They call this flattened man ‘Glyph’: it’s ‘the sound he makes when he breathes out’. We soon skate from this grim past to the grim present. Glyph is stuffed with knowing references to Gliff – which both sisters and Bill have read. Even the vaunted wordplay feels like a tired piece of ornamentation that Smith feels she must include. But I can’t help thinking that Ali Smith is no longer the person to write it.