Customer Reviews

How Late it Was, How Late

5 star:		(13)
4 star:		(4)
3 star:		(6)
2 star:		(1)
1 star:		(5)

 

 

This book is like getting your first stereo. At first you might not know how to hook it up, but once you figure it out it's sheer heaven. Not since The Butcher Boy have I been carried through a text by the sheer beauty of the words juxtaposed against such intestine-tightening despair. Sure, the dialect can be tricky to grasp. But don't the greatest pleasures in life take some training. And admitedly there's a way in which "nothing happens." But really, who cares (And actually a lot DOES happen). This is one of the most beautifully panic-producing novels I've ever touched. For the first half of the book I could only read 10 pages at a time because it made me so nervous. But once I hit around page two hundred I finished it in one sitting. People who don't get this book are the same ones who think Saving Private Ryan is how a movie should be. There has to be action, action, action and some soppy something or other to hang your heart on. Well, pick up this book and hang your heart on poor old Sammy. He's a heartbreaker extraordinaire, if I ever met one.

"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.

This is one of my favorite books of all time but let me warn you it is a mess to read and if you are easily offended this is not the book for you. Full of swear words and written in dialect (which makes it very hard to read) this one is an acquired taste. If you have just finished reading Trainspotting (the only good book by Irvine Welsh & not the greatest movie) which has a glossary of terms it is a little easier. Winner of the Booker Prize because it is pure genus and a one-of-a-kind read. Completely original, written well before Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting and much, much better.

Sammy,the sole tangiable charecter in this novel, represents the epitomy of the Glasgow looser; the street wise, urban survivor, subjected to an injustice by the authorities charged with upholding the law. Sammy is, of course, his own worst enemy, and as the plot unfolds, a broader complexity of character emerges. I was intriqued by this novel, not so much in the structure the plot,which had substance, but in it's structure and Sammy's: He appeared to be both the subject and, at the same time, the narrator. It is the narration which gives it it's uniquness. Some readers may be discouraged by the language. However, please persevere and look beyond; this is authentic Glaswegian ( they actually talk like this). And if you, the reader, persever and exercise patience, then you may benefit from a universal truth of Kelman's insight into urban suvival whether it be Glasgow, Chicago, Moscow, or a hundred other cities across the planet. In short, this novel ecompasses a universiallity in modern urban survivalism that embraces all urban cultures.

I bought this book as a remaindered item on the strength of it's Booker prize years ago, knowing nothing of the author. This book is a breathtaking insight into the workings of a minor criminal mind over a short, tragic span of time. The style, 'stream of consciousness' I guess would be fairly apt, has been done to death but seldom with the power and authenticity one finds here. Authenticity is the key word, I think, the text painfully believable without a single false note, a remarkable achievement in itself. The self-destructiveness characteristic of this type of mind, the unfailing series of wrong decisions with their painful, infuriating consequences rings so true as to make one wonder how the author turned the trick. The style and message is strongly influenced by Beckett which should not put one off. Highly readable, coarse, coarse, coarse, but how could it be otherwise?

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?

Having read all of Irvine Welsh's books, I was looking for some more Scottish writers whose books are in dialect. Luckily for me, I found this in the Salvation Army shop for a couple of dollars. Now, I'm originally from Glasgow, so it was interesting in that regard, but I'm pretty much in agreement with Tam's review (see below). The book was apparently controversial because it's profane, but it's nothing really. People talk like that, worse even. Irvine Welsh writes dialect better and more consistently, allowing you to distinguish between Edinburgh and Glasgow accents (which you'll only get if you're from there, by the way). As for the plot, it's OK, Sammy the main character has some good lines, but at times I was frustrated with him. But that's what it's all about, I suppose. Worth reading, but if you're not from there, then you won't get the most out of it.

It's a shame no one seemed to notice this book in America despite its Booker Prize. Kelman's low-to-the-ground style really conveys the despair of the main character, Sammy. This book has a haunting quality about it that's reminiscent of Camus' The Stranger, yet it is a much more confused, frenzied, quickening spiral toward oblivion.

One of the most interesting novels I've read in quite a while, How Late it Was, How Late is an introspective journey through the struggles of a newly blind ex-con. James Kelman's pseudo- stream of consciousness narrative presents the thoughts and emotions of the protagonist with unrivalled clarity. His unique approach to writing from the perspective of a sightless narrator has never been utilized in such an innovative and accessible (not to mention believable) way. The reader suffers alongside Sammy and is comforted in turn by his defiant philosophy. The book is truly an emotional masterpiece. The action is non-stop and liberally scattered with the ramblings of a compelling, defiant philosophy. How Late it Was, How Late, though unfit for children, must not be condemned for its language but rather appreciated for its natural, honest portrayal of the author's culture.

It took me a while to get used to the Scottish phrasing and accent, but this is definitely one of the most compelling novels I have read in a very long time. Sammy is an astonishing character: Full of good and evil, full of sympathy and loathing. He is a fascinating antihero, wish his story could have gone on forever. Pick up this book, be determined that you can get through the 'language,' and you will be rewarded with one of the most challenging, expressive, and engrossing tales you have ever read.