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Morvern Callar (Morvern Callar Cycle) Paperback – February 17, 1997

4.4 4.4 out of 5 stars 106 ratings

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An utterly unforgettable novel that portrays a vast internal emptiness by using the cool, haunting voice of a young woman in Scotland lost in the profound anomie of her generation—from “one of the most talented, original and interesting voices around” (Irvine Welsh, author of Trainspotting). 

Morvern Callar, a low-paid employee in the local supermarket in a desolate and beautiful port town in the west of Scotland, wakes one morning in late December to find her strange boyfriend has committed suicide and is dead on the kitchen floor. Morvern's reaction is both intriguing and immoral. What she does next is even more appalling. Moving across a blurred European landscape—from rural poverty and drunken mayhem of the port to the Mediterranean rave scene—we experience everything from Morvern's stark, unflinching perspective.

Morvern is utterly hypnotizing from her very first sentence to her last. She rarely goes anywhere without the Walkman left behind as a Christmas present by her dead boyfriend, and as she narrates this strange story, she takes care to tell the reader exactly what music she is listening to, giving the stunning effect of a sound track running behind her voice.

In much the same way that Patrick McCabe managed to tell an incredibly rich and haunting story through the eyes of an emotionally disturbed boy in
The Butcher Boy, Alan Warner's Morvern Caller is a brilliant creation.
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Editorial Reviews

Amazon.com Review

Alan Warner's Morvern Callar may be the first novel that deserves its own soundtrack. The music Warner's title character listens to as she drifts aimlessly through her sterile life may be the most worthwhile part of this depressing novel. Following in the footsteps of Trainspotting, another Scottish tale of anomie in the Highlands, Morvern Callar chronicles Morvern's dead-end existence--a joyless round of sex and raves punctuated by the music playing through her portable stereo.

Warner tells this dreary story from Morvern's point of view in a voice that is flat and affectless, as if the girl's soul had died years before though her body continues to function. Morvern Callar is a strange mix of shocking and banal, a mélange with appeal for a very specialized audience.

From Booklist

Warner, one of the new "Scottish beat" writers like Irvine Welsh (Trainspotting), forcefully evokes the dreary life in a northern Scotland port town of Morvern Callar, whose name means "quieter silence" in Scottish. The book opens with Morvern's discovery of her boyfriend's body: a suicide on Christmas Eve. She opens her gifts, goes to her despised supermarket job, and pub hops that night. Unexpected reactions are Morvern's trademark and make her story fascinating. Directionless and disgusted at home, she uses money unexpectedly inherited from her boyfriend to return to the Mediterranean rave scene she had discovered on a trip to "Youth Med." In the end, she returns broke and still sullen. This may be the first novel with a soundtrack: Morvern acknowledges the songs she listens to on her Walkman while moving through the actions of the narrative. The sound of her strong voice telling this wild adventure may play through readers' heads long after they have put down this book. Kevin Grandfield

Product details

  • Publisher ‏ : ‎ Anchor; First Edition (February 17, 1997)
  • Language ‏ : ‎ English
  • Paperback ‏ : ‎ 256 pages
  • ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 038548741X
  • ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-0385487412
  • Item Weight ‏ : ‎ 7.6 ounces
  • Dimensions ‏ : ‎ 5.26 x 0.57 x 7.98 inches
  • Customer Reviews:
    4.4 4.4 out of 5 stars 106 ratings

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Alan Warner
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Customer reviews

4.4 out of 5 stars
4.4 out of 5
106 global ratings

Top reviews from the United States

Reviewed in the United States on March 31, 2014
Hard to find book was inexpensive and came quickly in excellent condition as advertised. Would use vendor again. Elliptical writing is all implicit and pitch perfect. Nothing else like it.
Reviewed in the United States on July 5, 2017
This review came so, so close to being 3 stars. It went up to 4 stars right at the end, only because of the last two chapters. This was because Alan Warner found a way to resolve all the sexually-charged ambivalence that he stirred up in the telling of Morvern in a way that was sincere, and meaningful. This kind of resolution would not normally pull me so far the other direction. But in this case, it showed me how Warner does, in fact, understand the contradictions of Morvern Callar’s existence, as a female character born in the mind of a man.

As I write this, I think about Morvern and Alan together, like they are a couple on some non-physical plane of a sort of creative thought-sphere. Like a man inseparable from his anima, the invisible other yin to his yang. The point is he has convinced me that Morvern does exist somewhere, in the world of literary archetypes, that she has a right to take up space in our minds. And I think that all by itself is a success.

Up until the last two chapters, it felt like everything Morvern said should have an “etc., etc.” go after it. Morvern is relentlessly half-awake, caring only for immediate, short-lived pleasures, although she doesn’t care especially for these either.

It seems she is never humbled or in awe of anything. She drains her dead boyfriend’s inheritance and gets on a plane to Spain, like what a heat-seeking iguana would do if given a short life span as a human. She empties out the kitty for a book she didn’t write with the frankness of a thirty-dollar prostitute. She moves about like someone who had a lobotomy as a child and has learned to be somewhat sensible and high-functioning, but has never really recovered full use of her frontal lobe. She talks in an aggravatingly diminutive way, and in a Trainspotting kind of style, rebels against English nearly every time she speaks, breaking many grammatical rules of the language*.

But my views about Morvern did start to turn I saw the letter from the seemingly bodiless author who had sent the manuscript to Morvern. I understood this letter was probably meant to be a message from Warner himself. The relationship between Morvern and the author is a strange inverse of sex roles, and yet it is typical too, with the omniscient male eye, and the wild animalistic female Other out in front of the camera. But Warner did find a way to hack a path through the wilderness and out of this well-worn trope in the ruthless Morvern could, with a slight fluttering of fingers over a keyboard, take all of her artistic agency back. And also that, almost apologetically, this writer implicitly asked her to take this agency from him. He says to her, of his inner peace, “here, you take it”. In a brilliant, bewitching, almost inside joke between the fictional author and the real one, it is truly Morvern Callar who has written this novel I am now reviewing, not Alan Warner.

The most troublesome thing about the way Warner tells this story is what I have decided to be gratuitous nudity of Morvern and her wanton BFF-type-friend Lana. If reviewers are allowed complain about plot devices that make up a genre known as a “bodice ripper”, are we not allowed to complain about the plot devices of a supposedly authenticity-driven 90’s genre that might make it, say, a “fishnet stocking shredder”? Because it doesn’t take the subtlety of a literary scholar to make out when an anecdote to a scene is based on pure shock value or lust, and when it really needs to be there. Also, you can sense Warner’s fixation on breasts. This focus does overtake over his honest portrayal of the character. I was actually laughing at Warner at some especially self-indulgent, “one-handed” bits. Am I just being a stick in the mud because I don't like when writers prostitute their characters? I don't think I am.

The first half of the book is an exposition into Morvern’s port town and social circle, except our tour guide is an unfriendly Morvern, and she’s unexplainably naked in, just to isolate the worst example, as many as six different scenes within three chapters. Warner LOVES to experiment with making Morvern uncomfortably naked, and he loves to travel with her naked body to all different locations. The addition of this impractical nudity gives these scenes the graininess and enigmatically disguised amorality of a 90’s Calvin Klein or an American Apparel ad, a decade before it become a cultural icon of histerdom.

And just when a certain scene later in the book could have become spiritually meaningful, Warner stripped her again, as a way to show her nihilism and lack of hope. And it worked, I did feel lack of hope. I also felt a sizable disappointment, because I thought serious writing didn’t do things that remind me of the plot tactics in a romance novel, or some TV show on HBO (not naming names).

I believe in Alan Warner as a writer greatly, so it makes me even more disappointed to see him throwing away the true perspective of his female characters in such a way.

And also, as a woman who is easily turned on by men’s bodies, there is the familiar asymmetry with which I encounter written or filmed sex scenes that leave out almost all description of the man’s body in the act. Probably, Warner hit a road block, as a straight man, in imagining how Morvern could want to disrobe somebody who hadn’t grown his beloved breasts in puberty, but if so, he should have thought about how he was contributing to a larger male indifference that has been collectively silencing female agency for a long time.

Well into the time she was in Spain raving, I was still angry at the fact that Morvern is an animal. Even in the summary on the back flap she is called “a mesmerizing creature”. It is also telling that her friend Lana was given a map to find Morvern’s campsite in the Highland wilderness, with an X next to her name, like Morvern was being hunted, her image showing up in the red bullseye of a gun’s viewing screen. Morvern doesn’t reflect on anything that happens to her, she is just a witness. I could only appreciate at the end how perhaps this was her greatest strength. But it took all the other grimy influences, both back at The Port and in Spain, to move out of the way so that this could be realized.

Morvern, in the second to last chapter of the book, wanders in the effortlessness of being a witness to natural beauty, and to silence, like her name in Spanish, Callar. This chapter reveals Morvern’s true subjecthood that was before hidden by Lana, by the stares of the men that “plague” her, and by the creeps who were running the British youth group at the resort. Her much-documented body became part of the rave scene itself, not hers, but not anyone else’s in particular either. In truth though, I knew Warner understood about Morvern's inherent contradictions on pg. 165.

There is brilliant use of symbolism at the end too (and, it must be said, throughout the book). I can’t think of a more perfect way to end this book than revealing the soon-to-be “child of the raves”. This twist in the very last paragraph elevates this party scene that was so distinct and emblematic of a time to something that was not just a party, but, for Morvern especially, a stubborn celebration of the total hedonistic pleasure that being a working-class Scottish girl on holiday can bring in a Mediterranean town. It is saying, "look, the rave was something that belonged to the working class too". And so just on the basis of immortalizing the rave culture of the 1990’s, and also immortalizing the working-class relationship to it, this book was also a great success. You can feel Warner’s unwavering loyalty to and affection for both.

And, of course, just to add one last thing, the harmonious combination of recorded cassette tapes with literature take advantage of a whole new way to read, and cement the most real memories of the Morvern’s world, by listening with her through her headphones. The triumphs in this novel were many, and the soundtrack to each scene is as integral to play as you are reading as are the descriptions of light under the water in the loch as Morvern is swimming.

*I know this is due to her working-class Scottish background, and not to her personality, and I actually think this is a great strength of the book.
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Reviewed in the United States on November 2, 2010
The book arrived promptly, and was in better condition than the seller stated in the first place. I will definitely buy from Thrift Books again.
Reviewed in the United States on May 14, 2013
Alan Warner writes convincingly and three dimension ally a highly touchable (so real you feel you could call her and ask her questions) Morvern Callar. Warner is a stellar writer. Do read "these demented lands".Warner, along with Richard, are my favorite of the new surrealists. God bless you, Alan Warner, and God bless you, Mark Richard.
Reviewed in the United States on August 5, 2006
I bought Morvern Caller in order to read a book with the flavor of the countryside I was to visit. I was hoping to get a feel for the people of the west coast of Scotland while I was enjoying its scenery. Instead, I found myself reading a book about troubled people, characters I could not imagine meeting in the real world. Morvern Caller is well written and very disturbing. It's difficult to "enjoy" the lives of its characters since they suffer from more than ordinary problems. It's also difficult to put the book down without finishing it. For enjoyment level, I wanted to give this book a one or two; for interest level, I had to rate it higher. And, then, I was compelled to read its sequel! You want to know what happens, all the while wishing you were reading something else!!
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Reviewed in the United States on August 28, 2020
What if you grow up in a small village where little or nothing happens, where the jobs center around working for some type of supermarket, where relationships and town culture are limited by a small clan of people that know everything about your life and every move you make, almost even before you make them. Loneliness then becomes a wall around you that prevents you from exploration of self and possibilities, ones that you can’t even begin to know or imagine. That’s where place conspires to turn shelves into empty vessels, not with any anthropomorphic capacities, but in a state of passive osmosis.

The main character of this eponymous novel Movern Caller is a poster child for this type of abduction of self. And in her numbed state of disassociation from normal standards of social responsibility she opts to navigate the mundane aspects of her world and her loneliness with disregard for others and sans simple just acts of care and respect.

For me these acts can not be muted and washed away because of the stifling environment of her village life. She’s just someone who either forgot or never really cared to take it upon herself to do the right thing. Yes, she came from a rough family environment. Yes, she was stuck in a nowhere job. Yes, she desired things that she couldn’t afford. So what. A lot of people suffer such lives, but they don’t then find a way out through wanton acts of subterfuge and mendacity.

I’m not going into details to leave a reader to discover those accusations I’ve suggested for Movern’s behavior. But what is purpose of such a narrative? Is it it to point out the desperate aspects of loneliness of self and place? If so, then a resolution seems out of reach, one that is truly fulfilling; “In A Lonely Place” becomes the norm, not the exception for a self struggling with loneliness.

Why four stars..because the prose is thoughtful and exacting as to character and place.
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Top reviews from other countries

Ann
5.0 out of 5 stars Perfect!
Reviewed in Canada on March 31, 2022
Fast shipping and very good quality. Thanks!
MisterHobgoblin
5.0 out of 5 stars Morvern Callar is revolting
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on December 29, 2011
Morvern Callar is revolting. Throughout the entire novel, she doesn't lift a finger to help anyone unless it meets some greater need of her own. She expects other people to fit in with her lifestyle. She begs, steals, lies, fights and sleeps around. She chain-smokes Silk Cuts and gets mortal on diluted vodka. Between binges, she graces customers with her presence in the local supermarket. Yet despite everything, this young, selfish wastrel is strangely beguiling.

Morvern is an orphan, named after the Morvern Peninsula, a bleak and unpopulated lump of land overlooking the port of Oban. Her foster father, Red Hanna, is a trade unionist on the railway who likes being a medium sized fish in a small pond. And as small ponds go, Oban is pretty unadventurous. A town famous for its folly and its distillery, the ferries out to the islands, and being the end of the railway line. Morvern and her friends speak a strange, Argyllshire dialect of Scots and the older ones still speak Gaelic. They use this quaint speech to articulate their breathtaking lack of ambition, their lack of understanding or interest in the wider world, and their lack of compassion for one another. Alan Warner grew up in Oban and he convinces completely in his depiction of real life behind the touristy façade.

Alan Warner brings in repeated references to dance music - at times Morvern sets out the contents of mix-tapes she has made - and there are scenes at raves and parties. Yet for all this, there is an overwhelming sense of silence about the book. There are conversations but nobody ever says anything meaningful. We follow Morvern's inner monologue at times but it contains very few ideas and the odd occasional spark is quickly doused. Even when Morvern sobers up enough to see that fate has dealt her double aces, she focuses only on immediate gratification rather than strategic, long-term planning. It's hard to watch someone make so many, and such obvious, mistakes. Despite her unloveliness, the reader wants Morvern to make a right choice somewhere - the reader carries the torch of hope that Morvern is unable to hold for herself.

At times, the novel is tricky to follow. Scenes shift with little warning; time passes unnoticed. It does all make sense, though, and the discontinuities are all made clear within a few pages. And the Scots dialect does take some getting attuned to. But once in the swing of things, the reader can see that this is a beautiful, subtle book that defies expectations. It's also a surprisingly funny book, with laugh out loud mentions of the Kale Onion, Creeping Jesus, the driving examiner and bloke-swapping on the plane to Spain.

The ending sits oddly with the rest of the book - injecting a dose of the serious into proceedings. I wish I could say it is a hopeful ending, but mostly it is just very bleak.
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Eileen Shaw
4.0 out of 5 stars There's no freedom, no liberty, there's just money.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on January 12, 2011
Wholly original in both the manner of it's telling and showing as well as in the conception and development of the book itself, this adds to the oeuvre of Warner in no small degree. Previously I've read two of his books: he has written about a group of teenaged girls on a choir spree, (not the gangster series) title:  The Sopranos , and about an ageing Spanish roué in  The Worms Can Carry Me To Heaven , and I fully intend to read his other books. This one stays mostly in Scotland with occasional forays to Spanish Rave heaven. It begins with a shocking death and carries on with actions that seem almost incapable of explanation.

Throughout, Warner is consistent in his inconsistency, his grammar filched from some inner corner of his protagonist's understanding. Eg: "I slid my foot to the left. You felt the whole side of a face lay against my bare back, between shoulder blades. It was still part of our dance... You didn't really have your body as your own, it was part of the dance, the music, the rave." This kind of conjunction, slipping from first to second person, sometimes within one sentence is deliberate, to signify, perhaps, the autism of Morvern's reactions and feelings. Not that I mean these are pathological, or ascribable to some condition, but that it is how she feels habitually - she slides from herself to herself experienced as something outside of herself. This kind of slippage is by no means confined to Rave activities. It's effect is to charge the book with a kind of deliberate sense that Morvern is not like anyone else. Indeed, some of the early sections are almost hallucinatory in that they involve activities that would fit in perfectly in another kind of book altogether, but don't fit in with this one.

It is a most extraordinary book. Towards it's end I was flagging under the continuation of affectless description. Eg: "I skinned the flesh from each olive with my two top front teeth so if you fished the olive out you could see the little square cuts on it. After I'd bitten off most of the flesh, my tongue passed the stone further back in my mouth where I rubbed the rest off. Then I sucked the stone with its sharp little ridge before popping it out on my hand and lining it up with the other stones." There is much more of this kind of thing than one could ever need. But what Warner has done with this galaxy of detail is capture perfectly the strangeness of Morvern Caller's perfectly ordinary, yet extraordinary, existence. It is a feat of determination and to be admired, at a distance, perhaps, like a long dream that you are certain holds meaning for you of an urgent, life-changing nature, if only you had its key. I would recommend this book to anyone who likes to be challenged as s/he reads.
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Terry
5.0 out of 5 stars Fantastic
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on September 28, 2023
Great read. Clever, slick and intelligent. I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Barney Eden
5.0 out of 5 stars Denim electric
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on January 30, 2019
Absolutely loved this novel, it is edgy and has a vernacular spectacular, the narrative and narrator are one becoming undone. Particularly liked the café scenes, the night swim, to make the supermarket of former employment even ever more grim. In the end you are really pleased she had a chance to let her nails grow and flourish and for a while glow. But of course the tribute lay's to the writer who dreamed a world shady but brighter, a truly magnificent thing, a novel that captures the sorrow and lament of a life left because of financial constraint and so much more.
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