I went into John of John expecting a powerful family drama, but what I found was something far more immersive. This is a novel that feels less like a story you read and more like a weather system you move through. Set against the stark beauty of the Scottish Hebrides, it’s a book steeped in longing, silence and the weight of things left unsaid. Stuart has always had a gift for writing emotionally trapped characters, but here he reaches a new level of nuance.
The plot follows Cal Macleod as he returns home to the island of Harris after running out of money and direction at art school. He steps back into a life shaped by his father John, a man held together by faith, pride and a lifetime of unspoken truths. Their relationship is the heart of the novel. It’s fraught, tender in rare flashes and heavy with the kind of generational shame that seeps into every corner of their lives. Both men are hiding parts of themselves, even from those they love most, and the consequences ripple through the community around them.
What struck me most is how vividly Stuart renders the setting. The island isn’t just a backdrop. It’s a living presence. The wind, the sea, the weaving sheds, the rigid rhythms of the Free Presbyterian church, all of it shapes the emotional landscape of the characters. There’s a line about the people being islands within islands, and it captures the novel perfectly. Everyone is holding something back. Everyone is carrying a private ache.
The themes here are rich and layered. Shame, masculinity, faith, desire, the lies we tell ourselves and the lies we tell to keep the peace. Stuart never reduces his characters to symbols. Even when they behave cruelly, they remain painfully human. I didn’t like John Macleod for most of the book, yet by the end I found myself hoping he might still reach for a different kind of salvation. That emotional complexity is where Stuart shines.
What worked best for me was the emotional precision. The conversations loaded with years of silence. The moments of tenderness that feel almost dangerous. The loneliness that curls around the characters like mist. And then there’s Ella, Cal’s grandmother, who brings humour, warmth and a sharp understanding that cuts through the heaviness. She’s a gem.
Readers who enjoy character‑driven stories, atmospheric settings and explorations of family, identity and generational trauma will find so much to love here. It’s a quiet book in many ways, but its emotional force is immense.
In the end, John of John left me moved, unsettled and hopeful. It’s beautifully written, deeply compassionate and one of those rare novels that will stay with you.
Thank you to PanMacMillan SA for the opportunity to read this book!
