James Wood skriver i The New Yorker om den skotske prosaist James Kelman, der virker stærkt læseværdig (jeg opdagede sin tid (længe før andre DK'ere ...) også Lydia Davis ved at læse om hende i New Yorker). Theis Ørntoft og Caspar Eric er så småt begyndt en undessøgelse af de litterære/poetiske muligheder i ordene 'fuck' og 'fucking', det har Kelman åbenbart længe være i gang med på englesk, undskyld, skotsk:
The prison pirnciple ("limitation increases focus") - his habit of using and reusing a relatively small register of words, as, for instance, in the way he repeats and refines "fuck" and "fucking". A singel sentence will deploy the samme word differently: "If it were me I'd just telle them to fuck off; away and fuck I'd tell them, that's what I'd say if it was me," the narrator thinks in "The One with the Dog." There is also "fucking" as a kind of midsentence punctuation (functioning like "but"): "She would just fucking, she would laugh at him." And also as impacted repetition: "Fuck sake, of course sh would; what was th fucking point of fucking, trying to fucking keep it away, off course she'd b fucking worrying about him, " Ronnie thinks in the story "Gryhound for Breakfast".
Kelman skriver gerne, ligesom jævnaldrende Lydia, som han ellers overhovedet ikke ligner (ud over i interessen for sproglig, grammatikalsk musik, så måske ligner de faktisk hinanden en del), ultrakorte tekster; Wood citerer denne her:
This man for fuck sake it was terrible seeing him walk down the edge of the pavement. If he'd wanted litter we would've given him it. The trouble is we didn't know it at the time. So all we could do was watch his progress and infer. And even under normal circumstances this is never satisfactory; it has to be readily understood the types of difficulties we labored under. Then that rolling manoeuvre he performed while nearing the points of reference. It all looked to be going so fucking straightforward. How can you blame us? You can't, you can't fucking blame us.
Fuck, ham skal vi læse mere af!