Avant-garde
The only book to compare this one to is 'A Clockwork Orange.' Even Burgess' masterful novel can't compare to this strange, horrifying, visceral, funny, and entertaining knock out. The characters are lowlifes and, at the same time, sympathetic. The stories, at first glance, don't look like they flow together, but when Welsh drags you deeper into his depressing, bleak, gallows humour infested world, you feel its correllation. It seems as if Irvine is a fly on the wall, able to analyze (and sometimes divulge) into the darkness of living. At times, this book has the same feel of Celine's 'Journey to the End of the Night' with its raging, maniacal prose, in sections, anyways. Other times it felt like a gothic novel set amidst an industrial wasteland full of sociopaths, heroin addicts, and all around scum bags. Think Wuthering Heights if it were written by Hubert Selby Jr, set in modern day Edinburgh. Violence is always up in the air, ready to explode at any minute. It's impossible to set this three hundred page wallop down, despite the fact that you really want to - the uncomfortable truths this aesthetically driven masterpiece exposes is unbelievably disgusting to dissect, but the author pulls you in and doesn't let go. This assemblage is a nightmare, content wise there are so many sequences that make you cringe, and if you don't cringe, you're just a sick person, period. Sure, many people have pointed out how funny the novel is. Granted, while it is laugh out loud hilarious, it's still terrifying. This is an admirable feat. Welsh has managed to dig so incredibly deep into the foggy netherworld of the Scottish proleteriat, tearing down a verdigris moss covered wall to discover the restlessly vicious honesty on the other side and, at the same time, still gaze at it through a comedian's lens. This makes aspiring authors (such as me) hate him with an envy. Each story he manages to end with a sting. He zaps the reader with rhythem. The famed phonetic scottish dialect is admirable. Welsh knows how difficult it is to read, and through the consistent challenge of understanding this prose, the writer makes sure he pummels you with discomforting altruisms on nearly every page. In a transgressional novel written in plain english, it's easy to skip whatever line you want. If you don't want to read something, you don't have to. With this book, you have to. The honesty is what impressed me most about 'Trainspotting.' Having read thousands of novels, I've never ran across a text that was so originally inventive with getting across incompassionate personalities. The (second) funeral scene for Tommy was my favorite. There's an interior monologue for each character attending, and it's simply astounding it reminds you of how low the human race can go in terms of being unsympathetic and inhumane. While many would argue that Welsh is by no means a moralist (and I'm not inclined to intensely disagree with this supposition) I think that there is a speck of allegory dotting this map of anarchic nihilism. It only exists tonally, however. It's not spoonfed to you in the last couple of pages, a technique that famed author Palahniuk executes in most of his novels. Upon finishing Trainspotting, I felt like three years had been taken off of my life. It was a draining, satisfying experience. You can't really describe the reading of this novel to anyone who hasn't done it the entire thing is a rollar coaster ride.
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