Besides Irvine Welsh, I haven't read much written in the Scots dialect. The concept of this book is interesting enough: it follows a 29-year-old Glaswegian schoolteacher through a normal day in his life as he negotiates the question of whether or not he is only living a half-lived life. A simple concept requiring great writing for it to be truly moving. Occasionally, Kelmon achieves this; he writes entirely in the Scots dialect and in a stream of consciousness style riddled with slurs and jokes. But the main character, Patrick Doyle, is also a deeply pensive character. There is a strong interiority throughout the novel, which is occasionally rewarding and great. There's artfulness in how Kelmon balances the third person with the inwardness of the character. But for too much of the novel, there's a lot of inner-gazing with very little going on (and not much substance to back it up).

The only thing is that the book is pretty boring. Doyle's in love with a married teacher at his school and he pines after her; he muses about Goya and Holderlin; he eats and drinks at pubs, he drives drunk; he eats a meal with one of his nearly-estranged family members. One long scene in particular with his unrequited love is very good, and when it lands, Kelmon's humour is fresh. The Glaswegian Scots dialect is a saving grace of the book; it's impoverished, grey, and sort of brutal, yet charming at the same time.

Worth a read if you can get into the pacing of the book, but it dragged on for me despite what I appreciated about it.