celticman's blog

Julian Hoffman is trying to find a place in our ponderous world for wonder, or what he terms ‘radical amazement’. The beauty of connection in the age of desolation. ‘When it’s gone, it’s gone,’ he argues. He asks what are those special qualities that make us human? Our sixth sense, writer Rebecca Solnit calls it. Cultural as well as natural meaning. Lived experiences that act as in internal compass mapped by memory and spatial awareness. I think...

In Northern Gaza’s Tal Al-Zatar, hungry stray cats wander war-torn streets. They seach for food among the debris and for the young boy who always cared for them. They stumble upon his charred remains, a life gone astray. Mohammed Moussa, The Face Before You: To Write Poetry on Genocide. Notes. ‘Listen to yourself,’ wasn’t some piece of New Age advice when we were younger. A whack on the lug was the remedy. My wee brother, Bod wasn’t one to...

Buried. With the remains of my first child in my arms, I journey barefoot, fragile as a newborn, breathing in the tears of premature farewells. He is light as a feather, but impossibly heavy. Upon arrival I’m greeted by my family, friends, acquaintances, strangers, they all feel closer and further away from me than ever. Our grief finds little solace in embraces, our damaged souls gnaw at our hearts and bodies they stain out evenings. Our grief...

Some might think that inflicting the moron’s moron, Donald J.Trump, on an innocent world is payback for the Holocaust of the Highland clearances. But Scottish historian T.M.Devine takes a more nuanced view. He studies what records are available to differentiate between what happened in the Highlands and Island and compare it with Lowland Scotland. A History of the Dispossessed answers some questions, but reveals others. Devine follows...

I hadn’t heard of Scottish novelist Ewan Morrison, which is perhaps unusual because I read lots and he’s won lots of awards. And I kinda pride myself on knowing the Scottish literary scene. He’s a great writer. But this book almost failed the ten-page test. Beginnings. My Survival Guide. ‘I’m still alive, and if you’re reading this that means you’re all alive too. That’s something. My name is Haley Cooper Crows and I’m in lockdown in a remote...

https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/m002p1fr/oppenheimer https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oppenheimer_(film) My mate Andy Rat still goes to see films. I think it’s so he doesn’t need to talk to his partner. But you can do that just as well—maybe even better, if you skive off to write stuff—in the upstairs cuboard. Oppenheimer is one of those films I quite fancied. Rat had seen it and Barbie , which came out the same week. He said Oppenheimer ‘was...

The last carry-out, carry-in and carry-on, Vince got was in the Goldenhill at the end of September 2025. Betty’s great-grandson. Wee Arnie’s Christening. The latest addition to the McCann family. One comes in. One goes out. Vince wasn’t drunk—although he had a couple of whiskies—but the wooden stairs outside the pub were as steep as a ladder propped against a cliff. Vince was 93. His legs were older than his head. He’d become the dead spit of...

I don’t blame Neil Oliver for cashing in on short-lived fame. He’s the one with long hair and a mellifluous speaking voice that can drone on for hours about our Coast, the invasion of the Vikings, the ancient stones of Callandish and all the things you’ll never see or thought of but he’s such a nice guy, you’ve got to believe him, he’s brought them right into your living room. He used to go to the University of Glasgow, which is a bit of an...

I’m not a great fan of Elizabeth Strout. Yet Tell Me Everything is the fourth or her six books I’ve read. Explain that? Well, the characters are familiar. As is the settings. Crosby, Maine and far-off (but not too far) New York. ‘This is the story of Bob Burgess, a tall, heavyset man who lives in the town of Crosby, Maine, and he is sixty-five years old at the time we are speaking of him. Bob has a big heart, but he does not know that about...

I spotted Robert Darroch at Gartnavel about seven years ago. He was sitting chatting to my partner’s mum in a greenish high-backed chair. He was quick to offer us the easy-to-wipe seat and move on. I said his name, but he didn’t recognise me. I’m not good with names. He was the opposite. Rarely passed without a smile and a quick word. He was especially good remembering children and old folk’s names (I guess I fit that category now) but that was...