Scottish Fiction Quotes

“It would ha' been a good deal easier, if ye'd only been a witch.”
― Diana Gabaldon, The Exile: An Outlander Graphic Novel

“So that was Chris and her reading and schooling, two Chrisses there were that fought for her heart and tormented her. You hated the land and the coarse speak of the folk and learning was brave and fine one day; and the next you'd waken with the peewits crying across the hills, deep and deep, crying in the heart of you and the smell of the earth in your face, almost you'd cry for that, the beauty of it and the sweetness of the Scottish land and skies.”
― Lewis Grassic Gibbon

“She was sitting at the kitchen table, naked. She had a chopper in her right hand. Her left hand was flat on the able in front of her. She’d chopped off her thumb, index and middle fingers. They were in a neat row on the table, which was thick with dark blood.”
― Barry Graham, Of Darkness and Light

“When I swore at my father and he brandished his big belt, he thought he was beating all the contempt and all the defiance out of me. He only beat it farther in. They told me they were going to have me put in a home, but I didn’t know what a home was and I wasn’t afraid. They invented new cruelties, and I invented new worlds their cruelties couldn’t reach.”
― Barry Graham, The Book of Man

“She was convinced the country was about to succumb to revolutionary socialism. Her own circumstances encouraged this belief: just on the edge of the really rich country set, she shared their views and opinions but lacked the financial and architechtural insulation from real or imagined political troubles. She found crushed larger cans and cigarette packets in her front garden and interpreted these as menacing signals from the Perthshire proletariat. Every flicker and dim of electric light was a portent of class war.”
― James Robertson, And the Land Lay Still

“On the whole popular fiction in Victorian Scotland is not overwhelmingly backward-looking; it is not obsessed by rural themes; it does not shrink from urbanisation or its problems; it is not idyllic in its approach; it does not treat the common people as comic or quaint. The second half of the nineteenth century is not a period of creative trauma or linguistic decline; it is one of the richest and most vital episodes in the history of Scottish popular culture.”
― William Donaldson, Popular Literature in Victorian Scotland: Language, Fiction and the Press

“It was the sort of pub Alan liked, furnished with wall- to-wall forty-five-year-old gin-and-tonic drinkers. A notice on the wall behind the bar read: Please do not ask for credit, as a punch in the mouth often causes offence.”
― Barry Graham, The Champion's New Clothes

“Maybe it wasn’t that job particularly; maybe it was just working for someone else. It’s so brutal and tiring, the way it can push you down and knock the heart out of you. It’s not getting up at a certain time and arriving at a certain place at a certain time and leaving at a certain time and coming back again at a certain time — it’s knowing that you have to. What’s worse is that, through age or job-experience or academic qualification or sheer good luck, one adult is in a position to order and insult and abuse and shout at another adult who isn’t in a position to reply in kind. It makes everyone a tin god. Everyone likes having slaves to beat, as they’re beaten themselves. And working on the grind wears you out. After a week of it you’re so tired that you use the weekend just to catch up on your rest before going back to another week of it.”
― Barry Graham, The Book of Man

“Possil — and other areas like it, in other cities — has been in that state for so long that it now gives birth to itself. No chance of revolution now — the anger is muted and turned inwards. Possil picks at its own sores. When somebody manages to get a new car, somebody else is bound to torch it. But it doesn’t occur to them to head out to Bearsden or Newton Meams, the places where the nobs live, and torch a few Mercs or Rolls Royces. They don’t do it to the people whose opinion matters. They only do it to each other. And who in Newton Mearns cares if a bunch of schemies on the other side of town burn their own property? And so Possil, and Maryhill, and Easterhouse, and Drumchapel all stay the same.”
― Barry Graham, The Book of Man

“Sometimes Mike would fuck her and I’d watch. They didn’t go to bed; they didn’t even take their clothes off. Mike would just stick it into her, stick it in at the crook of her elbow, and tease her till she moaned. Then he’d press the plunger and her whole body would shudder in a junk orgasm.”
― Barry Graham, The Book of Man

“The only ones who ever went to a Tory conference with good intentions were the IRA.”
― Barry Graham, Get Out as Early As You Can

“Spasm couldn’t get laid if you sent him to a brothel with a blank cheque. He had his Lou Reed and his Bob Hope, but never his Nat King Cole.”
― Barry Graham, Scumbo: Tales of Love, Sex and Death

“As the bus passed a long stretch of coastline, for the first time I took no pleasure in the sight of it. The water was almost still and the sun seemed to be sinking into it. But this time the beauty wasn’t enough. Usually just a glimpse of it could put me in an instant good mood, but now I realized — I’d always known, but never realized — that you can’t escape to the sea. This isn’t Han Shan’s China or Thoreau’s America. That’s all gone now. If you decided you’d had enough and went off to live by the sea or up a mountain, you still couldn’t get away from the need for money. They’ve made it so that money and sustenance are the same thing.”
― Barry Graham, Scumbo: Tales of Love, Sex and Death

“Although Keir would always prefer his island to anywhere else in the world, he had to admit this place had its own magic. There was a softness about the air and the sun, a trance of mist that made everything luminous. Lowering to his haunches, he ran his palm back and forth over the fine golden sand, so different from the caster-sugar grains of the beaches on Islay.
At Merritt's quizzical glance, he dusted his hands and smiled crookedly. "'Tis quiet," he explained. "On the shore near my home, it sings."
"The sand sings?" Merritt asked, perplexed.
"Aye. When you move it with your foot or hand, or the wind blows over it, the sand makes a sound. Some say it's more like a squeak, or a whistle."
"What makes it do that?"
"'Tis pure quartz, and the grains are all the same size. A scientist could explain it. But I'd rather call it magic."
"Do you believe in magic?"
Keir stood and smiled into her upturned face. "No, but I like the wonderments of life. Like the ghost fire that shines on a ship's mast at storm's end, or the way a bird's instinct leads him to the wintering grounds each year. I enjoy such things better for no' understanding them."
"Wonderments," Merritt repeated, seeming to relish the word.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Devil in Disguise

“The first god, the Cailleach, was very old. In fact, one of her other names was the Old Woman of Scotland, although most humans never saw her in that form. Instead, those with the Sight merely felt her invisible presence in a wild storm or a rushing waterfall or even in the melted snow that pools in fresh-plowed spring fields. The Cailleach was a goddess of creation. She made trees bud. Grass thicken. Calves grow inside cows. Fruit ripen on the vine. Her work was the ancient business of making and renewing.”
― Maggie Stiefvater, Bravely

“How self-indulgent to witness the misery of others—the indentured, the enslaved, the conquered—and consider it not my own. Now I understood: The misery of one belongs to all. And all shall know it, sooner or later.”
― Elizabeth Hutchison Bernard from THE SEAFORTH HEIRESS: LADY OF THE LAST PROPHECY

“I couldn't bring myself to tell her that believing is not quite the same as being certain--but it's all we have.”
― Elizabeth Hutchison Bernard from SISTERS OF CASTLE LEOD