I am back to reading Irvine Welsh again, this time a collection of short stories so brutal that I had to set the book down several times.
Like his other books, most of the stories are written in a Scottish dialect, with unflinching harsh themes of violence and man's inhumanity to man, that creep up and bash you on the head repeatedly.
With the stories written in dialect, one almost has to read aloud to follow along, and the intensity is almost unbearable at time for me. I have no idea if this is a good or bad thing. He does for violence, misogyny, and poverty what Dorothy Allison did for poverty and domestic abuse in Bastard out of Carolina, but without the grace and poetics. All very in your face.