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While Calvinism, weaving, deeply repressed sexuality, and passages in Scottish Gaelic don’t exactly scream beach read, I devoured John of John from a sun lounger overlooking the Ligurian Sea. Like much of Southern Europe this summer, Italy was scorching, and the book—which is set on the mist-shrouded, wind-whipped Isle of Harris (a remote and rugged island in Scotland’s Outer Hebrides archipelago)—became my way to retreat from the heat. Like one of those portable neck fans tourists wear, but way less embarrassing. John of John takes place in the 1990s, before everyone had internet and cell phones had become appendages, and the story’s pacing matches that era in that nothing is immediate. It’s not that nothing happens—so much happens—but the book is one big slow reveal, and the journey to get there is serpentine, and painful at times, but so worth it. The protagonist John, who has just graduated from art school on the mainland, gets called back to the island by his father (an austere, religious, secretive man; also named John) who wants his son to help take care of his grandmother, carry on the family’s livelihood, weaving, and return to the church. Like the characters and relationships in Shuggie Bain, Stuart’s 2020 Booker Prize-winning novel, those in this book are messy and complicated (a.k.a believable) but have, at their center, real love. And, not surprisingly, there are some lovely weaving metaphors throughout, not the least of which is how a mix of contrasting colors and imperfections yield the most compelling cloth.—Rebecca Misner, features director, west coast
