This was Andrew O'Hagan's first novel and as such it was a successful beginning. I found it reminiscent of a memoir as it told the story of a son who returns home for the death of his grandfather and in doing so relates a tale of changes over time of both family and Glasgow.

Jamie recalls his torturous childhood and his enduring relationship with his mother Alice, who tortured her husband for years, while growing up under Robert Bawn, a nasty, raging alcoholic. Jamie eventually left home and lived in with his grandparents, Hugh and Margaret. Robert's father, Hugh, was a "visionary" urban planner who oversaw the development of public housing complexes in Glasgow in the 1970s, tall blocks of concrete and glass like those in the United States at the time. Hugh was an enthusiastic, ambitious father figure for young Jamie, and Margaret was a competent teacher.

Years later, when Jamie learns that Hugh is ailing, he rushes from England to help Margaret and Hugh. Robert has since vanished, but Jamie is happy to see Alice newly married and independent. Hugh's passing, however, is not without concern: a probe is looking into the elderly man's alleged misuse of funds while serving as "Mr. Housing," and his cherished buildings are being demolished to make room for the new. Which, Jamie discovers, includes glimpses of Scotland from Trainspotting, a dirty, historically rich, and obviously worn-out country. But Robert shows up at Hugh's funeral and then leaves right away. When Jamie catches up with him, he has calmed down and is now a contented, modest taxi driver. The story ends with a kind of reconciliation and cautious hope.

I enjoyed the novel and was moved tremendously by the emotional moments recounted as both memories of his early life and his experiences upon his return home for the final days of his beloved Grandfather. Most of all the author's gorgeous, almost poetic, prose engaged me in a way that few novels can. I would recommend this to all as I look forward to reading more from the pen of Andrew O'Hagan. ( )

This book made me buy a lot of Andrew O'Hagan's stuff. The prose flows very well and I find myself flowing through the pages. The story itself might be a little on the dull side, although it's worth a read. The other stuff I've read by O'Hagan other than his essays has been too focused on celebrity, or issues I'm not really interested in. If anyone can recommend one of his books to me give me a shout. ( )

I really liked 'Be Near Me,' and this was truly disappointing. It was lauded by reviewers, and it's easy to see why. It deals seriously with serious themes, and when it's just doing that it's actually very good.
But the style... dear lord in heaven. As we look back on the worst excesses of romantic prose, so shall our grandchildren look back on the worst excesses of 'modernist' prose. And they're all here. Sentences without verbs. They’re the subject of the following sentence. Sometimes. No links between phrases, no temporal progression, no clauses. Each verbal unit stands alone. Short and 'powerful.' All this stated in a matter-of-fact manner. No excrescences. A sudden, unexplained torrent of emotion and sentiment is expressed in a nature metaphor. The emotion always grief. The metaphor seems fresh, insightful, stunning. The poetry of it is breathtaking. So are the descriptive passages full of color and life. But this is a lie. Only the sterility of the remaining prose gives this effect. The metaphor and the description are as hackneyed as anything the worst late romantic could erect.
Let us remember the beauty of syntax every now and then, and the benefits of clauses. Perhaps, too, we could take a break from novels of self-pity masquerading as self-criticism- I'm looking at you, Netherlands, and you, Philip Roth. ( )