New Scottish Writing.
Roy, G. Ross
A title such as New Scottish Writing can be more than a little
misleading, at least for this reviewer. What is one to expect in a
collection of "modern" Scottish writing? The editor Harry
Ritchie himself does not appear to have a clear-cut concept of what to
include; the volume is intended, he says, "to celebrate the
extraordinary boom now taking place in Scottish literature," and he
goes on to write about the "variety, the wit, verve and range of
current Scottish literature." Does not the title also imply,
however, that the authors collected will themselves be new, and that
Ritchie is doing us a service in bringing a sample of their work to our
attention? If so, we are quickly disabused. In the introduction we are
told that James Kelman, Muriel Spark, and others declined to contribute;
on the other hand, equally well-known names do appear: Edwin Morgan,
Iain Crichton Smith, Douglas Gunn, and Alasdair Gray, whose publishing
began in 1952, 1955 and 1969, respectively, and even Gray's Lanark
has been on our shelves for sixteen years. The work of these writers is
too well known to need attention here, so I shall comment on some of the
newer voices in the collection.
Robin Robertson is able to capture his earlier life when, as a boy,
in "Visiting My Grandfather" he senses the color of the bay in
Stonehaven, "As if colour TV / had come to Scotland."
Robertson is uncertain of the future, though - he carries his daughter
"like a set of pipes . . . to a dead march" and counterpoints
"her crying / with my hummed drone: / the floo'ers o' the
forest / are a' wi'ed awae."
The bleakest Scottish scene (and only a small portion of the contents
of this book is demonstrably Scottish) is set in the Highlands. It is a
selection from a work in progress by Alan Warner, himself a native of
Argyll. It is a work of death and decay and debauchery, but there are
hints that as a novel there may be apotheosis.
A relative newcomer in fiction, Janice Galloway, captures a crumbling
relationship from several angles, but the reader has the feeling that
the disagreement which will completely undo things comes when Irene
suddenly realizes what Callum and his father had been secretly
discussing.
It clicked.
You've joined the Lodge, haven't you? she said. You've
joined the bloody Orange Lodge. . . .
No wonder you're fucking embarrassed. . . . Christ on wheels
Callum. The Orange Lodge.
Unfortunately, dialogue such as this still rings true.
Kathleen Jamie offers a touching poem, "Pearl," which toys
with worthiness and unworthiness: "Perhaps I began / like a pearl,
unwanted / dirt." Her grandmother advised the protagonist as a lass
to ignore comments, and in her "sticky kitchen . . . Butter /
scones, she nourished me, / then died." Abandoned and jeered at
like "a gross vision / of Our Lady," she finds solace when
onlookers' comments "rise to me like a prayer."
Ritchie is correct when he maintains that modern Scotland has
"many great talents," and he has selected judiciously from
among those whose contribution to literature has yet to mature and those
whose position is secure. There is something here for everyone.
G. Ross Roy University of South Carolina
