99+ Irvine Welsh Quotes on Introspection, Irvine welsh trainspotting and Trainspotting - Quotes.pub

Here you will find all the famous Irvine Welsh quotes. There are more than 99+ quotes in our Irvine Welsh quotes collection. We have collected all of them and made stunning Irvine Welsh wallpapers & posters out of those quotes. You can use this wallpapers & posters on mobile, desktop, print and frame them or share them on the various social media platforms. You can download the quotes images in various different sizes for free. In the below list you can find quotes in various categories like Introspection, Irvine welsh trainspotting and Trainspotting

You’re nothing but a work-in-progress until that day you fall out of this world into the land ay dead men’s trousers.

Without this kickstart to my day, I’d be lost. A day without a morning run is a day you fumble through, rather than one you attack.

Ah’m thinking about shoutin ‘stop’ but ah could never turn away at this point. If smack is as addictive as they say, then ah’m already aw the junky ah’m ever gaunny be.

We were slowly, but irrevocably, coming apart.

I prefer Tender Is the Night, though’, and as I spoke, I got a raw jolt in my chest that could only br described as tender, as an image of Fiona, on the Bosphorus ferry, under a lambent soak of light, sweeping her hair out of her face, flickered in my brain. Even wasted she looked so poised and dignified. I loved her I loved her I loved her I wanted to melt into her bones. Her absence now felt like I’d been eaten from the inside.

The black insect-dead eyes in her suety, pockmarked face gaze at him.

The trick was to consume as quickly as possible; in doing it this way there was a sense that the body could be cheated.

Basically, particularly in Britain, it’s a hegemonic thing that people who write tend to come from the leisure classes. They can afford the time and the books.

If only he loved himself as much as he loved the rest of the world.

They don’t understand the type of world we’re living in now, all those menaced souls clamouring for attention and recognition.

But you were brave, eh, Granda, charging up that beach, ye must have been brave.’ ‘I was scared, son,’ he’d telt me, his face sombre. ‘But most of all ah wis angry; angry at being there. Really angry. I wanted tae take it out on somebody, then go hame.’ ‘But that man hud tae be stoaped though, Faither,’ my dad had implored, ‘ye said so yirsel!’ ‘Ah know that. Ah wis angry that he wis allowed tae git started in the first place.

I wouldn’t care about hurting myself or anybody else. Because I know now that doing things doesn’t hurt you; you get hurt by avoiding them.

Las convenciones siempre nos imponen su locura en los momentos menos apropiados.

Now I’ll be left alone, and that’s all you want, all you crave out of life: to be left alone while you get on with the business of interfering with others. In.

It unsettles the women as they have dropped their disguise and are now giant praying mantis with blonde and auburn wigs, lipstick smeared on those deadly pincher-like insect jaws.

It was all that vain, egotistical insincerity of self-reproach. By blaming ourselves we take away the right of others to do the same.

I pay more tax registered in Holland than I would in the USA, but better gieing to the Dutch to build dams than the Yanks to build bombs.

Ah felt a paralysis ay emotion as time stretched out. A pervading numbness was setting in, like a dentist’s anaesthetic, spreading through ma body.

The dead man is on the trolley and the woman collapses across his chest. That’s what the ghouls want a shufti at, like at that Princess Diana’s funeral, they want to scrutinise those who really knew her, to drink the misery out of their faces.

He feels the bleakness crawling into his skull; Franco breaths in steadily, trying to tune in all out, that pressure on your brain, eroding focus, diverting the flow of thought down old ruinous canals...

It could have been suicide or an accident, or perhaps that grey area in between.

No tears come, and it would be pointless, like trying to empty a reservoir of grief by drip feed. I’m being daft.

Un tizietto in tuta mi grida dal pianerottolo in alto che non dovrei stare qui. E’ la storia della mia vita. Sempre in un posto dove non dovrei stare.

Sometimes there’s a snobbery among literary types that these people don’t really get it, but in a lot of ways they get it more than the literati. There’s a culture in the background that they understand and know. They get that deeper level.

Ah’m sittin in the hotel bar waitin oan Fiona. Thinkin aboot her heart-melting smile and that sexy, concentrated frown when she evaluates books and the comments made by lecturers. Whenever she comes into a room, ma spirits soar. What ah feel is delight, pure and simple. Our life is all passionate kisses and soft wells of laughter. Ah love watchin her in class; even though we’re shaggin, it’s still great tae just look at her.

But here, just at this point: this is limbo. There is the sense that if you stay at this point for too long, stop at this point of oblivion for a certain amount of time, you will just cease to exist. And we cannot move.

Because whatever I hear outside, cars scrunching down the narrow, council-house streets, sometimes sweeping their headlights across this fusty old room, drunks challenging or serenading the world, or the rending shrieks of cats taking their torturous pleasures, I know I won’t hear that noise.

Every kind of book I’ve written has been written in a different way. There has not been any set time for writing, any set way, I haven’t re-invented the process every time but I almost have.

There’s no fear or regret but no elation or sense of triumph either. It’s just a job that had to be done.

The establishment, the newspapers, they try to create something called Scottish literature, but when people are actually going to write, they are not going to necessarily prescribe to that, they’ll write what they feel.

When I’m not writing, I read loads of fiction, but I’ve been writing quite constantly lately so I’ve been reading a lot of nonfiction – philosophy, religion, science, history, social or cultural studies.

The disease which racked his body was a sweetheart compared to the more obscure one that possessed his sick mind.

There’s some kids playing out in the back, the strip of grass luminated an electric green by the brilliant sunlight. The sky is a delicious clear blue. Life is beautiful. I’m going to enjoy it, and I’m going to have a long life.

She’s lovely and she’s with Skinner, and they’re probably in love and there’s no justice in this world.

Everybody talks about being a writer, angel. If every novel conceived on a bar stool made it into print, there wood not be one tree left standing on God’s green Earth.

USA. The land of the free; where you accent didn’t matter. But he supposed everybody related to it; movies, TV, fat-food, outlets, you grew up with it. Cultural imperialism. Yet no wonder everybody increasingly hated it: it was stupid, self-serving and so in-your-face that it was setting itself up to be despised.

I tend to read more nonfiction, really, because when I’m writing I don’t like to read other fiction.

She’s quite a nice looking lassie or she wid be if she didnae look shite.

This thought though, is nowhere near sufficient tae stop us fae daein what ah huv tae dae.

Now most people would put this doon tae experience, ye always want what ye cannae have and the things that ye dinnae really gie a toss aboot get handed tae ye oan a plate.

Jim has a nice life, he considers, but sometimes Frank has a hell of a lot more fun.

I was anti-everything and everyone. I didn’t want people around me. This aversion was not some big crippling anxiety; merely a mature recognition of my own psychological vulnerability and my lack of suitability as a companion. Thoughts jostled for space in my crowded brain as i struggled to give them some order which might serve to motivate my listless life.

It seems to go beyond our personal junk circumstances; a brilliant metaphor for our times.

I’m glad our slivers of existence intersected in a Venn diagram between the crushing slabs of oblivion on either side of them.

He notes the depressing haste with which the successful, in the sexual sphere as in all others, segment themselves from the failures.

Franco’s voice is something tae hear, it’s like wi it bein Hogmanay, he’s absorbed just the right amount ay alcohol n good vibes and they intersect at this wonderous vector as he briefly becomes something else, this force ay grace and soul.

N it’s fuckin well beyond violence, it’s beyond even sexual; it’s a kind ay love, a fuckin bizarre, vain-glorious self-adoration, way past the fuckin ego even. Ah’m findin somethin... ah’m... but it’s what bein a hard man is aboot; it’s a journey, a fuckin self-destructive quest tae find yir limits, cause they fuckin limits eywis come in the form ay a harder man. A big, stong, stiff-hard man whae can dae it for ye, whae can teach ye, show ye whaire ye stand, where yir fuckin parameters ur.

I grew up in what was not so much a familyas a genetic disaster.

It was cauld. For about a minute the grey sky ferociously split and sunlight burst through, pouring ower the city, reflectin off the glitterin granite. The blood pounded in ma heid, makin me want tae be somewhere else. Then it was away and that heavy cloak ay grey was back oan us.

The pit of melancholy was a bottomless one, and he was descending fast, falling further away from the good times. Such times often seemed tantalisingly within reach; he could see them, going on all around him. His mind was like a cruel prison, giving his captive soul a sight of freedom, but no more.

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