Companion piece A novel

Ali Smith, 1962-

Book - 2022

"From the Man Booker Prize shortlisted-author of the brilliant Seasonal Quartet series-a major new novel that promises to capture the present moment with Ali Smith's genius and bold spirit. "A story is never an answer. A story is always a question." Here we are in extraordinary times. Is this history? What happens when we cease to trust governments, the media, each other? What have we lost? What stays with us? What does it take to unlock our future? Following her astonishing Seasonal Quartet, Ali Smith again lights a way for us through the nightmarish now, in a vital celebration of companionship in all its timeless and contemporary, legendary and unpindownable, spellbinding and shapeshifting forms. Companion Piece stands... apart from the Quartet, which remains discrete unto itself. But like Smith's groundbreaking series, this new novel boldly captures the spirit of the times. "Every hello, like every voice, holds its story ready, waiting.""--

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Subjects
Genres
Domestic fiction
Novels
Published
New York : Pantheon Books 2022.
Language
English
Main Author
Ali Smith, 1962- (author)
Edition
First United States edition
Item Description
Subtitle from cover.
Physical Description
229 pages ; 22 cm
ISBN
9780593316375
Contents unavailable.
Review by Booklist Review

Artist Sandy is forced out of her habitual, contented solitude when her father lands in the hospital with heart trouble during the COVID-19 pandemic. They have a prickly relationship; he's never forgiven her for being gay or for being a painter who paints poems, but they're all the family they have, except for his old dog. More intrusions occur when Martina, a forgotten college classmate, calls and recounts the first of the entrancing and mysterious tales that entwine to form Smith's dialogue-driven, deeply imagined, hilarious, and affecting tale of unexpected companionship during a plague. Martina's story involves an exquisitely constructed sixteenth-century lock and a disembodied voice saying, "Curlew or curfew. You choose." She is certain that Sandy, who always "knew what things meant," can make sense of this. Soon Martina's distraught, bossy, grown twin daughters invade Sandy's home, as does a strange, filthy teenage girl with a curlew, a now endangered bird once considered divine. Back in the bubonic plague era, a girl gifted in the metal arts is brutally ostracized. Returning to the present, witty and besieged Sandy is profoundly grateful to the valiant, caring hospital staff, and to the steadfast dog. Smith follows her award-winning Seasonal Quartet with a bristling yet tender, richly layered, brilliant, and dynamic novel of connections forged and love affirmed.

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Smith's expansive and tantalizing spin-off of her Seasonal Quartet series blends stories of mythology, English history, and personal trauma. While artist Sandy Gray waits for news about her elderly father who's recovering in the hospital after an unspecified life-threatening episode, she gets a call from Martina Inglis Pelf, an assistant to an art curator and former university acquaintance of Sandy's. Pelf tells a story about a lengthy airport customs detainment upon returning with a Boothby lock and key artifact belonging to a 16th-century chest and accidentally presenting the wrong passport. Pelf thinks Sandy can decipher the meaning behind a voice in the holding room that whispered "curlew or curfew." Therein lies Smith's intricate, interlocking narratives, which involve the story of three-headed beast Cerberus, whom Sandy imagines talking with brutish police in the register of "English music-hall comedy" ("'Ello 'Ello 'Ello. Wot's all this then?"); Pelf's peculiar twin daughters; and a teenaged female blacksmith during the 13th-century black plague with mythic connections to Vulcan and Pandora and haunting parallels to the Boothby apparatus and the Covid-19 pandemic. As ever, Smith's flawless stream-of-conscious narration is at once accessible and transforming, and with it she manages to contain eye-blinking hallucinatory images, such as a shattered clock that reconstitutes itself. This is a captivating Rubik's cube of fiction. (May)

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Review by Library Journal Review

The twice Man Booker Prize-shortlisted and Baileys, Goldsmiths, and Costa-honored Smith triumphed with her distinctive "Seasonal Quartet," which has been unfolding since 2016. Now that it's done, this "companion piece" continues her investigation of #MeToo, Brexit, the global refugee crisis, the ongoing pandemic, and more.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Kirkus Book Review

An artist in England copes with old and new strangers in a time of plague in this touching entertainment. Painter Sandy Gray is at home in England in 2021 imagining Cerberus talking to a British policeman when she gets a call from someone she barely knew at college some 30 years earlier. Martina Pelf, who remembers Sandy as being good at explaining things, tells her about getting stopped at border control on her return from a trip to collect a 16th-century lock for the museum where she works. While being held in an interview room, Martina hears a disembodied voice ask a strange sort-of question: "curlew or curfew." This is Smith's pandemic land, where myth and reality converse, where lockdown might evoke medieval artisanry, and where wordplay is more than playful. The Scottish author's 12th novel displays once again her ingenuity in pulling together disparate narrative strands. The main one concerns the fallout from the unexpected phone call, which sends Sandy, who narrates the novel, back to a moment at university when she explained an e.e. cummings poem for Martina and forward to a point when, in one long hilarious scene, the Pelf family invades Sandy's home, breaking all the pandemic rules. She recalls the story of an aunt's illness in the 1930s and often thinks of her father, who is currently in the hospital with an ailment that won't be revealed until the penultimate page. The curlew and the curfew will resurface when a homeless teenager breaks into Sandy's house and then, in a 40-page fable, is pre-incarnated as a gifted teen blacksmith, perhaps the artisan behind the aforementioned lock. With art and humor, Ali is the smith who forges links for her idiosyncratic narrative, one of which is the value of acts of kindness amid distress. A truly marvelous tale of pandemic and puns and endurance. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Hello hallo hullo. It's comparatively quite a recent word. But like everything in language it has deep roots. In all its forms, the dictionary says, it's a variant of a word from Middle French, hola, a combination of ho and la, making something like hey there . It might also connect to the old hunting cry, halloo! for when you sight what you're hunting and shout out with excitement as you start the chase. Or perhaps it might be closer to the sound of the word howl, like when Shakespeare uses it in Twelfth Night as one of the proofs of love when one character tells another that to prove this love she'd halloo your name to the reverberate hills till there's nothing else left in the air or the world but the name of the beloved. Or maybe it comes from the Old English word haelan, which is a very versatile verb that can mean to heal and to save and to greet all at once. Or from another Old English phrase altogether, one that means may you be hale, or may you be whole. It's possibly also the Old High German word you'd've shouted if you were at the side of a river and needed to get a ferryman's attention. A form of it turns up in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, a poem about the terrible act and ominous aftermath of the killing of a bird, the fate of the sailor who kills it and the deadly fate of his companions. First the bird comes playfully to their hollo! and brings good sailing weather. Then the mariner kills it. After that everything turns into deadly stasis in the poem. After it, shout hollo! all they like, no bird comes. In any of its forms, hello can mean all these things. We say it to someone we've just met, it's a friendly and informal ritual gesture of greeting whether it's someone we know or someone we've never met before. It can mean someone's surprised, or attracted, or caught off guard by something or someone, as in, hello, what's this? /who's this? It can be a polite demand for attention; imagine you're standing in a shop and the person you want to serve you has gone through the back, say, so you shout it. It can also suggest there might be nobody there at all. For instance, you've fallen down a well and are stuck at the bottom of it looking helplessly up at the small circle of light that's the rest of the world and you're shouting it in the desperation and hope that somebody will hear. Or you answer a phonecall and you say it and nobody answers or there's nobody there. So you say it again into the silence, more and more insistent each time, hello? hello? Is anybody there? Are you there and you can hear me but you're just not replying for some reason? Can you help me? Oh now that definitely caught my attention. What's all this then? What do you want? Yes, I'm here. Can you take me safely across in your boat? Are we anywhere near land yet? Please be well. Please don't be broken. Please get better, be safe. I love you and I'm going to plaster the universe with your name and my love. I'm on your trail and I'm coming after you. Eh, hi. Good to see you again. Good to meet you. Every hello, like every voice - in all the possible languages, and human voice is the least of it - holds its story ready, waiting. That's pretty much all the story there is. Round any telling of it, a deep green colour layered with grime and dust from all the seasons over a door in a wall, both the door and the wall invisible under the massive swath of ivy shifting its leaves in slight-breeze choreography, lit here and there by the brighter green of its newer leaves, the newest of these such small perfected leaf shapes already that it's both ordinary and mindblowing and then there are the little plant teeth like roots coming off the tendrils reaching for and holding to whatever surface they touch, dogged, firm, working to become more root than tendril, the whole thing fed by a taproot so deep and tough that, whoever or whatever tries to cut it back or dig it out, here it comes all over again one unfurled leaf at a time. Excerpted from Companion Piece: A Novel by Ali Smith All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.