Abstract

On reading Irvine Welsh's novel Filth for the first time, I quickly noticed that something was amiss. I followed the apparent food poisoning of amoral Detective Sergeant Bruce Robertson all the way down page twenty-three. Then, as I turned the page, something entirely unexpected happened. The text became obscured by what appeared to be the black outlines of intestines. What's more, though Robertson's first-person account of his own illness was obscured, a new narrative voice appeared within the intestines: "I am alive. … I am soft and weak. … I must grow. … I must eat. … I must grow strong … eat … eat … eat …".1 Welsh's novel was no longer simply words on a page. Its visual features were playing an artistic role in...