I felt a piercing sadness at his death—and the same, all over again, at my father’s. I think of Dad reading by lamplight. I think of Le Carré’s intelligence officers, assembled around a dimly lit table, with their paper cups of weak tea. I recall the sensation, thrilling, of decoding the first chapters of The Honourable Schoolboy, a few years after Dad died, and feeling that I had achieved something hard-won and permanent. I have a few Le Carré books on my shelf that I still haven’t gotten to: Single & Single, A Perfect Spy, his memoir The Pigeon Tunnel. I will read each one. Riddles exist to be solved.
In the opening pages of Douglas Stuart’s debut novel, Shuggie Bain, we meet our protagonist at the age of 16. His home is an underheated room in a dank bedsit somewhere in the suburbs of Glasgow, where he works at a supermarket deli counter while dreaming of a future as a hairdresser. Stuart paints a picture of a young man on society’s margins with the eagle-eyed precision of someone who has not just lived it but truly absorbed it, regurgitating its grimier details as he guides readers through the landscape of 1980s postindustrial Scotland and explains how Shuggie arrived here.
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