Ali Smith's Winter

British writer (born in Scotland, lives in England), Ali Smith, is known for her mastery of language and craft. Her novels are repeatedly on the short list for all the prestigious prizes, the Booker, the Orange, and the Bailey's Women's Prize. She can be hilarious and deadly serious at the same time. Smith is writing what's been referred to as a "seasonal quartet." It began with "Autumn." I have just finished "Winter," one of Library Journal's contenders for best of 2018.

This book was a complete delight to me. It's so different from my usual fare, so sarcastic and witty though ultimately kind. Smith's books can often be difficult to describe but try this on for size. Christmas at a crumbling mansion in Cornwall;the owner, Sophia, a woman losing her grip on reality, the estranged younger sister, an old hippie who will go anywhere for a cause, and a son, Arthur, with a stranger in tow, all arrive during a blizzard to find the larder bare and Sophia in the throes of a Dickensian guilt trip as she revisits the ghosts of Christmases past.

As the four make the most of the next few days together mother, son, and sister try to reconcile their disparate memories. The stranger, a skinny, pierced and tattooed street girl who is being paid to play the role of Art's fiancé Charlotte, waxes on eloquently about Cymbeline, one of Shakespeare's more obscure plays, and the conversations run the gamut from Brexit to Trump. Smith takes great joy in poking fun at Google, bloggers, politicians, and pretensions of all stripes, while ruminating on the terrifying state of our globe's environmental health.

If your taste in literature veers toward quirky characters, a touch of magical realism, and sharp, imaginative writing, then I have a book for you. My copy is up for grabs. Reply to my blog or drop me a line at s_bissell@yahoo.com. I'll mail it out before the weekend when I plan to head south and warm up. Oh, and keep in mind Shelley's words of hope, "if winter comes, can spring be far behind?"