How Late It Was, How Late, James Kelman (Booker, 1994)

We're here. This is the Booker winner everyone loves to hate. Or at least reviewers. And Marnie, you may have to sit this out:). It has been called "comfortless", and, the author has been called an "illiterate savage" and accused of "transcrib(ing) the rambling thoughts of a blind Glaswegian". It is in the vernacular like Trainspotting in the previous year, which was pulled when two judges threatened to walk out. One critic estimates the f-bombs at about 4000 and suggested it would be considerably shorter and improved if they were just removed. Judges have broken their usual silence with quotes like "it's crap". Salmon Rushdie (no less) with appropriate reserve thought it "the wrong choice".

But others find rhythm, structure and beauty in the vernacular "which only takes a few pages to get used to". The pain comes from the claustrophobia, misery and Kafka-esq-ness. All reasonable in the literary canon, just not a good beach read. Some are deeply impressed, calling it "brilliant" and "impressive" with hints of Beckett and Joyce with its authentic stream-of-consciousness. I look forward to a deeply divided discussion! Bring on the non-beach weather so I can get started.

Since starting this book club a few years ago we have formed a nice core membership. If you haven't come yet, please look out for the books on the table, pull up a chair, order a wine and join us. We like to hear what everyone has to say and enjoy the conversation, we're not cliquey at all! Oh, and to defray the Meetup monthly bill I will accept gold coin contributions or wine if you want to pay for multiple in one hit. I hope to see everyone again at this one with some new faces.