I have just finished James Robertson’s 2010 novel And the Land Lay Still. It is an epic, nay, sweeping and panoramic tale of Scotland in the latter half of the twentieth century, a big book with a cast of characters including gangsters, spies, tramps, miners, journalists, rich Tories, and photographers, a real testament to Scottish life in all its multiplicitous, transcendent, deplorable glory. Reader, I loved it. Its richness, its breadth, its depth: Robertson is, as far as I am concerned, a master.
On Being Scottish
On Being Scottish
On Being Scottish
I have just finished James Robertson’s 2010 novel And the Land Lay Still. It is an epic, nay, sweeping and panoramic tale of Scotland in the latter half of the twentieth century, a big book with a cast of characters including gangsters, spies, tramps, miners, journalists, rich Tories, and photographers, a real testament to Scottish life in all its multiplicitous, transcendent, deplorable glory. Reader, I loved it. Its richness, its breadth, its depth: Robertson is, as far as I am concerned, a master.