How Late It Was, How Late by James Kelman is such a peculiar novel that I picked up to read for several times and abandoned also for several times until I had run out of Booker-Prize-winning novels and left with no choice but finishing it.The novel has nothing similar to anything I have read before. Written in Scottish dialect, its phrases seem strange and informal. The jumpy narrative, accompanied by glaring invective and defective logic, require extra efforts to comprehend. This is not the best English-learning material I would recommend, but the technique employed in this novel creates an unforgettable atmosphere that makes it worth reading and the prize.
The thing is he was going naywhere, naywhere. So he needed to clear the brains, to think; think, he needed to fucking think. It was just a new problem. He had to cope with it, that's all. that was all it was. Every day was a fucking problem. And this was a new yin. So ye thought it out and then ye coped. That was what a problem was, a thing ye thought out and then coped with, and ye pushed ahead; green fields round every corner, sunshine and blue skies, streets lined with apple trees and kids playing in the grass, the good auld authorities and the headman up there in his wee central office, good auld god with the white beard and the white robe, sitting there watching ye from above, the gentle wee smile, leading the children on. That was fair enough. It was just the now. It was this minute here. That was all; once ye got through it ye were past it.Page 37, How Late It Was, How Late
No comments:
Post a Comment