As this set illustrated, he has some fine tunes at his disposal, as well as what my granny would probably have called 'a pair of lungs'. The first half of the evening saw Owens play whatever came to mind and take requests from the crowd, including songs from his time as frontman for cult country heroes The Felsons, with American radio hit "Joseph Black" receiving a particularly warm welcome. However, it was only when he was joined onstage by guitarist Stuart Nisbet that the set really took off, as Nisbet's flawless playing and understated backing vocals provided the perfect accompaniment in Owens' country-tinged portraits of Scotland such as "Raining in Glasgow" and "Years Ago", both from forthcoming release "Whisky Hearts". Although perhaps lacking that certain indefinable something which makes good songs great, Owens clearly has the tools at his disposal to cement his position as one of the country's leading singer-songwriters and you get the feeling that it couldn't happen to a nicer guy.

I've read a lot of Irvine Welsh books, but this is the only one I ever started 5 times over the course of as many years. This last time, however, I was determined to push through the beginning and make it into the meat. And it was worth it.

The book is about 4 friends, and in each of four decades, the 70s when they are about 6, 80s when they're in their teens, and the 90s when they're in their mid-20s, we get a chapter from the perspective of each of these four friends. The fourth section, in 2000, is written differently, introducing new characters and bringing it all back around in a way I never expected. It's a fascinating way to write a book, and I really enjoyed reading it once I understood what was happening and everything fell into a rhythm.

It's hard, for a long time, to see the plot of this book. Honestly, I don't know that the plot really registered with me until the end. Mostly, I considered it to be a character piece that told the tale of the lives of these four friends, their trials and travails growing up lower-class in Edinburgh. By the end, though, you realize that there was a story going on underneath, even if it wasn't presented in standard plot, rising action, climax, falling action fashion.

All in all, it was very well done, and like I said, though long, quite good. If you've never read any Welsh I'd recommend starting elsewhere (classic Trainspotting perhaps?) and if you love his stuff then I'd give this one a ride and see if you can't get your hole.

Have you read it? What'd you think? What's your favorite Irvine Welsh book?

To read last week's book review of Chuck Palahniuk's Rant, click HERE.

"What's Your Story?", um projeto criado pela rede de livrarias Waterstone, reúne contos de 13 autores como Doris Lessing, ganhadora do prêmio Nobel de literatura em 2007, Nick Hornby, Margaret Atwood, Lauren Child, Sebastian Faulks, Tom Stoppard e Irvine Welsh.

Leitores curiosos para ver a curta estória – apenas 800 palavras – de JK Rowling afluíram para as livrarias, que venderam 10 mil cópias do livro só no primeiro dia. Em algumas lojas, a obra se esgotou na hora do almoço na quinta-feira.

O conto, sem título, é um prelúdio que se desenrola três anos antes do nascimento de Harry Potter e conta as aventuras do pai do bruxinho, James Potter, e seu amigo Sirius Black aprontando em uma motocicleta mágica.

Diferentemente de Harry, aluno doce e comportado da escola de Hogwarts, o pai James é uma espécie de "selvagem" que comete infrações de trânsito, disse um crítico literário do jornal The Daily Telegraph.

Leia mais clicando aqui.

Veja o site da Waterstone clicando aqui e em especial aqui.

"Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a starter home. Choose dental insurance, leisure wear and matching luggage. Choose your future. But why would anyone want to do a thing like that?"

This is one of those movies that is both painfully funny and morbid at the same time. It's one of my favorite movies of all time and I've seen it dozens of times. I enjoy twisted, dark humor and awesome dialog with a touch of surrealism thrown in.

Trainspotting is the story of Renton [Ewan McGregor], a young heroin addict from Edinburgh, who's ready to kick his habit despite the fact that most of his friends aren't. They're basically a bunch of guys who can't handle the idea of growing up and submitting to the hopeless daily grind, so they let the good times role while milking the system, unaware of the eventual consequences. But they become painfully aware soon enough when they realize that heroin isn't better than the mundaneness of life, given the alternative...

This movie has an amazing cast playing some really great characters. Along with Ewan McGregor's 'Rents', there's Jonny Lee Miller's 'Sick Boy' - the worlds biggest Sean Connory fan who can kick his heroin habit anytime he wants, "thereby downgrading" Rent's own struggle... There's 'Spud' played by Ewen Bremner [you might recognize him from Black Hawk Down's 'Nelson', or AVP's 'Graeme Miller'] - a kooky, not-so-bright, yet funny guy [who's accent is really tough to understand if you're not familiar with the Scottish accent -you've been warned...], who's biggest goal in life is to get laid, and who probably has one of the most embarrassing experiences any of us could fathom... Kevin McKidd plays 'Tommy' [best know as 'Lucius Vorenus' from the HBO series Rome] - the clean-living, athletic friend who finds himself curious about his friends' attraction to drugs and decides to see for himself... Robert Carlyle plays their older friend 'Begbie' who has massive anger management issues and is a total psycho... And then there's Kelly McDonald who plays Renton's underaged girlfriend 'Diane' [see lately in No Country for Old Men].

Based on the book by Irvine Welsh, it's no surprise it was nominated for an Oscar for best screenplay. There are plenty of whacked-out, disturbing images in this movie, including plenty of shooting up and gross bathroom scenes, so it's not for the faint of heart, but if you're a Ewan McGregor fan or you just like quirky characters and killer dialog, you'll dig this.

4 out of 5.

Add'l Info: Released: Jul 19, 1996 • Runtime: 94 minutes • Rated R for graphic heroin use and resulting depravity, strong language, sex, nudity and some violence • Photo credit: movieweb.com, origin unknown

I picked up two manuscripts of Broadway plays today: Neil LaBute's The Shape of Things (40 pesos, Booksale) and Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (60 pesos, Booksale). Figured that this could help me write something. I've been reading The Shape of Things and I'm very impressed with the way the dialogue flows. It's so full of wit and pop culture references.

Of course, how can I forget about the film adaptation of The Shape of Things? I loved Paul Rudd in that movie. There's nothing like being transformed (to the point that you don't know yourself anymore) just because of love. By the end of the movie (which really sticks real hard to the play), you'll get one of the best lines ever uttered by Paul Rudd: "Fuck you, you heartless cunt!" Genius.

Hey, maybe we could stage something like this in Los Banos. The entire play fits perfectly to UPLB's world. Like, in the first scene where Evelyn attempts to vandalize a statue (similar to Oblation, naked guy with leaf covering his privates) by painting in a big red penis in order to make the false art--true. This then catapults her into meeting Adam, a shy, slightly obese Museum employee.

I can't help it, the shy, slightly obese Museum employee gets to me. There's nothing like reading about a sad dickhead who ended up suddenly eating pussy, only to have his heart shattered by the end of the page 88. See, those characters appeal to me.

----------------------

It's also shocking how National Bookstores are selling cheap books, too! I managed to pick Irvine Welsh's The Bedroom Secrets of The Master Chefs for 50 pesos at NBS SM Muntinlupa and Hunter S. Thompson's Fear and Lothing: On The Campaign Trail '72 at NBS Festival Mall also for 50 pesos. Amazing. Out of the four books, I'm reading The Shape of Things and Hunter S. Thompson's.

Reading some bits of Gonzo Journalism last night gave me an idea: practice some of it. Hey, the Gonzo stuff is interesting. Besides, I noticed that I have an inclination towards First-person accounts as compared to other novels. Let's wiki Gonzo for further appreciation:

Gonzo journalism is a style of journalism which is written subjectively, often including the reporter as part of the story via a first person narrative. The style tends to blend factual and fictional elements to emphasize an underlying message and engage the reader. The word Gonzo was first used in 1970 to describe an article by Hunter S. Thompson, who later popularized the style. The term has since been applied to other subjective artistic endeavors.

Gonzo journalism tends to favor style over accuracy and often uses personal experiences and emotions to provide context for the topic or event being covered. It disregards the 'polished' edited product favored by newspaper media and strives for the gritty factor. Use of quotations, sarcasm, humor, exaggeration, and even profanity is common. The use of Gonzo journalism portends that journalism can be truthful without striving for objectivity and is loosely equivalent to an editorial.

In short, it's something ala-New Journalism! (He-hey! I listen well to my Devc20 class!) Of course, according to my notes, New Journalism is sometimes good because it grabs attention really well; though the part where you fabricate a bit and employ literary tools... Well, that's lying. But fuck that, the point is getting your message across.

--------------

I'm thinking of other things to do this weekend besides slack off. I've read my notes, checked my schedule, read some topics in advance, the usual. I think I'll watch a movie before going to bed.

Irvine Welsh, Filth

And this is only a mid-way review!

Welsh's most well-known work, Trainspotting, famous for its adaptation to movie form, demonstrated how funny, bizarre and absolutely deranged the author could be. Its sequel, Porno, was nothing to scoff at either.

Welsh's ability to tell stories in accents most of us can barely understand when spoken, much less read, while engaging the reader in his characters and never letting their obsessions with sex, drugs and debauchery get in the way of truly masterful storytelling is truly a mark of his talent. I haven't read an Irvine Welsh book, whether full-length or a short story collection, that I haven't thoroughly enjoyed. Of course, I have an unhealthy taste for books about disturbing topics and messed up characters.

What's your favorite Irvine Welsh book? Anything you'd recommend?

Coming Later tonight: A review of the Dark Knight is coming your way on The Zen of South Park blog.

Rather, working from the theme of "story," Irvine came prepared with a lecture, a group exercise that demonstrated the collaborative nature of screenwriting, and a writing prompt that I thought I'd share.

There's no such thing as writer's block, Irvine said. He's always working on more than one project, so if something isn't working, he can move on to something else. Or a writing exercise, like this one, can get the juice flowing again (no pun intended):

Divide a sheet of paper into four quadrants. In the first rectangle, write down your favorite color. Then write a couple of sentences describing a person wearing an article of clothing of that color.

In another rectangle, write down an animal. Then write a couple of sentences describing what the animal looks like. If you chose a dog, for example, what kind of dog is it? What color is it? How big or small is it?

In the third rectangle, choose a place. This could be very specific (your grandmother's tomato plot) or broad (a metropolis). Describe the place.

Finally, choose an event. Any event. Could be a major occasion like a graduation or wedding or a minor occurrence like a fender bender.

Now, take 20 minutes and incorporate these four elements into a story that is at least six paragraphs but no more than eight.

Why we needed to do this exercise on oversized sheets of paper, or divide the page into four parts, for that matter, isn't clear. And generating brand-new material on the spot is always intimidating.

But I enjoyed this exercise. It felt good to be producing work under pressure again. Here's what I came up with, with some additional polishing this afternoon, and I may have cheated by putting all the dialogue together in the second-to-last graph:

Richard hoisted himself out of the cab and paid the driver, tipping him with unusual generosity. He pulled on his pants, tight now around the waist, so the cuffs dropped back down over his ankles, brushed the wrinkles out of his musty suit jacket, and straightened his tie. Although traffic was slower than during the week, gusts of air from passing vehicles pushed at his back. He took a deep breath and looked up at the bell tower, then walked toward the church. The service was over. Other congregants—touching each other and smiling—were already filing into the reception. He was met at the door with a warm hug.

"Are you a friend of Miriam's?" asked the young woman greeting the arrivals. She wore a yellow dress—Miriam's favorite—and could have passed for Miriam herself.

Richard nodded. The mood was buoyant, but he was too overwhelmed to risk trying to speak. Inside, he signed the guestbook and nodded silently at more of Miriam's friends and relatives. He pulled a card from his suit jacket pocket and put it in the basket. He hadn't known how much to put inside and had settled on twenty dollars. Children in tiny suits and ruffled dresses chased each other among the tables. Loved ones separated too long by too many miles embraced and asked after spouses, children, jobs, vacations. Laughter burst from pockets of people like roman candles.

The pastor tapped his glass with a knife, bringing the room to order, and led the group in prayer. After "amen," he said, "Would anyone care to say a few words?"

Richard stood. Conversations petered out, and the room groaned with chair legs scraping the floor as the guests turned to stare at a man no one else knew.

"When I first met Miriam," he said, clearing his throat, starting again. "When I first met Miriam, she had just moved to the city." A few small smiles encouraged him to continue. "It was raining, but she wanted to ride a horse." Quiet, knowing chuckles at the homesick farmgirl. "I suggested she come back another day, when the weather was nicer, but she insisted she needed to ride right then and there." He looked down at his glass, remembering the tiny young woman in cowboy boots and blue jeans, hair pulled back in a ponytail, brown bangs plastered to her forehead. "I picked out a gentle Welsh pony for her, but she had other ideas—” Snorts of laughter interrupted Richard's story. He waited, gaining momentum. "She pointed out Big, a big, brown, spirited quarterhorse that I didn't usually let clients ride." Heads nodded. "I said, ‘Are you sure?' She said, ‘Oh, yes, I'm sure. That's the one.' Well, she threw her leg up on ol' Big and trotted away through the rain in a bright yellow slicker."

Richard blinked away tears. "I'll miss you, Miriam," he said, raising his glass to the portrait displayed at the front of the room. "Rest in peace."

color: yellow
animal: horse
place: city
event: funeral

Il lercio - Irvine Welsh

1. "Lorraine Goes To Livingston" - Is an intriguing story of betrayal and revenge, which is believable but surreal. It started slowly but as the story progressed, and featured more exerts from the story being written by the character, more was left to the reader's imagination as to what happened and how it concluded.

2. "Fortune's Always Hiding" was another touching story. Reminiscent of my recent read 'Black Widow' with regards to rightful revenge being sought, the emotions touch true. Although this was short, I reckon it could work as a full-length novel. Obviously Welsh didn't feel the same way.

3. "The Undefeated" is inspirational gives perspective of a 'straight' person and an 'e'd up' person - on the same events. How they see other and their time together is comical yet quite sad, as they both have a distorted sense of reality, whether from chemical or emotional changes.

Thumbs up on this book.

I've nae seen any of the filums yet, but ah'll deffo go and see this one. I'd mowah than willinly shell oot some beer tokens tae see him rumaging aroond up tae his biceps in shite, in the bookies khazi!

Can't wait for the needles, dead baby and toxoplasmosis ... though I'm sure they're in the Potter book somewhere.

'Lauren Seymour enjoys a well-ordered existence. Passing her time in York she likes nothing better than the occasional crisp sandwich, reality TV, listening to her CD collection and ignoring the advice of her big gay housemate. An early morning phone-call suddenly shakes her out of her comfortable groove. How do you react when the odd guy you once tried to avoid befriending whilst at university claims that you are now the only person on the planet who could possibly help him ? When that man has been pulled half alive out of the icy-cold waters of the River Ouse after attempting to kill himself you might feel obliged to at least see what you could do. What she discovers in the 32 year old Robert P.Gorman is a man who has kept the ashes of his dead granny under his bed for ten years, and who hasn't bought an item of clothing for a similar length of time. Yet he doesn't seem completely beyond redemption. Could Lauren be the one to rescue Robert ? '

And I have to say the actual product looks absolutely brilliant. If you read my self-published effort last year, you will see what a difference for the better 'proper publication' makes. It's much better laid out, therefore easier to read. Aesthetically it's definitely up there with Taj Mahal. No word of a lie.

It would be a credit to any book case ;-)

Also, think of the re-sale value of this stunning signed, yes, signed First Edition when the film is made in a couple of years (re-located to Seattle of course, Kate Moennig in the main role)
All you have to do is go visit my Myspace blog on the link below and one can be in your possession before the end of the week. The excitement, quite literally, never ends...

Martyn Clayton - Myspace

If you follow Neil Gaiman's blog, like I do, you already know about this. If you are in the UK and regularly hit a Waterstone's (like I would, if I was there), you'll know about it as well. If not, man, have I got news for you! :)

Waterstone's asked 13 authors (or maybe they asked more, but only 13 answered) to write a short story on a postcard, which were auctioned off yesterday (all the profits went to the English PEN and Dyslexia Action). The stories are online now, and if you feel inspired, you can write your own (until June 19th). The best three stories will be published along with the professional authors' stories in a book.

Oh, yeah, and the authors are: Neil Gaiman, Irvine Welsh, J.K. Rowling, Doris Lessing, Nick Hornby, Margaret Atwood, ...

Cool thing.

Initially, I read to escape.

Found my way to the neverlands and never-will-bes as part of a protracted and determined effort to seek refuge from a real world in which I was vulnerable, helpless.

Books also helped assuage the loneliness, the sense of otherness that frequently assailed me. I’ve always had an earnestly held desire to isolate myself from an indifferent, possibly hostile universe lurking just outside my front door. It’s a type of agoraphobia, I suppose, a reluctance to leave an environment where I wield power and control and venture out into the Chaosium.

Ray Bradbury was an early companion, The Golden Apples of the Sun an important reading experience when I was ten or eleven. So was Arthur C. Clarke’s tale “A Walk in the Dark”. I went through many anthologies and short story collections (I have a love of short fiction that persists to this day). Candidly, I was an indiscriminate reader.  Popular fiction, history and, when I was particularly desperate, books plucked from my grandmother’s shelves: Daphne DuMaurier, Harlequin Romances, just about every offering in the Companion Library Series (I was bored by Hans Brinker but loved Baum’s Wizard of Oz and also, surprisingly, The Five Little Peppers).

Science fiction dominated my young adulthood: Lucifer’s Hammer (Niven & Pournelle), Childhood’s End (Clarke), Voyage of the Space Beagle (van Vogt) and every story by Robert Sheckley I could lay my hands on. Sheckley was a fortuitous discovery—I can reread his fiction today and still enjoy it. There’s something about the combination of SF and satire that definitely appeals to me. Some of Sheckley’s best stuff is in Citizen in Space, a volume that shouldn’t be too hard to find. Check it out.

By my mid-teens I was writing a fair bit (mainly bad poetry) and seeking out literary role models, authors whose sensibilities came closest to my own. I found I liked tales with a Twilight Zone-ish aspect to them, something not quite right with the world, fate lying in wait for our hapless hero just around the next bend. Enter Richard Matheson and Charles Beaumont; Philip K. Dick, Harlan Ellison and Jerome Bixby. They became big influences--I think it could be fairly said that their grim(m) worldviews and melancholy ambience still inform the work I produce today, twenty-five years later. That’s how strong an impact their books and tales had on me.

By the time I was eighteen, I’d given up on poetry and was turning my hand to short stories. Slowly, incrementally, I got better and that’s entirely due to the excellent tutelage of my literary heroes. I’ve never taken a writing class or workshop; my “education” is entirely the product of a lifelong addiction to the printed word. I’ve evolved into a better, more critical reader by seeking out authors and books that challenge me intellectually and aesthetically. In the process, I’ve also become a better writer, more demanding when it comes to evaluating and critiquing my own work.

My literary tastes are constantly progressing, expanding. For a time I was enamored with the surrealists and then Samuel Beckett, J.G. Ballard and William Burroughs, authors and movements bent on distorting or eliminating traditional narrative. I was also drawn to the intricate, cerebral mazes constructed by Jorge Luis Borges.

Over the past decade or so, other writers have instructed me, helped propel my work in interesting new directions: Paul Auster and Jonathan Carroll (his first novel, Land of Laughs is a magnificent effort). Don Delillo and Cormac McCarthy. James Crumley. Robert Stone. Jack O’Connell. Irvine Welsh.

Each passed along important lessons—I luxuriate in prose by good authors, immerse myself in it, dissect and analyze it to discover how a certain effect was achieved. My hyper-critical mind has little time for those who resort to “hackdom”, it recoils from the discordant, tuneless prose produced by such derivative or porous imaginations.

Lately, my reading has ranged all over the place—one day, Robert Fagles' translation of The Iliad, the next something lean and mean by Charles Willeford. Nonfiction in the morning to get my brain moving, fiction to wind me down at night. I may go two weeks without reading a book, then binge on them, blasting through six in the next six days. For the longest time I didn’t read science fiction; now, thanks to authors like Tony Daniel, John Barnes, Charles Stross, Peter Watts, Vernor Vinge, James Morrow, Iain M. Banks, Paul Di Filippo, Dennis Danvers and others, I’m back in the fold.

Can’t say the same for horror, unfortunately. The field is in a dreadful state. Do most of the guys and gals scribbling zombie stories these days even know who Matheson and Beaumont are? Do they understand that a well-told tale is a beautiful and enduring thing? Doubtful. They’re too busy ministering to their printers. All that blood and viscera keeps clogging up the works. Such “writers” have nothing to teach me.

Right now I’m really attracted to condensed narratives, brief and fierce and tight. Many books these days are afflicted by clutter and bloat…so I seek out authors who have pared down their prose to the bare minimum. Providing descriptions and back stories with a few well-chosen words. Those fat tomes by Proust, Tolstoy and Durrell will have to wait for another time.

I think it’s important for an indie writer these days to be aware of the DIYers and mavericks who preceded them. Independent spirits like Arthur Rimbaud, Alfred Jarry, Poe, Lovecraft, Kafka, Celine, Artaud, Dick and Ellison. Non-conformists and originals, determined to protect the integrity of their work, willing to risk rancor, exile, public indifference or disapprobation. While our themes and objectives may differ, the examples they set as individuals of great fortitude and perseverance have served to inspire me when I’ve questioned my talent, the direction my life and/or career is going in.

Each of the authors I just cited suffered mightily for their art, endured great privation and ignominy…but their books and stories are still read today. Their travails have been vindicated by slow posterity, their creations consigned to the ages. Art that ennobles the human experience, that faithfully reproduces the pleasures and pains of existence and depicts without flinching the true state of the soul will prevail over yesterday’s bestseller, today’s flavour-of-the-moment. Count on it.

We will always have cause to empathize with Lear’s rage and despair and have it within us to hate with the virulent malice of the Count of Monte Cristo. A thousand years from now the persecution of Jean Valjean will still move us to tears (virtual or otherwise). As a species, we’ve been imbued with the capacity to love and the capability to do enormous harm. Great art does not allow us to shrink from such notions nor concede responsibility to outside agencies. It is a mirror, the ultimate reflecting surface; it does not lie and when we balk, commands us not to look away.

Cliff’s Reading List:

A few years ago my nephew Jesse asked me to put together a reading list for him—this is a revised and updated version of that roster of faves. Books I commend without reservation for their intelligence, savagery, grace and wit:

Martin Amis DEAD BABIES (vicious/hilarious)

Paul Auster ORACLE NIGHT; THE COUNTRY OF LAST THINGS (magic realism)

J.G. Ballard RUNNING WILD (chilling short novel)

Wilton Barnhardt GOSPEL (brilliant!)

James Carlos Blake IN THE ROGUE BLOOD (terrific western)

Joseph Boyden THREE DAY ROAD (Sherron & I loved this book)

Anthony Burgess EARTHLY POWERS

Benjamin Cavell RUMBLE, YOUNG MAN, RUMBLE (brilliant, edgy stories)

L.F. Celine JOURNEY TO THE END OF THE NIGHT; DEATH ON THE INSTALLMENT PLAN

Michael Chabon AMAZING ADVENTURES OF KAVALIER & CLAY; YIDDISH POLICEMEN’S UNION

Nicholas Christopher VERONICA; A TRIP TO THE STARS

James Crumley: (anything by this author)

Don DeLillo UNDERWORLD

Philip K. Dick A SCANNER DARKLY

Katherine Dunn GEEK LOVE (shocking, bizarre…one of our faves)

Steve Erickson DAYS BETWEEN STATIONS (surreal, well-written)

Timothy Findley NOT WANTED ON THE VOYAGE (brilliant)

Ken Grimwood REPLAY (suppose you had your whole life to live over?)

Jim Harrison TRUE NORTH (great American novelist)

Ernest Hemingway FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS (his best book)

Nick Hornby HIGH FIDELITY (avoid Americanized movie)

John Irving HOTEL NEW HAMPSHIRE (still his best)

Denis Johnson JESUS’S SON (grim, powerful stories)

William Kotzwinkle THE FAN MAN (another big favorite)

Ira Levin A KISS BEFORE DYING (very suspenseful; terrible movie)

Lee Maynard CRUM

Cormac McCarthy BLOOD MERIDIAN; OUTER DARK

Ian McEwan BLACK DOGS; CEMENT GARDEN

Martin Millar LUX THE POET

Henry Miller TROPIC OF CANCER; BIG SUR & THE ORANGES OF HIERONYMUS BOSCH

David Mitchell CLOUD ATLAS; BLACK SWAN GREEN

Seth Morgan HOME BOY (staggeringly good; author died tragically young)

James Morrow TOWING JEHOVAH (blasphemous; hilarious)

Chuck Palahniuk LULLABY; CHOKE; FIGHT CLUB

Stephen Pressfield GATES OF FIRE

Mordecai Richler COCKSURE (very funny); BARNEY’S VERSION (what a swan song)

Tom Robbins ANOTHER ROADSIDE ATTRACTION; STILL LIFE WITH WOODPECKER

Bruce Robinson THE PECULIAR MEMORIES OF THOMAS PENMAN

Abraham Rodriguez SPIDERTOWN (amazing novel); THE BUDDHA BOOK

J.D. Salinger THE CATCHER IN THE RYE (legendary)

George Saunders (anything by Saunders; he’s one of the best)

Jim Shepard PROJECT X (he’s a great short story writer too)

Robert Stone OUTERBRIDGE REACH; DAMASCUS GATE

Donna Tartt THE SECRET HISTORY (excellent first novel)

Hunter S. Thompson FEAR & LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS (changed my life)

John Kennedy Toole CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES

Guy Vanderhaeghe MY PRESENT AGE (very funny & sweet)

Rich Wallace WRESTLING STURBRIDGE (great YA novel)

Evelyn Waugh DECLINE & FALL

Colson Whitehead THE INTUITIONIST

Non-fiction:

Karen Armstrong A HISTORY OF GOD

Thomas Cahill DESIRE OF THE EVERLASTING HILLS

Wade Davis ONE RIVER (travels in Amazonia & elsewhere)

Annie Dillard HOLY THE FIRM

Richard Ellmann JAMES JOYCE (biography); OSCAR WILDE (biography)

Jon Krakauer INTO THIN AIR

Bill McKibben ENOUGH (too much technology is gonna kill us)

Margaret McMillan 1919 (story behind Versailles negotiations)

Graham Robb RIMBAUD (biography)

Eric Schlosser FAST FOOD NATION; REEFER MADNESS

Andrew Smith MOON DUST

Anthony Storr SOLITUDE

Barbara Tuchman MARCH OF FOLLY

Elie Wiesel NIGHT

"Al ladro ... al ladro...."

"Al ladro cosa?" chiede piu' scocciata che impaurita la futura signora Krugman.

"No, niente, a casa dei Mozzoni, a Fontane, a 300 km da qui...."

"E tu mi hai svegliato...."

"Eh pero' l'ho fatto scappare"

"cazzo"

"cazzo cosa?"

"piove. la roba stesa"

E la signora Krugman ha aperto le tende pesanti viola e ha iniziato a prelevare biancheria stesa e a gettarla non so dove.

Pochi minuti dopo e' suonata la sua sveglia, poi e' tornata nel letto con l'accappatoio dopo la doccia, poi mi sono alzato. Ho fatto colazione mangiando gelato alla crema e cioccolato dinnanzi a due fascioleghisti che gridavano "i marocchini a casa loro" da una tv locale.  

Devo correre, devo correre, devo correre. Ma diluvia, diluvia, diluvia.

E allora torno a letto, finisco avidamente le avventure di David Simon Williamson, Sick Boy, in Porno. Irivine Welsh racconta la sua Gomorra.

Gomorra, il film ti prende a pugni sul muso. Ti lascia senza fiato, senza parole, senza commenti. che film. Garrone non tradisce, non era facile portare Gomorra sugli schermi. Non nasce come una sceneggiatura. Lui ci riesce benissimo. Il sarto non lo dimentichi piu' e Servillo si merita tutto il successo che i media gli concedono di questi tempi. Ne esce male l'italia, tutta, non solo Napoli. E il nordest? nell'imprenditore che vuole tutto "clean " c'e' una fotografia perfetta di quello che manca alle mie terre: un pizzico di senso della comunita', di civilta', di bene comune.

9.34 e' ora di buttare la spazzatura e salire in vespa

Another factor, however, was that I considered this guy to be patently confrontable, and let's be honest, we make the judgment about the person as much as the situation. A harder-looking bastard, I would have thought twice. And that's the real shame of it all; we like to think we treat everybody the same and that our rage is righteous and not about bullying, but that's just the lie we tell ourselves to make us feel better.

salcazzo come gira il fumo quella sderenata di verena, foss'altro che ci ho smazzato un bamboccio con lei la prenderei a calcinculo tante ore quante ce ne stanno in un giorno cazzo!

non può dar la paga al cemento per durezza che tutte le volte che vado a prendere il paciocco, mi attacca la pippa sugli assegni che non ce la fa a campare, che glieli devo mandare di più di e più spesso di spicci, che il bambino magna e come se magna gli dico io! Lo vedo che mi viene incontro all'uscita da scuola sabato mattina che è il mio giorno preciso per stare con lui che gli balla tutta la ciccia intorno alla pancia, sì sì avete capito bene non ha la pancia questo gattino qua, ma si ritrova tutta la ciccia che gli balla intorno come fosse un cinquantenne che non si muove dalla tivvù.... manco fosse il mio vecchio che tra l'altro al cazzo gli faccio vedere il suo nipotino.
già me lo vedo partire in quarta - lo stronzo - colle sue storie da nazi in carrozzella impaurito dalla vita e liscio preciso garantito al limone che gli parla male di me: di tutte le storie pese colla robba che ci ho avuto che come dire, mica mi vergogno cristo santo! che se ho fatto quel che ho fatto era per divertirmi o per far bene, però fa un cazzo piacere che le viene a sapere il mio bamboccino ma soprattutto che gliele racconta il mio vecchio smerdandomi me e facendo lui la parte del santo.
Tipico atteggiamento da stronzo inutile qual'è: zero cose da dire e allora giù a parlar male di chi capita a tiro! Se ne deve stare buono lui, che se mi son trovato col culo scoperto a dodici anni lo devo solo a lui SOLO A LUI e al cazzo gli faccio passar liscia la vecchiaia solo 'ché ora si trova mezzo scoionato che non si pulisce manco il culo.

fatto sta che il mio gattino mi viene incontro tutto paciocco all'uscita da scuola: lo vedo subito dagli occhi come gli balla il cuore che lo vengo a prendere io e non quella svalvolata di sua madre: cogli amici mi fa il ganzo allora e mi urla incontro e mi salta addosso, oddio che parolone, non è che salta proprio che con tutto il lardo che si è magnato questo porcello manco ce la fa ad abbracciarmi se non ci sono io che gli vado incontro e lo aiuto.

ma tanto hai voglia, posso fare poco il duro comedire: quando lo vedo e gli vedo il ghigno stampato preciso in faccia, mi si apre il cuore manco un'iniezione di morfina e mi dimentico di tutte le storiacce pese e di tanti nomi troppe facce ma questa è un'altra storia e ora non mi va proprio.

che vi volevo dire sì, che l'altro sabato dopo aver recuperato il bamboccio a scuola che io non so perché il sabato si faccia ancora 'sta palla che forse ci avevan ragione ai tempi del duce che saltavan appiè pari dal venerdì al lunedi e tanti saluti al duce e a quelle teste monde che se le vedo in giro una di queste sere sicuro gli faccio la festa se capita l'occasione a fagiuolo e se capita dico io altrimenti la facco capitare con quel presomale di roccia.

'somma fatto sta che l'altro dì siamo spaparanzati a gustarci sto filmino cartone di quelli che sono usciti da poco al cine e come dire io me lo faccio dare a sbafo dal gabro che ci capisce di computer e mi procura sempre questi filmini da guardare il sabato pomeriggio col paciocco quando non si va al mare o allo stadio quando la massese gioca in casa.

e mentre siamo lì io non lo so ma penso sempre che il bimbo ha preso dalla madre perché non ce la faccio a vederlo scompisciarsi per queste segate che si vedono in tivvù come ora cazzo. ci sta questo topo che è francese ed è bravo in cucina, ma bravo a livello di ricca' o di quei ristoranti al forte tipo mangiare colla erre moscia e lui se la mena giù di risate, manco fosse un film di verdone.
io rimango sempre così che quando vedo che lui si ammazza per queste cose, non so cosa fare: un po' gli reggo il gioco poi dopo mi smono e non lo so, non so cosa dirgli e rimango così, come in imbarazzo e allora poi mi pento, cerco di rimediare, che sua mamma lo sa anche lei. ormai mi conosce e ci ha fatto il callo ma quando eravamo in crisi che ci siamo lasciati me lo diceva e puntava sempre il dito contro questo mio atteggiamento che non gli garbava, diceva che non le mostravo affetto che non la facevo sentire donna e che io mi estraniavo a volte ero come assente, ed io un po' lo sapevo.
son sempre stato così, da una vita e mi conosco. per cui non mi arrabbiavo più di tanto, la lasciavo sbollire tanto lo sapevo che poi si sarebbe calmata e io avrei rimediato, è sempre andata così, la mia parte buona poi esce sempre, mi garba il fatto che riesco a rimediare alle cappelle che faccio, me lo sono sempre riconosciuto ed è sempre filato tutto liscio fino all'ultima volta, quando poi verena se ne è andata. allora il gioco non funzionava più, diceva che non poteva lasciarmi fare sempre, che anche lei aveva da rispettarsi.

non so, secondo me eran cose da donne. io con un paciocco di mezzo non mi sarei comportato come lei, sempre prima lui deve esserci e da allora mi sta ancora più sul cazzo.

fatto sta che anche stavolta col bimbo mi sento uguale, che un giorno la settimana non lo posso lasciar passare così come se nulla fosse e non farlo divertire, ma so già che rimedio tanto, già mi si è accesa la lampadina in testa e la prossima volta gli faccio un bel regalino che almeno se ne sta buono e lo sa che il suo pa' gli vuole un monte di bene e allora vai, sabato prossimo lo passo a prendere con un bel presente in scatola. 

già stassera passo dal fiume e gli lustro un bel topone di quelli che si vedono passare che almeno se ne sta buono per un po' e lo chiama come quello del film che manco so come si dice io: rattarpone o una cosa simile.
si'! si'! già che ci sono gli dico pure di farlo pulire alla madre che così mi esce da fare la puzza sotto al naso quella vacca! tze'! evvai che anche stavolta me ne esco giusto

-Irvine Welsh.

-Grande Irvine Welsh!

-Quem é Irvine Welsh?

Bem, se o termo “transpotting” lhe diz alguma coisa, então não é tarde para lembrar que esse é um dos grandes responsáveis pela onda, pelo hype, pelo estilo, pela alma dos anos 90 deflagrada e dilacerada pelo livro e posteriormente pelo filme homônimo dirigido por Danny Boyle que se tornou ícone dos anos 90 .

Em Trainspotting, acompanhamos a saga de um grupo de jovens escoceses viciados em heroína rumo ao abismo; desmotivados pela falta de perspectivas, enxergam um mundo que reflete o consumo de forma distorcida para quem vive num subúrbio pobre e altamente preconceituoso. Rents, Simon e companhia traduzem de forma perfeita e inequívoca o casamento das estéticas rock e eletrônica e o consumo de velhas e novas drogas num momento da história em que ocorrem mudanças radicais na economia e na comunicação sem que no entanto os pensamentos das pessoas nele existentes mudem.

No cinema, Trainspotting foi um êxito completo, tornando-se ícone cult de toda uma geração. Com ótima trilha sonora e atuações de igual qualidade, esse sucesso acabou chamando atenção para o escritor, o Irvine Welsh do início do texto.

Welsh não se acomodou com os louros que sua excelente estréia lhe rendeu: em 2002, lança Pornô, continuação que na minha opinião não iguala, mas sim supera o trabalho anterior. Desta vez, Rents e Simon focam seus talentos para atividades ilícitas em uma produção pornô independente e de recursos duvidosos. Neste livro há uma atualização das neuras e impulsos humanos, contextualizadas no início do século 21. A adaptação para o cinema já vem sendo prometida há algum tempo. Esperemos.

Todo esse intróito para falar sobre o novo livro de Welsh, As revelações picantes dos grandes chefs, lançado há pouco pela editora Rocco . Desta vez, os personagens trabalhados são outros: o conflito se dá entre Danny Skinner, funcionário da vigilância sanitária de Edimburgo e "apreciador" de umas cervejas após o trabalho com certa frequência, e seu colega de trabalho, o sério e comportado Brian Kibby. Eles não vão muito um com a cara do outro, mas a animosidade entre eles atinge pontos inimagináveis a partir do momento que passam a disputar um cargo de chefia.

Irvine Welsh pode ser traduzido em poucas palavras: violência, nonsense, drogas (lícitas e ilícitas), rock n' roll, palavrões, sexo e um pouco de bom mocismo massacrado por todas as coisas anteriores. Imperdível.

As Revelações Picantes dos Grandes Chefs - Irvine Welsh

Tradução: Daniel Frazão e Maira Parula

Páginas: 432

Editora: Rocco

Formato: 14x21

Preço: R$ 52,00

http://www.portishead.co.uk/

Acollonit. Així és com m’ha deixat la primera escolta de l’últim disc dels de Bristol, que feia 10 anys que no publicaven. I si jutgem pel resultat final, em penso que de vegades la opció de deixar passar el temps abans que un artista torni a expressar-se mercès a la seva obra serveix per a reinventar-se i aconseguir travessar els seus propis límits.

Si us he de dir la veritat, mentre escric aquest post escolto The Rip, una de les peces d’aquest Third que acaba de sortir al mercat, I se’m posa la pell de gallina. La barreja de sons i ritmes i la veu profunda i trencada de la Beth Gibbons floten literalment pel menjador de casa meva i la sensació de inquietud és tan palpable com la que puc sentir quan veig, escolto o admiro alguna peça d’art que connecta amb la meva forma de veure i interpretar les coses. I quan acaba aquesta, aleshores sona Plastic, encara més evocadora i estranya. Però és després (bé, ara, ja que m’havia aturat fins al següent tema que aconseguís tallar-me la respiració) amb Machine Gun, -probablement el tall més terriblement sec i aterridor que he escoltat en anys i que va més enllà del que és per a mi una simple cançó-, quan m’adono que això que escolto no és normal (podeu escoltar-lo al vídeo penjat més adalt). Patint dins meu aquesta metralladora sento vertader pànic i em pregunto si els Portishead han fet alguna mena de pacte amb el diable per a aconseguir crear aquest so tan capaç de dur-me a sentir coses que fins ara només la imatge havia aconseguit fer-me sentir.

No és, però, un disc fàcil. No ho és gens. Però em penso que cal fer l’esforç de tractar de comprendre’l, de intentar ser partícip del que pretén i de deixar-se anar, encara que sigui en una primera i única escolta, perquè és tan diferent als productes que estem acostumats a escoltar que és gairebé depurador per a les oïdes; un filtre del fet rutinari, de la repetició insulsa, que ens cola la porqueria i la despulla per a mostrar novetat. Escolteu-lo. Encara que l’acabeu detestant. Encara que l’acabeu odiant.

Us deixo aquí dos vídeos: un, de la cançó Only You del seu primer disc, Dummy, dirigit per un Cunningham excel•lent i del que ja he parlat en algun moment en aquest bloc però a qui no he acabat mai de fer justícia (ho faré, ho juro!). L’altre, l’All Mine, del seu segon CD, l’anomenat Portishead, i presentat amb un videoclip que... no puc definir amb paraules (veieu-lo i ja em direu).
Del seu tercer, aquest Third, només us demano que procureu escoltar-lo pels motius d’abans, i acabo fent-vos una confidència que justifica el meu consell: sempre he dit que si fos director de cinema m’agradaria dirigir el que dirigeix el Lynch. Que si fos escriptor, m’agradaria escriure el que escriu el Millàs, el Welsh o el Hunter S. Thompson. Bé. Si hagués de posar música a certs moments de la meva vida, o fes el cinema que m’agradaria fer... o mentre escrivís el que m’agradaria escriure, em penso que escoltaria els Portishead. Aconsegueixen arribar tan lluny amb els seu so com la imatge o la paraula. Ara mateix, i sol som soc a casa, només us puc dir que hauré d’apagar immediatament el reproductor de música. Estic certament acollonit i en algun moment he sentit sensació d’ofec, de vertadera angoixa. Malparits… com us ho heu fet?