His voice is that vivid, that evocative. These aural folktales, seemingly overheard from the next table in the pub or through thin apartment walls, assume a participatory familiarity as Kelman isolates the throwaway thoughts and insignifica of our daily lives. But there's equal tension in the book's brisk internal monologues. One can hear the cry. Slicing an onion is a relaxing occupation.
Knives are correct for the job.
The knife was correct for the job. People love garlic yet for me a let-down. These little efforts, they turn wrong too soon. Kelman's stories constitute sudden moments, fractions of tales hurtling toward inconclusions. All rights reserved.