Category: Ali Smith

When the state is not kind, then the people are fodder.

There’s always, there’ll always be, more story. That’s what story is.

You never stop being yourself on the inside, whatever age people think you are by looking at you from the outside.

It’s good, to be seen past, as if you’re not the only one, as if everything isn’t happening just to you. Because you’re not. And it isn’t.

Human beings have to be more ingenious than this, and more generous. We’ve got to come up with a better answer.

But, of course, memory and responsibility are strangers. They’re foreign to each other. Memory always goes its own way quite regardless.

I prefer the windy days, the days that strip me back, blasted, tossed, who knows where, imagine them, purple-red, silver-pink, natural confetti, thin, fragile, easily crushed and blackened, fading already wherever the air’s taken them across the city, the car parks, the streets, the ragged grass verges, dog-ear and adrift on the surfaces of the puddles, flat to the gutter stones, mixing with the litter, their shards of colour circling in the leafy-grimy corners of yards.

Language is like poppies. It just takes something to churn the earth round them up, and when it does up come the sleeping words, bright red, fresh, blowing about.

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.

I have thought for a long time that the way my clothes hang on me is more important than me inside them.