There's that horrible-beautiful moment, that bitter-sweet impasse where you know that somebody is bullshitting you, but they're doing it with such panache and conviction...no, it's because they say exactly what you want to hear, at that point in time.

— Irvine Welsh

The town is mobbed out with Saturday shoppers looking for Christmas bargains. You can almost breathe in the raw greed which hangs in the air like vapor. As the late afternoon darkness falls, the lights look tacky and sinister.

— Irvine Welsh

--Thing is though, Spud, when air intake ska, that's it. That's aw UV goat TAE worry about. Ken Billy, ma bar, likes? He's just signed up ta ego back intake the fucking army. He's gain TAE fucking Belfast, the stupid cunt. Ah, always knew that the fucker Wis tapped. Fucking imperialist lackey. Ken with the daft cunt turned round n said TAE us? He goes: Ah can nae fucking stick divvy street. Ban in the army, it's like being a junky. The only difference is this ye din nae git shot at SAE often ban a junky. Besides, it's usually you that does the shooting.--That, eh, like say, seems a bit eh, fucked up like man. Ken?--New but, listen the now. You just think about it. In the army they DAE everything fit they daft cunts. Feed them, GIE the cunts cheap bevvy in scabby camp clubs TAE keep them FAE gain intake too n lowering the fucking tone, upsetting the locals n that. When they get intake divvy street, thus goat TAE DAE it aw fir themselves.--Yeah, but like say, it's different though, cause. . . Spud tries to cut in, but Renton is in full flight. A bottle in the face is the only thing that could shut him up at this point; even then only for a few seconds.--Uh, uh. . . Wait a minute, mate. Hear us not. Listen TAE whit ah've goat TAE say here. . . What the fuck Wis ah saying. . . Aye! Right. When air OAN junk, aw ye worry about is scoring. Oaf the gear, ye worry about load say things. Nae money, can nae git pushed. Goat money, drinking too much. Can nae git a bird, nae chance a a ride. Git a bird, too much hassle, can nae breathe without her git tin OAN air case. Either that, or ye blow it, and feel aw guilty. Ye worry about bills, food, bailiffs, these Rambo Nazi scum beaten us, aw the things that ye could nae GIE a fuck about when UV goat a real junk habit. UV just goat one thing TAE worry about. The simplicity a it aw. Ken whit ah mean?

— Irvine Welsh

Think young writers should get other degrees first, social sciences, arts degrees or even business degrees. What you learn is research skills, a necessity because a lot of writing is about trying to find information.

— Irvine Welsh

This internal sea. The problem is that this beautiful ocean carries with it load say poisonous flotsam and jetsam... that poison is diluted by the sea, but once the ocean rolls out, it leaves the white behind, inside my body.

— Irvine Welsh

This social worker lassie turns round n gives us a stroppy look. Ah, just smiles bit she looked away aw fucking nippy likes. Disney cost nowt TAE be social. A social worker this can nae be fucking social; that's nae good TAE nae cunt, then. Like a lifeguard this can nae fucking swim. Should nae be Dean that kinda job.

— Irvine Welsh

Two choices; one: tough it not, back in the room, two: phone that cunt Forrester and go TAE Poorhouse, get fucked about and ripped oaf WI some crap gear. Nae contest. In twenty minutes it Wis: — Poorhouse pal? Tae the drive roan the 32 bus and quivering sticking ma forty-five pence intake the box. Any port in a storm, and it’s raging in here behind my face.

— Irvine Welsh

We don’t really communicate […]. We talk all right, talk in that strange language we’ve evolved for the purposes of avoiding communication. That non-language we’ve created. Perhaps it’s a sign that civilization is regressing. Something is anyway.

— Irvine Welsh

We kissed for a bit and I stopped shaking. We played with each other for a long time, and after we had joined, my cock and her fanny became one thing, then it seemed to vanish as we took off on a big psychic trip together. It was our souls and our minds that were doing it all; our genitals, our bodies, they were just launch pads and were soon superfluous as we went around the universe together on our shared trip, moving in and out of each other’s heads and finding nothing in them but good things, nothing in them but love. The intensity increased until it became almost unbearable, and we exploded together in an orgasmic crash-landing onto the shipwreck of a bed, from a long way out in some form of space. We held each other tightly, drenched in sweat and shaking with emotion

— Irvine Welsh

We wait and think and doubt and hate. How does it make you feel? The overwhelming feeling is rage. We hate ourselves for being unable to be other than what we are. Unable to be better. We feel rage. The feelings must be followed. It doesn't matter whether you're an ideologue or a sensualist, you follow the stimuli thinking that they're your signposts to the promised land. But they are nothing of the kind. What they are is rocks to navigate the past, each on your brush against, ripping you a little more open, and they are always more on the horizon. But you can't face up to the that, so you force yourself to believe the bullshit of those you instinctively know are liars, and you repeat those lies to yourself and to others, hoping that by repeating them often and fervently enough you'll attain the godlike status we accord those who tell the lies most frequently and most passionately. But you never do, and even if you could, you wouldn't value it, you'd realize that nobody believes in heroes anymore. We know that they only want to sell us something we don't really want and keep from us what we really do need. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe we're getting in touch with our condition at last. It's horrible how we always die alone, but no worse than living alone.

— Irvine Welsh