In Douglas Stuart's superb third novel, John of John, a young man seeks to reconcile his sexuality and artistic goals with his family's expectations and his devout upbringing.
Twenty-two-year-old John-Calum Macleod goes by "Cal" to distinguish himself from John, his overbearing, violent father. Cal is a penniless Edinburgh art school graduate when his father calls him home to their Isle of Harris croft one August in the '90s. Cal's maternal grandmother, Ella, has lived with them since Cal's mother, Grace, left when he was nine. Now Ella shows signs of heart failure. John expects Cal's help with the sheep and weaving Harris tweed. For Cal, it means an end to his hedonistic lifestyle of alcohol, drugs, and sex with men; and it means a return to secrecy.
In Falabay, piety is enforced: "Sabbath chains" block off playground equipment on Sundays. John is a pillar of the tiny local church, singing the Psalms in Gaelic, but Cal's faith wavers. The doctrine of predestination separates the Unsaved (such as Cal) from the Saved. Meanwhile, the population is decreasing and traditional professions are waning. Among the key members of the community are Innes MacInnes, John's best friend; and Cal's closest friends, brother-and-sister pair Doll and Isla Macdonald. Isla is assumed to be intended for Cal, but he's hoping to resume his friends-with-benefits situation with Doll. The Macdonalds can't make a living from fishing anymore and collect unemployment; mostly, Doll drinks himself into oblivion.
Stuart (Shuggie Bain; Young Mungo) builds an absorbing, deliciously melodramatic story around the contrast between modernity and the old ways. Much remains unspoken in this insular environment, yet the women--Ella, Grace, and Isla--know everything. Cal is more like his father than he realizes. There is irony but also rightness to the repeating of family patterns. The characters' power plays and acts of desperation are heartrending. Despite somber realities--illegitimate pregnancy, property disputes, physical and religious abuse--Ella's mischief and Cal's love of color and talent for crafts lend lightness. Stuart's every observation is profound (Cal "felt an oily resentment towards his father, a disgraceful rancour towards his grandmother's aging body"); the simplest phrase is memorable for its beauty ("the Sabbath bled by like a slow tide").
Intriguing in its particularities but timeless in wisdom, John of John offers hope that relinquishing shame creates freedom to be true to oneself. It's irresistible and an instant classic. --Rebecca Foster, freelance reviewer, proofreader, and blogger at Bookish Beck
Shelf Talker: In a modern masterpiece with the weight of Scripture, Douglas Stuart contrasts the freedom of the big city with the harshness of a gay young man's religious island home.