In one of many fine obituaries to William McIlvanney this week, journalist Kenny Farquharson reminisced about a meeting with the Scottish author where McIlvanney told him: “We are part animal. Humanity is an aspiration, not a fact of everyday life.” This aspiration is found everywhere in McIlvanney’s fiction, as ordinary men and women (but mainly men) try to achieve grace and dignity despite the challenges thrown at them by life.
McIlvanney, too, sought grace in his writing – not a word is wasted, each sentence measured, poetic and perfect. He was a man of tremendous empathy; everyone he met probably felt they were in the presence of someone who could either understand them or at least wanted to and would strive to. Because of this, he was a great man as well as a great writer. Let loose in the social laboratory of Glasgow, he found beauty in its hard men – as well as measures of respect and even romanticism in their relationships – no matter how outwardly bitter or inwardly doomed.
I met Willie at every stage of my writing life, from tyro onwards. He was always generous and supportive, and it was a thrill to see him rejuvenated as his books emerged back into print, finding a fresh audience. At a Sunday morning event in Harrogate, he told me he had thought few folk would emerge from their beds. Many hundreds greeted him as he entered the ballroom, and he went on to charm each and every one of them from the stage. Inimitable, humane, thoughtful and spirited – his books live on, but we miss the man.
