The chill of the current seasonal change rushes in with me as I enter The International Anthony Burgess Foundation; the setting in which I have come on Saturday 13th October to understand more about the mind, musings, political positions and fictional creations of one of Scotland’s most controversial modern day writers.
Upon winning the Booker prize in 1994 amidst a tornado of controversy for his novel ‘How Late It Was, How Late’, the work of James Kelman has constantly undergone harsh criticism. Many have undermined the intellectual depth of his stories, claiming that by focusing on the hardships of those at the margins of society, it lacks interest and creativity. However, he still remains one of Scotland’s most prolific authors. This is the perfect opportunity for reader and author alike to clarify some of the misunderstandings and intentions surrounding his work.
After a brief introduction, Kelman, or ‘Jim’ steps onto the small stage possessing an understated but obvious grandeur. His manner appears humble whilst dignified yet the wisdom, weariness and condemnation of authority evident in his eyes convey much more. He is drinking an ale or bitter of some sort and speaks in a slightly sinister monotone that, when combined with his appearance and gruff Scottish accent has the effect of ensnaring me even more deeply within his morose world.
He starts by reading a handful of short stories from his collection entitled ‘Not Not While The Giro’, published in 1983. Like all of his work, the stories are portrayed through the lens of the working-class using a dry, ironic wit and focusing on the harsh reality of being from the Scottish proletariat. The short, blunt sentences rather devoid of description reflect directly the persona of their writer. He reads how a factory worker falls into a tub of acid only to be pushed under further by his father as he was dead already anyway. The mundane, matter-of-fact tone with which Kelman reads a distressing event starts to illuminate how perhaps this writer’s persona has come to be misunderstood and labelled as ‘prickly’ (to be polite) in the past.
However, the more he reads, the more the audience become aware that it is this monotonous, blunt tone that is the source of interest. It seems, at the least, very real. He does not look up from the book, but simply drags his audience deeper and deeper into the stories themselves with the frankness in which he describes the events.
He then proceeds to read an extract from his new novel ‘Mo Said She Was Quirky’. Kelman sounds more sympathetic towards the protagonist, Helen, who thinks she spots her estranged brother when she catches sight of two homeless men, yet the focus on the harsh realities of life is unchanged.
It is only when the ‘question and answer’ session starts that the audience truly begin to unravel and understand the complex nature of Kelman’s reserved yet strong moral aura. His rejection of Scottish nationalism but embracement of self-determination, the absurdity of having a monarchy in the modern era and his association with literary greats such as Kafka and Joyce are only a few of the topics that are the source of most of his political condemnation during the next half an hour. He explains how the concept of ‘Rule Britannia’ is ‘a fuckin’ joke’ when there is war and famine in parts of the world and how using the formula of a beginning, middle and end in short stories is equivalent to Van Gogh having a beginning, middle and end in his paintings, which in his words and to the enjoyment of the audience is also ‘absurd’.
We also learn that he has worked in factories in Salford and the Trafford Park area doing up to 23-hour shifts in his teens and early twenties as well as being a bus driver before he started writing. The nature of personal experiences as being the primary source of inspiration for his work is evident when he explains that ‘fatigue is a part of life’, sadly reflected in his weathered face.
Upon exiting, I am left with a chilling yet inspired feeling that Kelman is the embodiment of the tortured artist. He undercuts everything with a dry, sarcastic wit, which combined with his experiences of working-class Scottish life, his empathy with painters, his nihilistic views and his sombre manner create a portrait of a highly intelligent, yet misunderstood, political radicalist who has been defined entirely by his experiences on the lower rungs of society.