How Late It Was, How Late by James Kelman

Author:James Kelman [Kelman, James]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: Booker Prize for Fiction, Modern, Contemporary, Scottish
ISBN: 9781448104932
Publisher: Random House
Published: 1994-03-27T23:00:00+00:00

He was feeling good and he was feeling strong. He had this idea, getting himself a couple of blank cassettes. He used to write songs in his head. What he could do is speak them into the mike, or maybe even sing them. How no? fuck it, it would pass the time. And who knows. Ye send a couple off to a good singer; they pick them up and give it a whirl. From then on man from then on

A tin of macaroni heated on the oven. He had a tin of creamed rice as well. Ye could live okay.

He walked to the window and opened it and felt the force of the wind trying to fling it out his hand. The rain came in on his face. Sometimes ye were amazed at the force of these things like they were living lives of their own or something. If it didnay slacken off he wasnay gony go out at all he was gony stay home.

He stuck on a cassette. He hoped it was one he liked. Well he liked them all or he wouldnay fucking have them. Just sometimes he put one on and he didnay particularly want to hear it, no at that particular moment, plus there was a couple belonged to Helen. Sometimes ye werenay in the mood. He was gony have to work out a system for playing the fucker; tapes he liked on one side of the mantelpiece, dross on the other.

Well I woke up Sunday morning

Jesus Christ. It was unbelievable. Fucking unbelievable man really, it was unbelievable, ye just

Sammy sat down on the armchair but now he was on his feet. He sat down again. It was serious fucking business; really, it wasnay wild it was serious man serious, serious fucking business. Know what I’m saying? He had to sit. He had to just

fuck it. Nay point

naw but

christ almighty he was up on his feet for the chorus, calling it home, big licks and all that, singing it loud, singing it loud and singing it long, battering it out, giving it the big guitar strokes

On a Sunday morning sidewalk

wishing lord that I was stoned

for there’s something in a Sunday

makes a body feel alone

and there’s nothing short of dying

half as lonesome as the sound

of the sleeping city sidewalks

Sunday morning coming down

There was tears coming out, he fucking felt them, it was fucking written for him man it was written for him. Fucking hell.

He went through to the bedroom. Just too much; too much. He was on the bed now on his front and his face was buried into the pillow. Jesus christ but ye just get so fucking angry, ye just get so fucking angry, fucking hell man fucking hell; he was greeting.

And the grub was burning. Let it. It was burning on top of the fucking cooker. He got up and did a deep breath out, he wiped his face. He went through to get it.

He let it cool then ate it all up. It was alright; it didnay taste burnt.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.