How Late It Was, How Late (1994)
It was just a new problem. He had to cope with
it, that's all, that was all it was. Every day was a
f***ing problem. And this was just 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.
-James Kelman, How
Late It Was, How Late
Such is the attitude which sustains Sammy, the Glaswegian ex-con who is the hero of this profane tale. A good thing too, because as the novel opens he has more than your usual share of problems. He's just woken from a two day drinking binge, of which he remembers little. He precipitates a fight with some soldiers who administer a beating and wakes up blind. He returns to his apartment to find his girlfriend Helen missing. And the police bring him in for questioning about some of his criminal mates and about some of the activities, which he can't recall, of the past several days. That's a lot to cope with.
Folks may well remember the furious controversy that was ignited when this book won the Booker Prize. The chief objection was to it's quite startling use of foul language, with the "f" word appearing as many as 25 times on a page and the disconcertingly frequent use of a particular slang word for female genitalia. In addition, even the "clean" language is a slang-ridden Glasgow patois; punctuation is erratic; chapters are nonexistent; and the entire story is told in a strange third person narrative with somewhat omniscient insight into Sammy's thoughts. It is not an easy read, though it's also not that hard to get the hang of it. Though much of Kelman's style seems to be technique for technique's sake, it does effectively carry the reader to an unfamiliar world and, though excessive, seems within the bounds of reason; it does not truly hinder the storytelling. More difficult is the question of whether the story is worth telling.
Part of the difficulty in drawing ultimate judgments about Sammy and his story is that his weaknesses as a character are so close to his strengths. On the one hand he is entirely to passive a player in his own life. He can't remember much of the events leading up to his tragic situation. He refuses to take much action either to repair the damage or to secure reparations. Indeed, it seems possible that the blindness may be a psychosomatic reaction to stress, and not a physical ailment at all. On the other hand, there's something undeniably heroic about the way he doesn't complain, doesn't scapegoat, and simply gets on with his life, largely taking care of himself. In a strange sense, Sammy, though dirty, drunken, and down and out, retains many of the old fashioned virtues--self reliance, perseverance, independence, and generosity of spirit.
This is certainly not a book for everybody, the language alone will
drive many away, but I ended up, almost in spite of myself, rooting for
Sammy. Between the self-blinding of the protagonist and the quest
for Helen, it appears that Kelman was aiming at classic tragedy here, and
the setting, subject, and language of the story have earned him comparisons
to Joyce, Beckett,
Camus,
and the like. I won't go so far as to say he succeeds in crafting
a modern rival to Oedipus Rex,
but as existentialist dramas go, it's better than most.
(Reviewed:27-Nov-00)
Grade: (B)
