Autumn (Seasonal, #1)

by Ali Smith

Going travelling? he says. Probably, Elisabeth says. Just in case. Where you thinking of going? he says. Lots of places, I expect, Elisabeth says. Who knows? World. Oyster.

All across the country, money vanished.

All across the country, the usual tiny per cent of the people made their money out of the usual huge per cent of the people. All across the country, money money money money. All across the country, no money no money no money no money.

He’s not just one thing or another. Nobody is. Not even you.

The power of the lie, Daniel said. Always seductive to the powerless.

It is possible, he said, to be in love not with someone but with their eyes. I mean, with how eyes that aren’t yours let you see where you are, who you are.

We have to hope, Daniel was saying, that the people who love us and who know us a little bit will in the end have seen us truly. In the end, not much else matters.

See how it’s deep in our animal nature, Daniel said. Not to see what’s happening right in front of our eyes.

It’s all right to forget, you know, he said. It’s good to. In fact, we have to forget things sometimes. Forgetting it is important. We do it on purpose. It means we get a bit of a rest. Are you listening? We have to forget. Or we’d never sleep ever again.

the urge I had to be my older self. The urge we all have to be older, to not be the child any more.

Life? was what you worked to catch, the intense happiness of an object slightly set apart from you. Painting? was what you did, alone, and you sat there, and it was your own terrible fight or your own lovely bit, but it was really terribly alone.