I'm really ambivalent about this book. Somewhere in the very beginning of the book I had one of the finest reading experiences ever. The "I" in the book describes his early childhood, and something about what his bedroom looked like and his mother sitting in the next room and so on. It was beautifully written.
Then things go berserk. I kept up interest until Alasdair Gray involves himself in the plot. Some character in the book stumbels into his room at some hotel and we can "see" Mr. Gray in the book. The horror, horror, . . .
I almost destroyed a former colleague's interest in literature by lending him this book, and since then I haven't been able to recommend anything to him. Quite understandable.
Copyright © 2009 Peter Andrén