When Evelyn and I visited Portland a few years ago on our 25th anniversary, one of the hidden gems I found at Powell's Books was How late it was, how late, the controversial Booker Prize winner from James Kelman. I really enjoyed the narrator's working-class Glasgow voice and appreciated his resiliency in the face of his troubles.
When we were back in Powell's earlier this year, I picked up this collection of stories from Kelman. I enjoyed them for the same reasons as How late it was, how late: wonderful language, good characters struggling with difficult circumstances, and settings not usually found in literary fiction. I especially liked the stories where skint punters set out to perambulate to a distant broo, but aye nip into the corner for a bevy and worry about their weans.
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