My first year of university was one characterised by severe imposter syndrome, insomnia and a creeping realisation that a life in the laboratory was not for me. To this end, after a decidedly painful semester of first year health sciences, I switched to a BA, majoring in English literature. It was glorious. I read every novel I could get my hands on, and felt entirely justified in spending the entirety of my student allowance at Scribes each week. I also began my first university course in English literature; ENGL131, Controversial Classics.
Alongside Keri Hulme, James K Baxter, Alan Ginsberg, and Virginia Woolf, I was introduced to an enigmatic Scottish author called James Kelman, whose novel How Late It Was, How Late won the Booker Prize in 1994.
My father is Glaswegian, and although he has lost his accent, he has retained many of his home city’s characteristics: a down-to-earth demeanour, a ready friendliness, and a palpable dislike of airs and graces. He is also fond of the drink and a good fight, although has only touched alcohol once in my lifetime (Presbyterianism does wonders for one’s belligerence and alcohol consumption). That is to say, there are certain similarities, but certain differences also, between my father and the protagonist of Kelman’s novel.
How Late is a stream-of-consciousness novel centred around the experiences of Sammy, a Glaswegian alcoholic, shoplifter, and ex-convict. It is written entirely in Scots, a dialect historically maligned and marginalised by most English speakers, writers, and critics. The novel’s 1994 Booker Prize win (the most internationally acclaimed literary prize) was contentious, to say the least.
For most of the judges, the novel was celebrated for the uniqueness of its writing and the challenging nature of the narrative and vernacular speech. Other critics, however, found it monotonous, unpunctuated and hideously replete with profanities. One judge, in an apoplectic rage, stormed out of the room, promising to denounce the panel’s decision to the media.
Simon Jenkins, writing for The Times of London, dismissed Kelman as being nothing more than an "illiterate savage". His prize-winning novel, in Jenkin’s eyes, was nothing more than the direct transcription of "the rambling thoughts of a blind Glaswegian drunk."
I can’t help but agree. But in contrast to Jenkin’s elitist dismissal of Kelman’s work, I find that the novel is all the more powerful and valuable for its authenticity, for the voice it imparts to the voiceless, for its refusal to abide by the strictures of "proper" English grammatical constraints.
It does what a novel ought to; it plunges the reader into the cognitive labyrinths of the protagonist, for better or for worse. It allows one to view the world through another person’s eyes, and if such a perspective is confronting, that is on the reader, not the author.
I can’t help but wonder whether the fact that Kelman was the first Scots to win the Booker Prize was a fan to the flame.
His novel, moreover, is centred upon a working-class Glaswegian man and all the brutal mundanities that make up his everyday existence. Sammy is no Thomas Cromwell; his actions and decisions do not determine the fate of the nation. There are no world-shattering consequences to his movements; all that exists in Sammy’s world is himself and those immediately around him. It is a small world, a bitter, mundane, dog-eats-dog world. It is a world occupied by many, but probably not by those on the Booker Prize panel.
Kelman’s novel is brilliant for its unique dialect; an intriguing combination of Lowland Scots and Glaswegian.
Growing up, I knew that I was a Kiwi. But I also knew that I had Scottish, specifically Glaswegian, heritage. The way I connected to these roots was through the comics of Oor Wullie and The Broons. Flicking through these pages, and listening to the admonishments of my working class, Lowland-Scots Grandmother, I learned who I was.
The swearing is refreshing. Take it from me: I have lived in Oxford, the seat of the British Empire, for almost five years. There is only so much "received pronunciation" one can stomach, especially when such language is characterised by subtle passive-aggressiveness and explicit elitism.
Moreover, Kelman’s writing is thrilling; his use of repetition, rhythm and choice profanity makes for an exciting rollercoaster of emotional turbulence and circular meanderings.
Kelman’s writing has every right to stand aside those of his English contemporaries. In his acceptance speech, he spoke thus: "My culture and my language have the right to exist, and no-one has the authority to dismiss that ... A fine line can exist between elitism and racism. On matters concerning language and culture, the distance can sometimes cease to exist altogether."
Some 28 years have passed since Kelman won the Booker Prize. Yet the same arguments are being rehashed with every novel that does not fall within the strictures of "proper" English literature — just consider the reception of Marlon James’ A Brief History of Seven Killings and Douglas Stuart’s Shuggie Bain.
Literature is forever changing. The English language is an evolving species; one that grows in breadth and variety with every new voice published. Let us celebrate literature that subverts the limitations of the English language; those works that challenge the boundaries of form, that give new voice to those unheard.
The Booker Prize, and all other literary prizes, are richer for considering works that unflinchingly tackle questions of authorial identity and authenticity, issues of morality and obscenity; works that challenge the very limitations of literature itself.
Let us write on.
- Jean Balchin, a former English student at the University of Otago, is studying at Oxford University after being awarded a Rhodes Scholarship.
