Spring by Ali Smith Suddenly I realized I had not read Spring, which has been sitting on a shelf for two years. How could this happen? My excuse is that I do not regard Ali Smith’s book as narratives but as adventures, so I save them for when I really need them (like now). When I read her books I have no idea what I’m getting into. The author trusts that I don’t need a road map—I jump in, and as I hurtle down (or up, I can’t tell) I am assailed by sights, sounds, wordplay, puns, feelings, colors, jokes, memories of things that never happened to me, so that by the time I get to the bottom (or top), I know I have been through an experience. One I cannot simply summarize it in words. If people want to know what it is they will have to read it for themselves, and they will thank me for telling them nothing.