Found a copy of Filth by Irvine Welsh the other day, in a vintage store whilst searching for flares/bellbottoms.
In good nick, for $10... not exactly cheap, but this was a "vintage store" as opposed to an actual op-shop, and I usually pay $10 at the ultra-cheap bookstore chain for much newer, less cool-looking editions of Welsh's novels, so it's not so bad. Also, they can be hard to find.
Anyway! As much as I've been enjoying Those Barren Leaves, I lack the self-control to continue reading anything else with an unread Irvine Welsh book just sitting there waiting for me to pick it up. Something about his writing just draws me in every time... so dark, so hilarious, so bleak and horrifying whilst also exhilarating... his books tend to scar one for life, but they are scars that one bears proudly.
It's good so far.
Of course.
Only just getting into it, the first hints of the disturbing bigger picture are just beginning to become visible, but it will doubtless keep me guessing for a long while yet. Or, well, the whole book.
At least Welsh's books tend to be so unputdownable that I should be able to blaze through it quickly and, after perhaps a brief stay in a psych ward recovering from whatever traumas the story's as-yet unknown direction will inflict on me, get back to Those Barren Leaves.