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4.38 AVERAGE
4.38 AVERAGE
Unlike Douglas Stuart’s debut novel, I ended up enjoying “Young Mungo”. It was a breathtaking and heartbreaking story of a young boy growing up in a disjointed family affected by alcoholism, poverty and the violence of the Glasgow housing estates.
Young Mungo isn’t particularly fast-paced, instead, it presents itself as a character study, painting a clear picture of every member of the Hamilton family. The complexity of them made this story seem even more real.
It was interesting to see the navigation between two timelines, getting glimpses into both events in the past and in the present. I listened to this as an audiobook and thus was slightly confused at some parts, but that did not dampen my enjoyment.
I liked how this did not seem too bleak. Whilst there were certainly horrors that Mungo experienced in his life and my heart does truly break for him, there was also some hope, and that is what ultimately made the book for me, considering how I found ‘Shuggie Bain’ a bit too depressing.
Young Mungo isn’t particularly fast-paced, instead, it presents itself as a character study, painting a clear picture of every member of the Hamilton family. The complexity of them made this story seem even more real.
It was interesting to see the navigation between two timelines, getting glimpses into both events in the past and in the present. I listened to this as an audiobook and thus was slightly confused at some parts, but that did not dampen my enjoyment.
I liked how this did not seem too bleak. Whilst there were certainly horrors that Mungo experienced in his life and my heart does truly break for him, there was also some hope, and that is what ultimately made the book for me, considering how I found ‘Shuggie Bain’ a bit too depressing.
Where Tenderness Blooms in Glasgow's Shadows:
Douglas Stuart's "Young Mungo" is more than a novel; it's an intimate whisper that grows into a thunderous echo of recognition. As I turned each page, I found myself caught in the gravitational pull of a Glasgow that feels both foreign and deeply familiar, where the weight of masculinity presses against the delicate butterfly wings of emerging queer identity.
The narrative weaves through the housing schemes of Glasgow with the precision of a surgeon and the soul of a poet. Stuart's portrayal of Mungo's world is so visceral that the concrete towers, salvaged doocots, narrow closes, and expansive lochs became more than setting—they became a pulse I could feel beating in my throat. The community Stuart depicts, with its intricate web of loyalties, violence, and unexpected kindnesses, reminds us that no life exists in isolation, even when isolation feels like the only refuge.
What struck me most profoundly were the moments of queer awakening, handled with such delicate grace that they left me fighting back tears. The tender development of Mungo and James's relationship serves as a bright thread of hope running through the darker tapestry of their circumstances. Their stolen moments together—whether in the dove coop or during quiet conversations—resonated with my own memories of first love, that peculiar mixture of terror and elation that comes with discovering oneself in another's eyes.
The violence that punctuates the narrative isn't merely physical; it's ideological, a generational inheritance of toxic masculinity that Stuart examines with unflinching clarity. The way machismo ideals echo through the schemes feels like a cruel gospel, passed down from father to son, brother to brother, even mother to other. These moments triggered my own anxieties, memories of spaces where masculinity was a performance with deadly serious consequences.
Yet Stuart masterfully balances this heaviness with moments of surprising humor. These aren’t just moments of comic relief; they're essential truth, revealing how joy persists even in the bleakest circumstances. The dialogue, rich with Glaswegian dialect, carries both wit and wisdom. Mungo's interactions with his sister Jodie, in particular, shine with a humor that feels like both survival strategy and pure love intertwined.
The characters aren't merely well-drawn; they feel like people I've known, loved, and feared. Mungo's mother Mo-Maw, with her cyclical disappearances and reappearances, embodies a particular kind of working-class tragedy that's both frustrating and heartbreaking. Hamish, with his territorial violence and twisted code of honor, represents the kind of masculinity that polices its borders with brutal efficiency. And Ha-Ha, whose nickname belies the complexity of his character, shows how humor can mask the deepest wounds.
What makes "Young Mungo" particularly devastating is how it captures the ripple effects of violence—not just the immediate impact of fists and boots, but the long-term psychological toll of living in an environment where violence is both currency and language. The way trauma echoes through the narrative mirrors my own understanding of how past hurts shape present fears, how a single moment of violence can cast shadows across years.
The queer elements of the story are handled with remarkable authenticity. Stuart doesn't just write about forbidden love; he captures the specific tension of being queer in a hypermasculine environment, where discovery means more than embarrassment—it means danger. The constant calculation of risk, the reading of rooms, the careful modulation of voice and gesture—these details spoke directly to my own experiences, triggering both recognition and a kind of retrospective anxiety.
Yet amid all this darkness, Stuart never loses sight of beauty. The tender moments between characters shine brighter for their contrast with the surrounding harshness. Whether it's Jodie's fierce protectiveness, the gentle way James handles his doves, or Mungo's own resilient capacity for love, these instances of grace feel earned rather than imposed.
Reading "Young Mungo" was like finding a mirror in unexpected places. It reflected back not just my own experiences as a queer person, but the universal human experiences of love, fear, hope, and the search for belonging. The tears I fought back weren't just from sadness or recognition—they were from that peculiar mixture of emotions that comes when art manages to articulate something we've always felt but never quite had the words for.
This novel will stay with me, not just as a story but as an experience. It's a reminder that literature at its best doesn't just tell us about lives different from our own—it helps us understand our own lives better. In Mungo's journey, in his struggles and triumphs, in his moments of tenderness and terror, we find pieces of our own stories, carefully arranged into something both beautiful and brutal, both specific and universal.
Douglas Stuart's "Young Mungo" is more than a novel; it's an intimate whisper that grows into a thunderous echo of recognition. As I turned each page, I found myself caught in the gravitational pull of a Glasgow that feels both foreign and deeply familiar, where the weight of masculinity presses against the delicate butterfly wings of emerging queer identity.
The narrative weaves through the housing schemes of Glasgow with the precision of a surgeon and the soul of a poet. Stuart's portrayal of Mungo's world is so visceral that the concrete towers, salvaged doocots, narrow closes, and expansive lochs became more than setting—they became a pulse I could feel beating in my throat. The community Stuart depicts, with its intricate web of loyalties, violence, and unexpected kindnesses, reminds us that no life exists in isolation, even when isolation feels like the only refuge.
What struck me most profoundly were the moments of queer awakening, handled with such delicate grace that they left me fighting back tears. The tender development of Mungo and James's relationship serves as a bright thread of hope running through the darker tapestry of their circumstances. Their stolen moments together—whether in the dove coop or during quiet conversations—resonated with my own memories of first love, that peculiar mixture of terror and elation that comes with discovering oneself in another's eyes.
The violence that punctuates the narrative isn't merely physical; it's ideological, a generational inheritance of toxic masculinity that Stuart examines with unflinching clarity. The way machismo ideals echo through the schemes feels like a cruel gospel, passed down from father to son, brother to brother, even mother to other. These moments triggered my own anxieties, memories of spaces where masculinity was a performance with deadly serious consequences.
Yet Stuart masterfully balances this heaviness with moments of surprising humor. These aren’t just moments of comic relief; they're essential truth, revealing how joy persists even in the bleakest circumstances. The dialogue, rich with Glaswegian dialect, carries both wit and wisdom. Mungo's interactions with his sister Jodie, in particular, shine with a humor that feels like both survival strategy and pure love intertwined.
The characters aren't merely well-drawn; they feel like people I've known, loved, and feared. Mungo's mother Mo-Maw, with her cyclical disappearances and reappearances, embodies a particular kind of working-class tragedy that's both frustrating and heartbreaking. Hamish, with his territorial violence and twisted code of honor, represents the kind of masculinity that polices its borders with brutal efficiency. And Ha-Ha, whose nickname belies the complexity of his character, shows how humor can mask the deepest wounds.
What makes "Young Mungo" particularly devastating is how it captures the ripple effects of violence—not just the immediate impact of fists and boots, but the long-term psychological toll of living in an environment where violence is both currency and language. The way trauma echoes through the narrative mirrors my own understanding of how past hurts shape present fears, how a single moment of violence can cast shadows across years.
The queer elements of the story are handled with remarkable authenticity. Stuart doesn't just write about forbidden love; he captures the specific tension of being queer in a hypermasculine environment, where discovery means more than embarrassment—it means danger. The constant calculation of risk, the reading of rooms, the careful modulation of voice and gesture—these details spoke directly to my own experiences, triggering both recognition and a kind of retrospective anxiety.
Yet amid all this darkness, Stuart never loses sight of beauty. The tender moments between characters shine brighter for their contrast with the surrounding harshness. Whether it's Jodie's fierce protectiveness, the gentle way James handles his doves, or Mungo's own resilient capacity for love, these instances of grace feel earned rather than imposed.
Reading "Young Mungo" was like finding a mirror in unexpected places. It reflected back not just my own experiences as a queer person, but the universal human experiences of love, fear, hope, and the search for belonging. The tears I fought back weren't just from sadness or recognition—they were from that peculiar mixture of emotions that comes when art manages to articulate something we've always felt but never quite had the words for.
This novel will stay with me, not just as a story but as an experience. It's a reminder that literature at its best doesn't just tell us about lives different from our own—it helps us understand our own lives better. In Mungo's journey, in his struggles and triumphs, in his moments of tenderness and terror, we find pieces of our own stories, carefully arranged into something both beautiful and brutal, both specific and universal.
Traumatic as fuck. Stuck it out as it was so beautifully written, and I wanted to witness something beautiful for Mungo at some point. I got it, and it was fucking sweet but still... So much trauma. It's like watching a candle wick take forever to light, then get snuffed out before you've had the chance to warm yourself by it.
For me, worth reading for the most vivid character descriptions and introductions I've read in a long time, and the tender moments caught in between the overall narrative. It is, no surprise, an evisceration of the incredibly narrow masculinities available to young men in the tenements of Glasgow in this era - and yes, to a lesser extent, the limited opportunities available to women as well.
"It was foolish to think that Hamish could have raised him. They were too close in age. If you dropped a stone in a puddle, it was as though the ripple in front was expected to raise the one behind it. ... A ripple could do nothing more than let the next ripple follow in its wake, no sense of where it was headed itself."
"When Jodie was younger, the Royal Infirmary terrified her. To her it was a Victorian headmistress in the form of a building: strict and cruel and a warning to be on your best behaviour."
"As he plucked the flowers he made up their names: cowsbreath, ladies' bumholes, blue-granda-willies."
"He allowed his thumbs to slowly creep up under James's Fair Isle jumper and brush against the warm skin. It was a nothing that felt like an everything."
"Mungo would stop frequently to apologise, he felt so inept, and James would cradle his face and guide Mungo's lips back to his. Now their kisses were soft and tender and offered without the fear of refusal. ... Mungo knew he wanted to spend his life doing this, just kissing this one boy. There was no need to rush."
"They had crossed this line a day or two before. They had wandered from timid tenderness to affection wrapped in insults. It was a lovely place for two boys to be: honest, exciting, immature."
"The falling darkness ate the clouds out of the sky."
"The gutted porn magazines lay upon the grass, and the open-mouthed women, their faces twisted in agony or pleasure, lay scattered about like dead villagers."
"[He] was still bleeding into the water. His blood was unfurling in scarlet swirls. It looked like the man was being consumed by medieval flames."
For me, worth reading for the most vivid character descriptions and introductions I've read in a long time, and the tender moments caught in between the overall narrative. It is, no surprise, an evisceration of the incredibly narrow masculinities available to young men in the tenements of Glasgow in this era - and yes, to a lesser extent, the limited opportunities available to women as well.
"It was foolish to think that Hamish could have raised him. They were too close in age. If you dropped a stone in a puddle, it was as though the ripple in front was expected to raise the one behind it. ... A ripple could do nothing more than let the next ripple follow in its wake, no sense of where it was headed itself."
"When Jodie was younger, the Royal Infirmary terrified her. To her it was a Victorian headmistress in the form of a building: strict and cruel and a warning to be on your best behaviour."
"As he plucked the flowers he made up their names: cowsbreath, ladies' bumholes, blue-granda-willies."
"He allowed his thumbs to slowly creep up under James's Fair Isle jumper and brush against the warm skin. It was a nothing that felt like an everything."
"Mungo would stop frequently to apologise, he felt so inept, and James would cradle his face and guide Mungo's lips back to his. Now their kisses were soft and tender and offered without the fear of refusal. ... Mungo knew he wanted to spend his life doing this, just kissing this one boy. There was no need to rush."
"They had crossed this line a day or two before. They had wandered from timid tenderness to affection wrapped in insults. It was a lovely place for two boys to be: honest, exciting, immature."
"The falling darkness ate the clouds out of the sky."
"The gutted porn magazines lay upon the grass, and the open-mouthed women, their faces twisted in agony or pleasure, lay scattered about like dead villagers."
"[He] was still bleeding into the water. His blood was unfurling in scarlet swirls. It looked like the man was being consumed by medieval flames."
challenging
dark
emotional
hopeful
sad
tense
medium-paced
dark
emotional
hopeful
sad
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
Yes
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
i think the romance needed a little more space to properly develop, but i still really liked it.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Addiction, Adult/minor relationship, Alcoholism, Child abuse, Domestic abuse, Hate crime, Homophobia, Pedophilia, Physical abuse, Rape, Sexual violence, Religious bigotry, Murder, Abandonment, Injury/Injury detail
"Young Mungo" has a lot of the same plot features of Stuart's first novel, "Shuggie Bain." Both novels feature a queer teenage male protagonist and an alcoholic mother, are set in a dreary, working class Glasgow rotting under Conservative-Party governance (the former in the 80s under Thatcher, the latter in the early 90s under Major), and are, at their heart, books that epitomize the trauma plot. But whereas "Shuggie Bain" centers on the mother-son relationship and, in turn, parenthood, "Young Mungo" centers on incipient teenage romance. In doing so, "Young Mungo" is unexpectedly more ambitious--murder, rape, gang violence, and homophobia all spawn from its focus--and incredibly readable--the central conflict of denied love is more engaging than the sad, repeated disappointment of addiction. Still, in expanding his vision, I think Stuart also, perhaps, tries to do too much. The novel ends in a satisfying crescendo of defined uncertainty, as the protagonist considers two potential lifepaths; but, all the stuff that Stuart fits into those lifepaths (a life on the lam with one's love vs. a life of potential imprisonment and denial) feels like a lot.
Stuart is a good writer--the ease with which he creates fully formed characters is remarkable. Mungo is "all kindness and no common sense" (36); his mother is a "child . . . a drunk, sour-breathed, nicotine-coated child" (110); St. Christopher, an old, haggard, sexual predator is "hollow as balsa wood, famished and empty of any nutrition and goodness" (172). He describes relationships equally well (although some, like the relationship between Mungo and his brother Hamish, seem kind of simplistic)--in particular, the mix of understanding, playfulness, and teenage-boy homophobia between Mungo and James, is incredibly well done. At times, Stuart overwrites-- Stuart seems so focused on conveying feeling that I think he loses sight of nuance and, perhaps, reality. Mungo is too simple, too good; the world around him too violent, too neglectful. It's a good contrast, and makes for compelling, easily understood literature; but, it doesn't describe a world or people that I recognize.
Relatedly, at the end, whether you like "Young Mungo" will probably depend on how you feel about the trauma plot. There are some difficult scenes in the book and, while the plot ultimately feels redemptive (putting aside that Mungo's entire family, even Jodie, rejects him for being gay), it all has a seemingly flattening effect. Mungo is, put uncharitably, a stronger (i.e., less emotionally scarred) Jude with a dysfunctional, but present, family. The writing is good though (the characters are, thankfully, more than their trauma), and--I hate to write this--no one ever said trauma can't be both engaging and carry a powerful message.
Stuart is a good writer--the ease with which he creates fully formed characters is remarkable. Mungo is "all kindness and no common sense" (36); his mother is a "child . . . a drunk, sour-breathed, nicotine-coated child" (110); St. Christopher, an old, haggard, sexual predator is "hollow as balsa wood, famished and empty of any nutrition and goodness" (172). He describes relationships equally well (although some, like the relationship between Mungo and his brother Hamish, seem kind of simplistic)--in particular, the mix of understanding, playfulness, and teenage-boy homophobia between Mungo and James, is incredibly well done. At times, Stuart overwrites-- Stuart seems so focused on conveying feeling that I think he loses sight of nuance and, perhaps, reality. Mungo is too simple, too good; the world around him too violent, too neglectful. It's a good contrast, and makes for compelling, easily understood literature; but, it doesn't describe a world or people that I recognize.
Relatedly, at the end, whether you like "Young Mungo" will probably depend on how you feel about the trauma plot. There are some difficult scenes in the book and, while the plot ultimately feels redemptive (putting aside that Mungo's entire family, even Jodie, rejects him for being gay), it all has a seemingly flattening effect. Mungo is, put uncharitably, a stronger (i.e., less emotionally scarred) Jude with a dysfunctional, but present, family. The writing is good though (the characters are, thankfully, more than their trauma), and--I hate to write this--no one ever said trauma can't be both engaging and carry a powerful message.
Such a devastating book, I was nearly yelling to myself at the end
dark
emotional
reflective
sad
tense
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
Yes
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Complicated
heartbroken !!!! douglas stuart has such a way with words and I am HEARTBROKEN.