How Late It Was, How Late: A Novel

"No frigate like a book to take us lands away," said Emily Dickinson. Oh my, she's right. There are other worlds out there, lots of them. Kelman's book takes us to one, a unique one, right in the middle of Glasgow, in fact in the outer limits of consciousness somewhere - in the mind of a low-life petty thief named Sammy who stupidly assaulted two policemen and got beaten so badly by them that he is blinded. After that, everything in this book is generated, more or less, in Sammy's head as interior monologue (not stream of consciousness as others say) or by the speech of the characters Sammy deals with. Those characters do plenty of talking with an extremely limited vocabulary that nevertheless has an amazing expressive range proving, again, that Scotland is a nation of talkers, great talkers. It is also a welfare state with lots of red tape and institutionalized dullness. So much so that Sammy's difficulties with the DSS Central Medical board and with the DSS in general call into question the Scottish I.Q. and raise the query that they might have there some institutional madness as serious as that discussed in Bleak House. Some advice: Donay be turned off by ye Scottish dialect. Read the first three pages aloud. Aw fine. Aye, they make sense. Ah stories, man, stories, life's full of stories, there to help ye out. Aye right pal okay.

Ah, dear, how to write a review of a novel in which over half the words are unrepeatable in an Amazon review? The irony is that it's the lovely, chanting, profane interior monologue of the book that wins one over. From starter's orders here, we are inside the mind of a Glaswegian no-account who has lost his sight after having been "done in" by the police. He has also lost his girlfriend, his memory, and, to a certain extent, his mind.But what a lovely, melodic mind it is! For all the talk of the book's roughness and the vulgarity of its language, it is intrinsically a sweet book - the poor bloke who never had a chance, blinded, left lovelorn, up against everything the world has to throw at him. Added to this is Sammy's perspective on the world. There's precious little self-pity in it.So, we listen in on Sammy's thoughts as the bureaucracy, the police, the doctor, the lawyer all try to take him down. The recurrent image is of a wounded animal, defanged by blindness, beating the bars of the cage of this world with the mop handle with which he makes do for a cane, all the while drifting in a melodious incantation of meditation. I didn't want to put this book down. When I finally came to the end, I felt like saying to Sammy what he says to his son:"The worst of all this is saying cheerio to the likes of yerself, but what can ye do, ye've got to batter on, know what I'm saying, ye've got to batter on."Aye, Sammy, don't we all?

The style of this book apparently is know in the trade as "stream of consciousness", but anyone who has ever set foot in Glasgow can see it's just standard weegie punter pub patter spun out into book length and format.I had high expectations coming to this book, having won the Booker prize and generally acclaimed by the critics. But as story lines go, it's average. As a piece of English literature, it's not even on the radar screens. As a piece of Scots literature, it's been heavily watered down (sorry to disappoint the other reviewers who thought the 'dialect' - in actual fact banter - was quite strong). If you're after a solid piece of contemporary Scots stuff in the same vein, Irvine Welsh (Edinburgh) is far better, you'll get a proper story line, some bare minimum of character development, more energy all round and better language. If you're wanting really classic stuff, then maybe Lewis Grassic Gibbon (Aberdonian).But to give the book credit where due, there are some strong points. If you have never been to Glasgow or Scotland (or if you have and are nostalgic - it does happen so I am told...), this book is full of those 'only-in-Glasgow' gems; but to repeat you don't have to be a great author to put them down on paper. If you've never been to Scotland you can have a taster of how depressing life really is there.There's bound to be literary critics out there who can dig out profound observations on human nature and modern society in this. But then again this sort of folk can see meaning in an old bag of chips or a soggy newspaper. And is hard to see whether Kelman actually intended anything with this book other than to make a few coins.Other good points. It's a pretty light read, you can steam through it in no time, and it's ideal for reading on the beach (if you have the luck), on the bus, waiting in a queue etc.If you can avoid spending the money, try borrowing from a friend or from the library. It's not one of those classic tomes you will be wanting to grace your own collection in years to come.If you're seriously wanting to find out more about Scotland and the way of life/language, the only real way to do it is through the cinema. Similar sort of approach to Kelman is taken by Ken Loach ('My name is Joe', 'Sweet Sixteen').

An incredible account of a Scottish man's life and adolescence in a local vernacular. Very deserving of the Booker Prize. I have recently ordered all his other books available on Amazon. Thank you for your continuing great service to your customers.

I ordered this to learn more about modern-day Scotland, and because it was a Booker awardee I expected something interesting. I'm disappointed on both counts. The first several pages are probably the most vulgar, obscene screed I've ever seen and that was enough for me. I put it down and won't return to it unless I exhaust the thousands of good, useful books available. Yes, available about Scotland, too. I don't like the cover either.

I think it isn't written in English. Maybe it's Scottish that I don't understand...if I had known about it, I wouldn't have bought it

My first and lasting response was to feel sympathy and empathy for this man. I admired his amazing determination in the face of the most dire situations. I admired his extreme fortitude in the face of frustration, but I dreaded the inevitable explosive snapping of his dogged patience. Above all I despaired at his constantly making bad, usually ridiculous decisions.My empathy is based on my guess that he has had a lifetime of unsympathetic and even hostile authority figures and become thoroughly distrustful to the point of paranoia. And we are bound to feel that, now he has been rendered blind by the chief of those very 'public servants' , this must presage a final decline. How can he possibly cope now? The answer is that he has no choice and goes on to demonstrate amazing resourcefulness. He has good insight but only usually with hindsight which is completely useless, of course. He does not, apparently, have any friends: his neighbour is kind but not close, his girlfriend has disappeared ( her unexplained disappearance becoming an unanswered question) His young son, a sensible lad whom he seldom sees, does his level best to persuade his dad into better decisions. Sammy seems very fond of Helen but makes absolutely no effort to trace her. We don't find it difficult to guess why she should eventually absent herself from this supremely annoying man.I liked the clever transposing of the Glasgow voice and language, easy to follow if read 'aloud' in one's head. Weirdly, the constant use of the 'f word' quickly fades into the background, except where it is used most effectively, as, often, in the understatement 'I'm fuckt'.I found particularly effective that Sammy's thoughts about himself were mostly in the third person, lending emphasis to his insight. He never gives up...but what on earth will become of him. I, for one, care! But please, for goodness sake don't give him a happy ending - that would be 'stupit'.

Absolutely brilliant!

I don’t recommend this to anyone!It appears the author is about 12 yrs old.Trying to copy Irvine Welsh’s style but fails!

I liked this book very much. The main character, speaking in an argot totally unfamiliar to me and with a limited vocabulary, expressed so much survivor compassion in so many ways that I was rivitted to the story. The lingo took only a couple pages to glom onto how to read -- concentrate and hear it in your head, every word, every sentence, no matter how simplistic or trite on the surface -- there was truth and courage and indomitabile spiirt ito be appreciated in your imagination throughout Sammy's interior monologue and his conversations with others. What I loved most was the contrast between Sammy's interior speech, and the very rational, bureaucrat, and structured officialese of the social service workers as the newly blind Sammy tries to get his social assistance adjusted to recognize his blindness, without further pissing off the police who beat him. Repeatedly the thought occurred to me that, despite the entirely sensible statements and approch of the social workers, Sammy's street and jail conditioning was the more caring and livable. The official social service approach, butt-covering, legalistic, driven by legislation, came across as heartless and empty of humanity. In comparison, his defiant, profane intransigence and double-faced honesty were preferable -- a remarkable achievement.

The book was recommended to me by a friend, but I can't say I share his opinion. The book has only one real character, and I don't feel that I learnt anything new or interesting about him that I hadn't already surmised by page three. Nothing much really happens, which is not necessarily bad, but I did find myself wanting something more interesting to occur. There is no plot as such, it is just a character study of a not very interesting violent man with mental health issues.