Porno by Irvine Welsh

pornoWelsh

It’s quite revealing (to me, knowing myself) that it took me almost two weeks to read this novel, which is just under 500 pages. I wouldn’t say I found it very boring (because I only found it mildly boring), but I wouldn’t say, either, that I didn’t find any other thing or event more interesting than this (because I did).

So yeah, Welsh wrote a sequel to Trainspotting, awesome. The question arises, though: why? Reading Porno, it seems to me that in the years since the era of Trainspotting, the characters have gone on to fit in somewhere, or have gone on to dig themselves completely into a mess, in a way that was already foreseeable during the Trainspotting era. There’s nothing new here, really, and reading two novels about basically the same flavor of fucked-upness is a bit too much.

It wouldn’t necessarily be too much, it could well be interesting, however, Welsh seems to have lost his grip on the world he writes about, and reading his clueless wandering around is somewhat – boring.

Of course, it’s possible that he’s not really clueless, and that this fake cluelessness serves the purpose of expressing the idea that’s often mentioned in the novel: how the old Leith is disappearing, and how soon there will be no-one to remember how it used to be. However, Welsh himself doesn’t seem to remember it all too well, and the brutal, raw, tragic, hopeless, extremely nihilistic yet screamingly funny world of Trainspotting is almost non-existent here. And not because it doesn’t exist anymore – the characters still inhabit that world, it’s only that Welsh doesn’t know anymore how to describe it.

I think the best thing that could have happened to this novel is that it was turned into a film. Sure, T2 Trainspotting has almost nothing to do with the novel, it only uses a couple of basic motifs and episodes from the book, but I feel the film does the thing honestly that Welsh doesn’t do honestly at all: wallowing in dire nostalgia. The film doesn’t really bother with a proper story, it revolves around a couple of funny, unsettling or thought-provoking episodes, Trainspotting-style, and by using great visual and musical effects and references, it becomes a pure nostalgia trip. Which, to me, is perfectly fine – I went to see it four times in the cinema, which is an individual record, and I was never once bored with it.

Compared to the film, though, here Welsh pretends that he isn’t just being nostalgic but has something new to say, and pretends that there’s a proper story (which Trainspotting doesn’t have, and doesn’t need one, either). Problem is that Welsh doesn’t actually have new things to say, and he doesn’t actually seem to know how to write a 500-page long proper story, so in the end this novel is a bit of a torture (to me, to read it), and more than a bit strained.

Anyway, I’ll still come round to read Skagboys one day.

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Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh

trainspotting

I’d read this novel many many years ago, and I probably liked it even back then, but I don’t think it blew my mind as much as it did now. It must have been good to read Trainspotting as a young innocent smart-ass rebel, but – for me – it’s definitely a more shattering experience to read it when I’m not so young, not that innocent and not that big of a rebel anymore (I’m still a smart-ass, that one hasn’t changed).

I have no idea how Irvine Welsh knows this much about addiction (everyone’s an addict, allegedly, and recently I’ve been having lots of conversations with people about addiction and dependency, and I wonder whether there’s a significant difference between me being addicted to smoking, someone being a food junkie, someone else being a shopaholic, and someone else being addicted to computer games – and I don’t think there is – there are only surface differences – in that some forms of addiction are more accepted, some are less, some addictions ruin your life somewhat faster than others, and some addictions allow you to tell – seemingly – funny stories about them, while others don’t), about the hopelessness of things and about not giving a fuck about them, about rotting away and selling yourself out, about the secret romanticism of addiction, about the impossibility of change, about laughing at your pain, about the feeling that you will never ever have this (something, anything – normal this or that – life, perhaps) so you pretend that you wouldn’t even want that, and despise everything normal and scornfully laugh at anyone who dares to assume that perhaps you’d want that something, after all.

I won’t go looking into Welsh’s biography now because it doesn’t matter how he knows all this – it’s enough that he definitely understands it deeply: the massive self-deception and self-hate of addicts; the way how it always starts out as a game – why wouldn’t I try this, I’m smart, strong and in control, and I can do whatever I want; the fact that addiction is a wonderful way to fill time and while you’re deep in it, there’s no need to think and do anything else, which is awesome.

I sense the sarcasm in my voice but I’m not sure at what or at whom it’s directed at. Sometimes I wonder, for example, how many minutes a day I spend smoking, and I realize that if I didn’t smoke, besides being healthier and having more money, I’d also have a lot more time – but what would I do with all that time? Would I read one more book in a week? Would I watch three more films or would I translate two more of those things I translate? But – why would I want to do that?

And I don’t even live in the 1980s in forgotten and rotting Leith but in the 2010s in a very friendly and nice town where things don’t actually look hopeless. And I’m not even talking about heroin addiction, only about the relatively simple and innocent addiction to cigarettes – so if I multiply my feelings and my experiences with addiction by a thousand, then perhaps I can imagine how the characters of this novel live, and can imagine the things they do and the way they don’t give a shit and mock everything.

And it’s frightening and brilliant, by the way, when Welsh/one of his narrators starts to talk about all kinds of serious topics, for example, when Renton talks about the psychologists and social workers and other helpers who all wanted to rehabilitate him, and goes on to analyze himself in a deeply self-ironic fashion, and then I feel how my relatively good-girlish mind, always looking for explanations and always trying to gain understanding, soaks up Renton’s words with hope and enthusiasm, secretly thinking how there must really be such a connection that Renton’s a junkie because his relationship with his brother was like this and that, and because this and that happened to his other brother – my mind keeps clinging to the idea that there must be an explanation, and if there’s an explanation, then there must be a solution, too, when in fact there’s no automatic explanation, no automatic solution, and no, there’s absolutely no causal link between vegetarianism and heroin addiction, either.

I didn’t remember Trainspotting was such a dark novel. And I didn’t remember, either, that it’s such a funny one (I didn’t go into this but it’s extremely, laugh out loud funny). And I didn’t remember, either, how it’s full of perfect, precise and cutting sentences, such as this one, which perfectly sums up in 12 words what it feels like to be addicted to something.

„Ah came fir a pint, but ah might jist git pished yit.”