Autumn (Seasonal, #1)

by Ali Smith

Is there never any escaping the junkshop of the self?

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.

He said it as if a time could be a place.

It is a privilege, to watch someone sleep, Elisabeth tells herself. It is a privilege to be able to witness someone both here and not here. To be included in someone’s absence, it is an honour, and it asks quiet. It asks respect.

Here’s an old story so new that it’s still in the middle of happening,

Crying came out of her like weather.

I imagine that whatever it is I’ve forgotten is folded close to me, like a sleeping bird.