm-hearted progressive ideals in action, a spirit of inclusion feeding hope and healing hurt. As one character in Spring puts it, “What looks fixed and pinned and closed in a life can change and open.” But nothing in Smith’s fiction is that simple. In Winter, two sisters are mourning the death of their mother. One says, “It takes a death sometimes to make us all live a bit more.” The other thinks, “Platitude, cliché.” If your sympathy is divided, that’s because with Smith, every either/or is complicated by a both/and. A maxim from The Accidental : “The word and is a little bullet of oxygen.”

[Read: Ali Smith spins modernity into myth in Winter]

The stories she tells spill out of stories that spill out of other stories. She’s an inveterate flouter of chronology—a timeline for almost any of her books, including the quartet, would look like a manic Etch A Sketch scribble: Rather than plot or the forward sweep of the clock’s hands, it is Smith’s voice, her many voices, that propels the reader. As though on a whim, she’ll take an unexpected detour into art history or natural history or literary criticism. Finger-on-the-pulse backdrops are balanced by cultural or historical or scientific deep dives. Against the grim tidings of the day, news of pain inflicted by strangers on strangers, she pits, in Spring, the oddly charming tale of Katherine Mansfield and Rainer Maria Rilke spending several weeks in 1922 in the same small Swiss town—and never meeting. A hack screenwriter wants to rework that non-anecdote into an erotic TV costume drama, the two writers screwing in a swinging cable car high above a picturesque snowy valley. Appalled, the director he hopes to hire flees and ends up in the Scottish Highlands, where he crosses paths with the network of people dedicated to helping migrants.

Like every Smith novel, Spring is about human connection, how hard it is—how damned important it is—to acknowledge humanity in the other and embrace it. Yet Smith has talked about how she loves the spirit of alienation in Mansfield’s writing: “Distance, foreignness, knowing you’re out of place or in limbo … and however much you feel at home, you’re fooling yourself, and however strange you feel in the world … it’s natural, it’s the most natural thing.” Sometimes there simply is no connection. Force it, and you get schlock.

When I interviewed Smith for The Paris Review in 2017, a few years after the Scottish-independence referendum, she told me, “I like edges but not borders.” Born in Inverness in 1962 and raised by an Irish mother and an English father, she calls herself “Scottish by formation” (quoting another of her heroes, the Scottish-born Muriel Spark). “I grew up on the margins,” she said. “I inherited all the value of the margins.” Her working-class parents brought her up in council housing. She was much younger than her four siblings, and looking back, she recognized that she’d had “a remarkably lucky childhood, cosseted and bullied both in that lovely family way, with nobody following me, no rivalries.” Her parents had both won scholarships, but had been obliged to leave school to go to work. They were adamant that their children would be educated. All five graduated from university.

“I was a proficient, happy, versatile child,” Smith told me. She went to Roman Catholic primary school, then a state-run high school. She read all the time. “I thought of myself as a poet through my teens,” she confessed to another interviewer. “I was pretty dreadful.” At the University of Aberdeen, she studied English literature and language, graduating with highest honors. She then spent five years studying for a Ph.D. at Newnham College, Cambridge. Alongside her studies, she wrote plays; Sarah Wood, who became her life partner, directed five of them. The doctorate, meanwhile, never materialized. Her examiners requested changes to her dissertation on three Modernist masters (James Joyce, Wallace Stevens, and William Carlos Williams); she refused. She was nevertheless offered two teaching jobs, and accepted the one at the University of Strathclyde, in Glasgow.

That stint lasted 18 months, cut short by a debilitating bout of chronic fatigue syndrome. At the time, the illness felt “like I’d been hit from the back with a baseball bat—after which I … went into a kind of physical breakdown.” Smith returned to Cambridge to recover, but the symptoms lingered, resurfacing intermittently. Though she found it painful to write longhand, she scratched out her first collection, Free Love and Other Stories (1995), which scooped up a couple of prizes. She persuaded her publisher, Virago, to take a chance on her debut novel, Like (1997), and from then on, she was a writer only.

Her second novel, Hotel World (2001), was shortlisted for both the Booker and Orange Prizes, success of the kind that heralds a major career. In The Guardian, the novelist Giles Foden wrote, “I have never seen the tenets of recent literary theory (the impossibility of the coherent subject, or substantive character, for instance) so cleverly insinuated into a novel.” It begins with the voice of a ghost. A teenage chambermaid working at a fancy hotel in a dour northern city has fallen down a dumbwaiter shaft to her death. Her ghost, itching to feel again (“What I want more than anything in the world is to have a stone in my shoe”), would like to know how long it took her to fall:

(and this time I’d throw myself willingly down it wooo-

hooooo and this time I’d count as I went, one elephant two eleph-ahh) if I could feel it again, how I hit it, the basement, from four floors up, from toe to head, dead. Dead leg. Dead arm. Dead hand. Dead eye. Dead I, four floors between me and the world, that’s all it took to take me, that’s the measure of it, the length and death of it, the short goodb—.

A classic, manically ludic Smith passage, grim and comical, pushing at the edge of too much, yet as easy to swallow as a spoonful of honey.

Having given voice to the dead, Smith takes it away; the ghost girl is losing her ability to speak, losing language. Her last message to the living:

Remember you must live.
Remember you most love.
Remainder you mist leaf.

When I asked Smith about the legion of ghosts in her fiction, she shrugged and said, “I just don’t think death makes that much difference.” Sounding like Gertrude Stein, she elaborated: “We carry with us all the people who have made us and the people we make and the lives we make, and the world we make continues on from what we make of it.”

The realm of fiction where Smith says she “always” dwells is mostly populated by family and friends, the people we’re most comfortable with, who also drive us crazy. Often the setting is the home we long for and can’t wait to escape. The premise of The Accidental—borrowed from Pier Paolo Pasolini’s 1968 film, Teorema—is the reskinning of an unhappy bourgeois family: mother, son, daughter, and stepfather. In musical notation, an “accidental” changes the pitch. In the novel, the accidental—the catalyst—is a mysterious character who rings the doorbell and announces, “Sorry I’m late. I’m Amber. Car broke down.” Though she’s very much flesh and blood (her flesh is desired by every family member, young, old, male, female), this uninvited guest might as well be a ghost, an inexplicable apparition with uncanny powers. The daughter thinks of Amber as “the kind of superheroine that can draw things to her and repel them away from her at the same time.”

Jan Robert Dünnweller

The reader watches as the family’s world disintegrates, and the idea, I believe, is that the reader molts in sympathy. The daughter, in her old skin, needs everything to be mediated, filtered, distanced. A bright, lonely 12-year-old, she’s obsessed with her video camera (and has a verbal tic, using i.e. ad nauseam). Amber drops the girl’s camera from a pedestrian bridge onto a busy highway below—deliberately. Amber does everything deliberately. In her new skin, the younger girl accepts that “her responsibility” is about “actually seeing, being there.” That may sound like a New Age mantra, but the transformation, slight and subtle, is also plausible and moving. The parents fare less well; the fractured family will never be whole again. (Smith doesn’t do happy endings.)

In my mind, the 12-year-old from The Accidental reappears, four years older and much sadder (her mother has died), in my favorite Smith book, How to be both (2014), a novel in two parts published in vice-versa editions: with the same cover, but with the order of the parts reversed—in effect, different novels packaged identically and released simultaneously. This older girl, George, is also bright and lonely, and she’s pedantically fixated on correct grammar—“a finite set of rules,” she insists. George, too, will be reskinned. Among other things, she slowly discovers her erotic love for another girl. Her evolution is watched over by the ghost of an actual Italian quattrocento painter from Ferrara, Francesco del Cossa.

One part of How to be both is narrated by the bewildered painter, who can’t comprehend 21st-century England and decides he’s in an afterlife “purgatorium,” condemned to traipse after George, whom he mistakes at first for a boy. The other part is told from George’s perspective, close third-person. She remains unaware of the ghostly observer who’s following her around. Which part you read first depends on which edition you happen to have bought, and to discover which sequence works best, you’ll have to reread. Should the tale of a 600-year-old artist, with its technical asides on the art of the fresco, come before the tale of modern-day teenage angst? Do the parts of the puzzle fit either way?

The painter’s confusion about George’s gender is an ironic echo (or foreshadowing) of the backstory Smith has invented for him: He was born a girl but disguised himself as a boy to become a painter. (“Nobody will take you for such a training wearing the clothes of a woman,” warned his father, a brickmaker.) The adventures of this talented cross-dresser make a mockery of binary ideas about gender. What the painter learned centuries ago in Ferrara, what George learns in 21st-century London, is that no finite set of rules applies.

Back on the sunny Cambridge bench, Smith told me about the origins of Gliff, which is full of characteristic quirks and revisits her abiding concerns—gender, boundaries, the importance of unmediated engagement with the world. But it’s darker fiction, with some acutely painful passages. It began as a short story written “very fast” in August 2023, a commission for an anthology: “I was supposed to write something that was tangentially Kafkaesque,” she explained, after which she turned to work on a new novel. But she was ambushed by a “horrendous” bout of insomnia, “three months of almost no sleep,” and realized that she was writing the wrong book, and that the short story “was not going away, was waiting, rather like characters do, at the back of your head.”

Where did the title come from? “I was playing about online one day thinking, Is this a nonsense word or not? And I looked up the word that sounded like glyph but was spelled differently, and found out it wasn’t a made-up word—it was actually a northern word, a Scottish word.” It has many meanings, among them a glimpse, a sudden fright, or a brief moment. It’s also the name of the horse in this dystopian pony book, but we’ll get to that.

A glyph is a mark—as Smith said, “The smallest unit of meaning,” a scratch on a cave wall, an ornamental carving on a primitive tool. In the Paris Review interview, when I asked about the building blocks of her prose, Smith explained that “the rhythmical unit of the syllable is at the back of all of it—the word, the phrase, the sentence, the syntax, the paragraph, and the way the heart moves when you read it.” Now she’s taken the next step, training her attention on the gesture that precedes even the syllable. In Gliff, she shows us prehistoric cave art and the head of a horse carved many thousands of years ago onto a rib bone.

She also steps for the first time into the near future: A brutal totalitarian state has been rounding up, interning, and reeducating people whom the regime deems “unverifiable.” The climate is as much Orwell as Kafka: 24/7 surveillance, grotesque euphemisms, justified paranoia. Britain’s not quite there yet—but, Smith insisted, “could be.” She added, sitting up taller, “If we just raise our heads from thinking it’s not happening, we’d see that most of the book is happening right now somewhere.”

The authorities have started drawing red lines around the unwanted unverifiables—literally. They have a comically low-tech machine called a “supera bounder” that applies paint around houses, around vehicles. Demarcated houses are demolished, vehicles towed away: rapacious capitalism combining punishment and profit.

Two siblings, a young teenager and a younger sister, more or less abandoned in an empty house, find themselves on the wrong side of the red line. The older sibling—our narrator, Bri, cautious and protective—worries about the meager supply of canned food, and tries hard to lift the spirits of the younger one, who finds seven horses in a nearby field, one of which, a gray gelding, she adopts (or is adopted by). She gives him his name.

Gliff the horse is the moral center of Gliff the novel, and also the occasion of some arresting descriptions:

The grey horse’s bones were close to its skin all over it and it seemed huge even though it was quite a small horse, the smallest one in this field. It moved with laidback strength and with a real weightiness though it wasn’t weighty at all, it was as spare as a bare tree …

The eye was shocking.

It was really beautiful.

You could see light in its dark, and it also had in it, both at once, two things I had never seen together in one place, gentleness, and—what?

Five years later, in a moment of crisis, Bri realizes that the missing word is “equanimity.”

When Smith was a child in Inverness, about 4 or 5 years old, she discovered a stable behind an ice rink. “Between the age of 7 and 11,” she said, “I went every Saturday in the summer and hung out. We did do a little grooming—very small ponies in my case. What I know about horses all comes from that place at the back of the ice rink, where 12 or 13 horses lived in the field.” She paused. “You know, being on the back of a horse teaches you everything about everything.”

The writing about Gliff the horse does more than bring the living creature into focus. “His mouth was decisive without force, a soft lipped line. It made him look resigned, noncommittal, but also poised, as if waiting.” That “soft lipped line” is the antithesis of the supera bounder’s garish, excluding red. Yet Smith is in the business of complicating binaries as well as erasing boundaries; she won’t tolerate a simple dichotomy.

Which brings us back to the two siblings. The younger one is Rose, wild, fiercely loyal, fiercely stubborn. Bri, kind and caring and, like so many of Smith’s characters, obsessed with words and their meaning, is also Briar or Brice. (“Why did I myself really like having more than one name, as if I had more than one self?”) When asked, bluntly but without malice, “Are you a boy or a girl?,” the answer is, “Yes I am.”

Flash-forward five years and—a spoiler follows—Bri now serves the state. Reeducated? Lured by the promise of elevated status? Tortured? It’s not clear what has happened, but Bri is complicit in the horrors of the regime, and this lover of words has been silenced: “That’s as much of that story as I care to tell. One line about it is more than enough.” The unspoken, the unspeakable, is more frightening than anything else in the novel.

Four cats patrol the alley next to where Smith and her partner live and work. The cats came and went, occasionally pausing near our bench to lick a paw and ignore us ostentatiously. I wondered which ones were hers, and she said, approvingly, “They kind of live everywhere.”

[From the April 2023 issue: Adam Begley on why you should be reading Sebastian Barry]

I asked again about politics, suggesting mildly that sometimes she deploys her dazzling skills in the service of ideology. In Winter, she quotes Keats: “We hate poetry that has a palpable design upon us.” Does she agree? “Fiction’s only agenda is to be fiction,” she replied, “but lies have an agenda.” Her soft, lilting voice was buttressed by quiet conviction: “All you do is tell the story. What you do is write and write, and you tell the story that arrives—and it really is like being on the back of a horse.” But what about the wild complexity of her narratives, the abrupt swerves and unannounced excursions? As though to allow for nuance, she said, “Of course it will be political when it’s written, because everything is. But I believe deep in my own bones that story is about something that cancels division between us.” She added, “We cross those lines every time we listen to someone or are heard by someone.”

Some early reviewers of Gliff have complained that it feels too “on the nose.” The book’s horrors—climate catastrophe, internment camps, genocidal wars, high-tech surveillance—are too familiar to serve as prophecy. Is it fair to complain that the future is almost already upon us? Who needs prophecy when dystopia is now? The novel thrums with Smith’s urgent need to tell a story about where our divided present could lead us. “We cannot look away at the moment,” she said to me. “We must not look away from the darkness. And if I didn’t look at the dark, what kind of a writer would I be?”

* Lead-image sources: Lorentz Gullachsen / Contour by Getty; Leonardo Cendamo / Getty.

This article appears in the March 2025 print edition with the headline “The Experimentalist.”