George Mackay Brown's brilliant swansong reached the Booker shortlist in 1994, raining so much unwanted attention upon this poet and storyteller who rarely left the Orkney Islands that he needed antidepressants. The book is a marvel and might have bagged the unwelcome prize, had not another Scottish masterpiece appeared the same year, James Kelman's How Late it Was, How Late. Considering it weighs in at just over 200 pages, the breadth of Brown's novel is staggering: in his daydreams the young crofter's son, Thorfinn Ragnarson, relives the history of the Orkney's, travelling back in time to join Viking adventurers at the court of the Byzantine emperor in Constantinople, then accompanying a Falstaffian knight to the battle of Bannockburn. During the Second World War, as Thorfinn finds himself in a German prisoner-of-war camp, these vivid reveries turn into books hammered into shape on a Nazi typewriter. Meanwhile, in Thorfinn's absence, his island home changes beyond recognition, most likely forever. Despite its sophistication, however, this novel is often underestimated. It can be read in a single sitting (although it amply repays repeat visits) and is deceptively simple. In this, I often pair Beside the Ocean with The Seventh Seal, Ingmar Bergman's film set in the middle of the fourteenth century, with a Knight and his Squire, after long years as Crusaders in the Holy Land, returning at last to their native Sweden, a land ravaged by the Black Death. Bergman's film grew out of a play he had written some years earlier, A Painting on Wood, which was very much influenced by medieval frescoes he had seen as murals in Swedish churches. At about the time the Swede was filming his strange masterpiece, Mackay Brown's vision was being shaped by Norse sagas and old Scottish ballads; from them he was learning about economy of expression and the importance of uncluttered narrative; how to combine a laconic Viking style with some dead-pan Viking humour. Clearness is perhaps the major element that makes The Seventh Seal such a satisfying film, one which is so easy to return to and remember: that each scene is at once so simple and so charged and layered that it catches us again and again. The pictures appear and indeed are almost elementary, the stuff of early illustrated books, of woodcuts and church paintings; the arguments too are uncomplicated, as are the characters, their nature and their journeys clearly etched out. The same qualities make Beside the Ocean of Time such a special novel; a book from which you can pluck any sentence at random at any time and feel the pulse of something living.