Kate Briggs

I know time. I know time differently now. I know it because I am unlearning it. I know it because the baby is teaching me that the rhythms of the clock and the calendar, and even the most elemental diurnal patterns – they don’t go without saying: they are acquired, if not violently imposed. It is a lived and not an abstract form of knowledge that comes from living alongside a beginner – the way the days can all of a sudden feel like they're undivided, divided by nothing, only water.

— Kate Briggs

A novel is interested in how one thing follows another; it is equally (arguably more) interested in what it feels like to live in time; in life lived by intensity. As a treatment of time, a novel activates not only curiosity in the reader (And then?) but memory: a form of attention that is accumulative as well as anticipatory, backward-reaching as well as forward-facing and itself capable of acting on time. That is, of repeating or extending the strategies of the narration. By skipping a bit of it. Or staying with it. Thickening it by reading a passage again.

— Kate Briggs

Some moments, hours, days, last longer for some people than others, depending. Daily life, whatever it may be really, is practically composed of two lives, said Forster: the life in time, ticking, marching by, regular, implacable, and the life by values, slowing or accelerating, shrinking or expanding, condensing or prolonging. The same sixty-second spans experienced as short minutes, as elongated minutes (as thin minutes or thicker minutes). As separated minutes: distinctive pockets, or stand-out portions of detached, delimited time.

— Kate Briggs

The novel, by working with the interplay of durations, and inviting the reader to interact with them, has the capacity to pay a double, triple, multiple allegiance to the weird workings of time, to our common sense idea of its ongoing sequence as well as to what living-in-time can actually feel like, filling it and distorting it.

— Kate Briggs