James Kelman - A Disaffection

where’s the whisky. But I dont want a whisky with that evil bastard because this is evil this is the existence of pure evil, a putrefication, a putrefaction of the spirit, the spirit of life but I dont feel like crying I feel like fucking battering but who the fuck to batter, who do I batter,

who do I kill

I dont know whom to kill. I dont want to kill my brother not only because he’s my brother but because he’s a person and not only that but he is a person who is in ignorance. He is my brother who is in ignorance. I dont want to kill him. And I dont want to cry. I dont want to kill myself, I dont want that. I may want to be dead but that’s another question; a different form of questioning, a logic from another world.

Is it fuck a logic from another world it’s a logic from the same fucking world and you’ve just got to find that method which lassos the bastard.

So okay; let us not depart. Let us all be together. Let us all be at one where to be at one is to be at peace, beyond conflict, a reconciliation of opposing forces.

What is the connection between being a man who is a Pakistani who has knocked down the wee boy who is now in intensive care o brother that the relationship includes you and me and your kids plus Nicola and the existence of maw and da and the ancestors, erupting their way out of the sewage system, when some form of fucking enlightenment, some form of fucking enlightenment

Let us just for fuck sake go up and visit the wee boy in intensive care and then go and visit the guy that was driving the car that knocked him down: let us just do that as a beginning. Me and you o brother ya bastard except that we cannot talk, as a beginning. Let us talk. Even just as a beginning. What is that. There isni a beginning. There is no beginning. You cannot discover a beginning. No beginning exists. There arent any at all. There are two blokes in quicksand with cudgels belaying each other. There are two blokes one of whom is the ignorant Gavin Doyle from Cadder man and the other the ignorant or not ignorant man who may or may not be from Pakistan.

Meanwhile the wee boy is in intensive care.

He is the beginning. And after that there isnt anything. I dont matter and you dont matter. Nobody else matters. Not even the wee boy’s parents. None of us matters at all. Fucking ignorance and warped brains and diverse corrupting forces in the name of fucking shit and fucking swamping keech, keech and fucking shite and soiled semen and blood that is congealed.

Fine. Fine. I dont have any doubts. My doubts ceased a long while ago. I am fine. I am in instrument of all that is fine and far-sighted. I receive almost twice as much of the provender of survival as do my brother and sister-in-law and nephew and niece all rolled up into one neat bundle. And we are all to be at one, yes, at peace, reconciled, fully. Says who? Says me. I say it. I say to my big brother, dont for fuck sake do what you are doing but listen to me as an equal and let us talk to each other, and in that talking we shall be finding the way ahead.

What a pile of fucking shite! What a pile of absolute gibbers! The very idea that such forms of conflict can be so resolved! This is a straight bourgeois intellectual wank. These liberal fucking excesses taken to the very limits of fucking hyping hypocritical tollie.

Now we know the truth. There is only one way to go

home; home to one’s own house and draw the curtains and set yourself down and out with the pipes

What would Hölderlin do under such circumstances? Would he re-read one of Diotima’s letters?

What in the name of fuck does Hölderlin

Does Hölderlin. Does Hölderlin what. The poor guy. He’s simply a dead fellow who was involved with this married woman who ‘belonged’ in the arms of another, viz. her man, the husband. So what? So fucking what. He was a good bloke and he went mad, supposedly. Only supposedly? Well let us say yes for the time being I mean to all extents and purposes he did go mad, not so much mad as suffering a prolonged mental breakdown, being no longer able to exist as a tutor or whatever, and this bloke called Sinclair helped him, and then a home was found for him in with this carpenter and his family, and he stayed there for the next thirty odd years.

It matters. That’s all. It fucking matters. In relation to what? In juxtaposition to which? Go and fuck yourself. Go and have a fucking wank in the bathroom. Go and have a fucking wank in your single man’s bed. Go and spill your fucking oneness ya fucking idiot.

No.

No no.

No no no.

What’s up, are you not okay?

Aye you’re fucking right I’m not okay. What could fucking be more not okay than this. Fucking big brother there in the corner like a fucking overgrown ham sandwich. An overgrown ham sandwich, what does that mean. He’s actually quite skinny. Blame his feyther, our auld man who is on his third stroke and still smokes like a chimney behind the back of his wife the good maw, he smokes behind her back as though she was the sheriff of Dodge City. Why is Nicola ben the kitchenette? Why is Gavin married to Nicola when Patrick is not. If Patrick had met her first he would have married her. He would have got on well with her. They get on together. They can have good conversations. What is Alison doing just now. Where was she at dinnertime? Did she go for a bloody walk with Desmond and Joe and that other guy? Is it possible to phone and ask her if she could come out and they could have a quiet shandy in a peaceful pub. Is it possible she would wish to hear from him. Is it best that he does fuck all. Is it best he just does as she asked in other words fuck all, she asked him to do fuck all, is that what he is best to do, fuck all, like she asked, just fuck all, that is what she asked him to do. Is it best, is it best, that he does fuck all and relaxes and acts like an adult male of the human species and just does what he is supposed to i.e. fuck all.

I just cant relate to you when ye say something like that; to me it’s just racist.

What? Gavin’s frown.

What you said there, a wee minute ago, about a paki knocking that wee boy down I mean I dont understand at all what bloody fucking difference it makes if it was a paki or it wasnt a paki. Even using that word, paki, I mean it isnt a word it’s just a bloody derogatory racist bloody term. If ye mean a guy that was from fucking Pakistan ye should say so.

I’m no wanting to have a fight with you.

I dont want to have a fight with you either.

Then dont act it.

I’m no acting it.

Just let’s leave it.

…

…

I think it’s best I go.

You can suit yourself what ye do.

I think you’re actually trying to tell me something.

…

…

…

I think you’re actually trying to tell me you want me to leave.

That’s right.

You’re wanting me to leave?

Aye.

Okay. Fine. Patrick laid down his knife and his fork.

Nicola and the kids were in the kitchenette. Patrick waited a short while before opening the door. That’s me away home now, he said, see you all soon!

Cheerio Uncle Pat, said John and Elizabeth.

Nicola just looked at him.

So I’ll see ye a week on Saturday is that right? that wee party or whatever it was.

You’ll definitely come?

Of course.

Well for a start get the date properly fixed in that skull of yours! it’s this Saturday night coming.

Is it?

Yes. Half-past eight.

Just as well I mentioned it then eh!

You wont come.

Aye I will.

Bring somebody with ye.

Could I?

Of course.

Patrick nodded. He winked at Elizabeth who was watching him and making funny faces. I could just take you Elizabeth, eh! You could be my girlfriend!

I’m serious Pat; bring that lassie you mentioned.