The Silence Between Us
The path to pursuing one’s passion is rarely straightforward, nor does it follow a fixed timeline. Colonel Harland David Sanders, for instance, took on various menial jobs before achieving financial success after perfecting his “finger-lickin’ good chicken” in 1939. Eight decades later, Kentucky Fried Chicken (KFC) had become a globally recognized brand. Similar stories can be found among writers. Sidney Sheldon was already a successful director and producer before he began pursuing literature as a full-time career. When he published his debut novel, he was already in his fifties; he would go on to publish seventeen more novels. Amor Towles, on the other hand, first found success in the corporate world, but after two decades, he rekindled his interest in his first passion: writing. The success of his debut novel paved the way for a full-fledged literary career. Before publishing her debut novel, Guadeloupean writer Maryse Condé worked as a teacher before taking up her pen again in her forties.
In the same vein, Scottish writer Douglas Stuart initially did not pursue a career in writing. Born in Sighthill, a housing estate in Glasgow, Scotland, Stuart was raised in a house without books. Growing up amid poverty exacerbated by Margaret Thatcher’s economic policies, he studied textiles at the Scottish College of Textiles. At the age of twenty-four, he moved to New York City to pursue a career in fashion design. For more than two decades, he worked with prominent fashion brands such as Calvin Klein, Ralph Lauren, and Banana Republic. Despite working in the fashion industry, his literary pieces were featured in The New Yorker and Literary Hub. While working 12-hour shifts as a senior director of design at Banana Republic, he began working on his first full-length work of prose. Shuggie Bain, which draws inspiration from his childhood and family life in Scotland, was released in early 2020. The novel became a literary sensation that immediately catapulted Stuart to global fame, particularly after it won the Booker Prize.
Being considered for the Booker Prize was already an exceptional feat; winning the Prize was merely a bonus. However, what makes his victory even more remarkable is that he joined an exclusive list of writers who have won the Prize with their debut novels. Stuart also became only the second Scottish writer to win the prestigious literary prize. The book was also a finalist for the National Book Award. Building on his earlier success, he published his sophomore novel, Young Mungo, shortly after. Like his debut novel, Young Mungo was critically acclaimed, receiving positive feedback from readers and literary pundits alike. It was even longlisted for the Andrew Carnegie Medal for Excellence in Fiction and the Scottish Highland Literary Award. Six years after his triumphant entry into the literary world, Stuart published his third novel, John of John, which was also nominated for the Booker Prize, further underscoring his status as a literary star.
He had been raised to be fearful of intimacy. It was a fear seeded through scripture and nourished by the horrors he saw on the evening news, all those biblical images of gaunt, sunken-eyed men, covered in sores and dying alone. As a boy, he had sat at the back of the church as the men discussed this plague in their prayer meetings. They took no pleasure in the suffering but there remained an Old Testament comfort in it. Here was evidence that the wages of sin was indeed hell on.
Douglas Stuart, John of John
John of John transports readers to the remote Isle of Harris in Scotland’s Outer Hebrides. At the heart of the story is John-Calum “Cal” Macleod, a recent art school graduate who, when the story begins, is living in Edinburgh. However, he struggles to find a permanent address, earning a meagre income by working for exploitative Albanian cleaners who deduct half his wages. He also maintains a fragile connection to his home through weekly phone calls with his father, John, a sheep farmer and weaver. During one of their calls, his father informs him that his maternal grandmother, Ella Morrison, is ailing, her skin purple “as calf liver” and her heart failing. He coaxes his son into returning home to Falabay to look after his grandmother. Cal reluctantly agrees, although he dreads returning home, swallowing an ecstasy pill on the ferry. He hopes it will numb him as he arrives at the small white house at the edge of the sea.
Cal’s reunion with his father is immediately difficult. Their strained relationship is evident, with John quickly criticizing his son’s bleached ginger hair and second-hand clothes. John even compares Cal’s appearance to that of a ceard, or a vagrant. John is also a pillar of the local Free Presbyterian Church. This strict Calvinist congregation still disciplines its members through public shaming sessions and forbids children from activities such as using the swings on the Sabbath. Cal, however, refuses to embrace his father’s austere faith. As soon as he arrives, Cal learns of his father’s deception: John has exaggerated his grandmother’s condition to lure him home. Trapped and burdened by student debt, Cal has no choice but to stay. He also deflects his father’s pressure to work secretly at the family loom, a violation of the weavers’ code that would allow them to increase their output.
Cal then attempts to find alternative work. He applies at the local inn, run by Aonghas “Flash” Calder, but his attempts are futile. He then tries reconnecting with his childhood friend, Doll Macdonald, who is gradually revealed to be a bitter, resentful young man struggling with alcohol addiction and a sense of being left behind. Meanwhile, tension in the Macleod household culminates in a vicious dinner-table argument. John berates Ella for never learning Gaelic; Ella, a Glaswegian, clings to her profanity-laced English and never fully assimilates into island life. She is outspoken, irreverent, and fiercely protective of her grandson. The argument prompts Cal to storm out in search of an escape. He responds to a lonely-hearts advertisement from a man named William in Inverness. However, his hopeful and revealing letter is met with rejection. Cal’s sexuality is gradually revealed. In Edinburgh, he has been sleeping with men, although this is a secret he does not share with any member of his family.
As the story progresses, however, it becomes clear that Cal is not the only one concealing a secret. Long-suppressed resentments and secrets that have permeated the Macleod household slowly begin to surface. John has been involved in a decade-long intimate but clandestine relationship with his neighbour and longtime friend, Innes MacInnes. Their relationship eventually leads to the dissolution of John’s marriage after his wife, Grace, discovers John and Innes in a romantic embrace. Grace leaves John and later enters into a relationship with his older brother, Uilleam. John uses his devoutness to conceal their relationship and keep the public from prying into his personal life. He invokes religious dogma to deflect social judgment. After all, rural life can be stifling; secrets and rumours spread like wildfire. The locals’ judgmental glances do not escape Cal’s notice, even as they attempt to keep their suspicions to themselves.
He had no way of knowing how much lying it would take or how those lies would take root, how they needed constant tending, how they would grow thorny and wrap around all those who cared for him until they were all part of the tangle. It seemed a cruel joke, that even as he salted the earth around him, his lies were the most abundant fruit these rocks could ever produce.
Douglas Stuart, John of John
John of John is a multilayered novel that grapples with a plethora of themes and subjects. Stuart captures the intricacies of family relationships, particularly the complicated bond between fathers and sons. Although John loves his son, he struggles to express that affection, instead resorting to control, discipline, and occasional violence. Like any son, Cal silently yearns for his father’s acceptance while simultaneously trying to distance himself from his father’s worldview. This complexity is also reflected in Ella’s contrasting relationships with her former son-in-law and her grandson. The Macleod household is riddled with secrets. They all keep skeletons in their closets, yet they refuse to confront or address what lies beneath the surface. Silence becomes a form of protection, but it also allows resentment and pain to fester.
Through John and Cal, Stuart explores familiar themes in his oeuvre, particularly identity and sexuality. The novel becomes a family drama about two generations of men struggling to reconcile their desires with the expectations imposed upon them. For homosexual men in the 1990s, openly expressing their sexuality remained difficult in a society that marginalized them. Both men therefore develop discreet ways of pursuing intimacy. Cognizant that there were few opportunities on the island to meet other men, Cal turns to personal advertisements, while John and Innes sustain their relationship through a private code that allows them to remain together without attracting scrutiny. Their experiences also illuminate the novel’s treatment of masculinity. John embodies a traditional ideal shaped by physical labour, religious devotion, and emotional restraint, while Cal’s artistic sensibilities place him outside the rigid masculine expectations of his surroundings.
The contrasting attitudes of father and son also capture the generational divide between them. Cal is irreverent and longs for a life in which he can love freely, away from the prejudices that shaped his upbringing. John, by contrast, seeks security in discretion. He wants to preserve his relationship with Innes without exposing himself to public condemnation. Their seemingly different desires ultimately reveal a shared need for acceptance and freedom. Their lives gradually converge as the consequences of years of secrecy, shame, and repression become impossible to contain. Looming over the story is the Free Presbyterian Church, a quietly powerful institution that regulates life on the island. Its emphasis on prayer, hard work, endurance, and conformity creates an environment in which duty takes precedence over personal happiness. Pleasure is treated with suspicion, while emotional vulnerability is discouraged.
This austere worldview permeates the Macleod household and intensifies John’s internal conflict. His relationship with Innes directly contradicts the teachings he has devoted his life to, leaving him caught between religious conviction and personal desire. Innes’s growing wish for their relationship to be acknowledged only makes this conflict more acute. The Outer Hebrides complement these tensions. Stuart’s evocative descriptions transform the landscape into more than a setting: its stark beauty, remoteness, and relentless wind and rain mirror the emotional lives of its inhabitants. The physical isolation of the island reinforces their sense of confinement, while its harsh environment, battered by rain and wind, reflects the difficulty of life there. This connection between landscape and character is particularly effective because the island is both beautiful and unforgiving, much like the society that shapes those who live there.
Here, at the edge of Scotland, he had been happy as a child. The shore and the hillsides were his to roam. And even if he could not believe every word of the scripture, he could feel how small and insignificant he was, and understand how all this must have been created by a God much larger than him. It was only as a teenager that he started to feel like he was the bigger thing and that it was the world around him that had grown too small.
Douglas Stuart, John of John
The Outer Hebrides also create an oppressive landscape. Stuart’s evocative writing breathes life into the island, transforming it into a character. Like Stuart’s earlier works, John of John also explores how economic decline can expose fractures beneath the appearance of communal stability. Life on Harris is shaped by crofting and Harris Tweed weaving, and Stuart’s own background in fashion and textiles informs his detailed portrayal of the craft. Economic hardship, limited opportunities, and the gradual movement of young people toward the mainland contribute to what the novel describes as the “islander’s exile.” For Cal’s generation, leaving Harris is not merely a search for economic opportunity but also a chance to construct an identity beyond the confines of the community.
Tradition is therefore central to the novel. John represents an older order rooted in religion, duty, and continuity, while Cal embodies a younger generation seeking greater freedom. Yet Stuart never reduces island life to a simple conflict between tradition and progress. Instead, he portrays a close-knit community whose traditions provide both identity and constraint. The same customs that bind its inhabitants together can also harm those who cannot—or refuse to—conform. This tension ultimately leads to the novel’s exploration of home and belonging. Harris represents both refuge and confinement for Cal. He leaves the island in search of freedom, yet remains emotionally tethered to his family and the place that shaped him. Home, Stuart suggests, is not necessarily where one feels most free; sometimes it is the place from which one must escape while still carrying its influence wherever one goes.
Ultimately, John of John is a poignant exploration of sexuality, secrecy, and identity. It captures the difficult process of understanding who we are beneath the identities imposed upon us. Through Cal and John, Douglas Stuart portrays two generations of queer men whose lives are shaped by the fear of exposure and the longing for acceptance. Their secrets may offer protection from judgment, but this same secrecy becomes a source of isolation, shame, and emotional distance. What remains unspoken within the Macleod family is often as powerful as what is said. While silence can preserve relationships, it can also prevent genuine intimacy. Stuart’s portrayal of queerness is therefore not simply about the struggle to express desire, but also about the struggle to live honestly when faith, family, and society demand conformity. John of John then suggests that identity cannot be fully separated from the places and people that shape us. Understanding oneself requires confronting not only what we hide from others, but also what we are reluctant to acknowledge within ourselves.
It was sensible to be wary of the minister. Outwardly he had an affable manner that belied an unbending hardness, an approachability that drew the faithful near, which only suited his taste for discreet cruelty. He liked to see the whites of the eye when he administered his discipline. When he led a service, her sermonised in a gentle tone that had no real kindness underneath it. Following generations of choleric orators, angry, fire-and-brimstone men who thundered above the congregation and seemed somehow elevated above their daily lives, he presented himself with false humility like he was merely one of them, a good neighbour, one more lost sheep…It was only later, while lying awake in the small hours, that they considered his words again and realised how clearly he had seen them, how gently he had cut them.
Douglas Stuart, John of John
Book Specs
Author: Douglas Stuart
Publisher: Picador
Publishing Date: 2026
No. of Pages: 400
Genre: Literary, Historical, Queer
Synopsis
Out of money and with little to show for his art school education, John-Calum Macleod takes the ferry home to the island of Harris to find that not much has changed except for him. In the windswept croft where he grew up, Cal resumes his old life, caught between the two poles of his childhood: his father John, a sheep farmer, weaver and pillar of their local Presbyterian church, and his Glaswegian grandmother Ella, who has kept a faltering peace with her son-in-law for decades.
While Cal wonders if any young men might be found on the barren hillsides of home, John is dismayed by his son’s long hair and how he seems unwilling to be Saved. As lambing season turns to shearing season, everything is poised to change as the threads holding together the fragile community become increasingly entangled.
John of John is the heartbreaking story of a young man’s return home and how the bonds of family life are torn y the weight of expectation. It confirms Douglas Stuart as one of the great British writers at work today.
About the Author
To learn more about the award-winning Scottish writer, click here.
