Diary of a Shopkeeper, 25th February 2024

The shopkeeper, third from left, Alasdair Gray, third from right.

In October 1982 I had just turned 18 and started studying philosophy at Edinburgh University. When my pals back in rural Aberdeenshire asked me what studying philosophy involved, apparently I told them it was considering questions like, ‘Do dogs believe in God?’

Perhaps because of this peculiar turn of mind, I was slow to make friends in Edinburgh. Another problem was that I was completely unfamiliar with the city. That was easily solved. When lectures finished and I’d done as much reading as I could stand, I set off walking through the Old Town. What better place to wander on a quiet autumn evening than those twisting, cobbled, tenement-lined streets? I didn’t bother with the castle at the top of the Royal Mile, nor the palace at the bottom. But Blackfriars Street, High School Wynd, Fleshmarket Close – I explored every inch.

One evening I was moseying down Jeffrey Street, a short and winding road that curved from the High Street to the back door of Waverly station. Edinburgh town centre hadn’t become the slightly garish, tourist dominated area it is now. Everything closed at five and the streets were dark and largely empty. It was a surprise, then, to come across a brightly lit display window, filled with books. A bookshop open at 8pm? Bizarre! (The first Waterstone’s had just launched in London, but word of its revolutionary ways had not yet reached douce Auld Reekie.)

I went in and started browsing. It was a slightly strange experience, because there were only six books on display: a copy of each in the window, and great stacks more on shelves, tables and the floor. There were promotional posters, piles of paperwork, a typewriter, a scattering of office equipment… After a while, a slightly built, bearded man in his fifties appeared, looking very surprised to see me.

‘Just browsing,’ I assured him.

‘Fine, but… We’re not a shop, you know.’

‘Oh really?,’ I said. ‘I saw the books, and…sorry.’

‘We’re a publisher,’ he said, ‘Canongate Books. I was just getting some galleys ready for the proofreaders. I must’ve forgotten to lock the door.’

‘Sorry,’ I said again. ‘Eh, what do you publish? Can I buy a book?’

He looked me up and down. ‘Do you like novels?’

I nodded.

‘Do you like Scottish novels?’

‘I’m not sure I’ve ever read one,’ I said. ‘We didn’t really get Scottish books at school.’

He rolled his eyes, went over to a table piled with copies of a big white hardback, and handed a copy to me. The cover featured a drawing of a statuesque nude woman, holding a golden sun above her head. Beside her was the head of a demonically grinning man, and behind her a stylised landscape of river, crane, factory, bridge and ship. I looked at the title page: Lanark: A Life in Four Books, by Alasdair Gray. I’d never heard of it.

‘It came out last year,’ said the publisher. ‘It’s the greatest Scottish novel of the century. The best since Sir Walter Scott, according to Anthony Burgess. Rubbish! It’s far better than Walter Scott.’

I checked the price on the inside flap of the jacket. £7.95. A fortune! An LP cost £3.89 and a pint of beer 65p.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said the publisher, slyly, suddenly starting to resemble the bearded man on the cover. ‘Do yourself a favour. Buy it. It’ll change your life.’

I did, and he was right. I’d never encountered such a book before. It mixed the most realistic, down-to-earth account of growing up in an ordinary Scottish family with several dimensions of fantasy or allegory or dream. I couldn’t pin it all down then, and I still can’t. That didn’t matter. It was funny, heart-breaking and above all mind-blowing.

A few months later I gave up my philosophy studies and switched to English and Scottish literature. I started attending readings and book launches, including Alasdair Gray’s next book, Unlikely Stories, Mostly, also published by Canongate. I met Alasdair Gray, and got to know other modern Scottish writers, like James Kelman, Tom Leonard and Liz Lochhead. After a while I found myself thinking, ‘I quite fancy having a go at this writing thing.’

And the moral of this unlikely story is: always go in the door of that slightly strange independent shop. It might just change your life.

Lanark by Alasdair Gray was published on this day, 25th February, 1981. It’s certainly his most important book, and in my view his best, along with Poor Things, now made into a striking film. Or rather, parts of the book have been made into a film. 90% of it - the best bits! - have been left out.

This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 29th February 2024 - it’s a leap year! A new diary appears weekly. I post them in this blog a few days after each newspaper appearance, with added illustrations., and occasional small corrections or additions.