https://www.douglasdstuart.com/about daily 0.75 2026-04-23 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5dc39817598601058cf7855c/1573401044061-DYOMHIQNLDEDVNN942IF/Douglas%2BStuart%2BB%2526W%2BProfile%2B%2528Photo%253AClive%2BSmith%2529.jpg https://www.douglasdstuart.com/shuggiebain daily 0.75 2026-04-23 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5dc39817598601058cf7855c/1627140147203-X1G3K9QMJEMGOO5N5OS4/Screen+Shot+2021-07-24+at+11.18.51+AM.png Shuggie Bain - US Edition - Grove Press “Astonishingly good, one of the most moving novels in recent memory.” —Hillary Kelly, Los Angeles Times “Compulsively readable… In exquisite detail, the book describes the devastating dysfunction in Shuggie’s family, centering on his mother’s alcoholism and his father’s infidelities, which are skillfully related from a child’s viewpoint… As it beautifully and shockingly illustrates how Shuggie ends up alone, this novel offers a testament to the indomitable human spirit. Very highly recommended.” —Library Journal (starred review) “There’s no way to fake the life experience that forms the bedrock of Douglas Stuart’s wonderful Shuggie Bain. No way to fake the talent either. Shuggie will knock you sideways.” —Richard Russo, author of Chances Are “A dark shining work. Raw, formidable, bursting with tenderness and frailty. The effect is remarkable, it will make you cry.” —Karl Geary, author of Montpelier Parade https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5dc39817598601058cf7855c/1627140228621-82WP5FX1L74P9I9OVNJ8/Screen+Shot+2021-07-24+at+11.23.34+AM.png Shuggie Bain - UK Edition - Picador “Rarely does a debut novel establish its world with such sure-footedness, and Stuart’s prose is lithe, lyrical, and full of revelatory descriptive insights . . . Reading Shuggie Bain entails a kind of archaeology, sifting through the rubble of the lives presented to find gems of consolation, brief sublime moments when the characters slip the bonds of their hardscrabble existence. That the book is never dismal or maudlin, notwithstanding its subject matter, is down to the buoyant life of its two principal characters, the heart and humanity with which they are described. Douglas Stuart has written a first novel of rare and lasting beauty.” —Alex Preston, Guardian “Douglas Stuart drags us through the 1980s childhood of ‘a soft boy in a hard world’ in a series of vivid, effective scenes . . . Shuggie Bain is a novel that aims for the heart and finds it. As a novel it’s good, as a debut very good, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see it progress from Booker longist to shortlist.” —John Self, Times (UK) “Shuggie Bain is an intimate and frighteningly acute exploration of a mother-son relationship and a masterful portrait of alcoholism in Scottish working class life, rendered with old-school lyrical realism. Stuart is a writer who genuinely loves his characters and makes them unforgettable and touching even when they’re at their worst. He’s also just a beautiful writer; I kept being reminded of Joyce’s Dubliners. I loved this book.” —Sandra Newman, author of The Heavens https://www.douglasdstuart.com/found-wanting daily 0.75 2026-04-23 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5dc39817598601058cf7855c/1578576071303-987VY2D4SQML81XTGHWG/Screen%2BShot%2B2020-01-09%2Bat%2B8.13.40%2BAM.jpg Found Wanting - Found Wanting The New Yorker - Jan 13th 2020 “…I was ashamed of my glasses. They were the cheapest of government subsidized frames; the type that poor pensioners wore, or middle-class students, when they wanted to appear ironic. The lenses were so thick that my green eyes appeared jaundiced and only half the size they actually were. I never wore them when I should. So, I can’t quite picture the Solicitor’s face, but his car was black and German. It glided through the Glasgow smirr like a starling. I dressed myself nice, and although I felt heavy sad, I waited for him outside Central Station as his letter had instructed me to. It was another dreich day, and my stiff denims sucked up the damp from the pavement. I remember the car was so new that the raindrops domed, and quickly defeated, they streamed off the coat of polisher’s wax. As I sat in his passenger seat, I had a peripheral sense that the man had an ordinary face, thin and forgettable, serious but not unkind. It was edged by a fresh haircut, short on the sides, feathered on the top. Without my glasses everything was aura, and his aura was the colour of liver paste…’ Click ‘The New Yorker’ to read the whole story. https://www.douglasdstuart.com/contact-3 daily 0.75 2026-04-23 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5dc39817598601058cf7855c/1594415753294-JZOE4C6ZUAPYBY8D9FA7/IMG_3433.jpg Contact - Contacts Agent: Anna Stein at CAA anna.stein@caa.com US Publicity: Michael Taeckens at Broadside PR: michaeltaeckens@gmail.com US Publicity: Deb Seager: dseager@groveatlantic.com UK Agent: Lucy Luck Lucy@lucyluck.com UK Publicity: Camilla Elworthy: c.elworthy@macmillan.co.uk Follow Douglas on: Instagram https://www.douglasdstuart.com/the-englishman daily 0.75 2021-07-24 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5dc39817598601058cf7855c/1600378978577-8TE02909KD9BJLN4VHK1/Screen+Shot+2020-09-17+at+5.40.38+PM.png The Englishman - The Englishman The New Yorker - Sept 7th 2020 “…It was those lemons I thought of, years later, lying in this stranger’s bed. The Englishman was standing over me and all I could smell was his Penhaligon’s cologne with its undertones of lavender and peppery, heady citrus. I didn’t know how long William had been watching me sleep, but the curtains were alive with London sunlight. The day threatened a sticky sort of heat that we rarely enjoyed in the North. The air was heavy, as if there were too much of it crammed into the small room, and it didn’t hurry or sing like it did at home on the island. William was moving quietly, unaware that I was already awake. He set my tea upon the dresser. Then he carefully lifted my cotton bedsheet as though he were peeling a bandage from tender flesh. His eyes travelled up my bare leg as it emerged from the sleep-twisted sheets. I pretended to be asleep. I let him travel. William ran his finger along my calf, then he tapped my anklebone gently. I stirred as if he had woken me. He was glowing—stewed pink from his morning bath—and everything about him smelled lemony and bright and feminine…” Click ‘The New Yorker’ to read the full story: https://www.douglasdstuart.com/books-1 daily 0.75 2026-04-23 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5dc39817598601058cf7855c/1646782083178-XP8F7Z5VBH6J2P2S1MAS/Screen+Shot+2021-11-16+at+4.18.04+PM.png Young Mungo Young Mungo - Grove Atlantic, US Cover https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5dc39817598601058cf7855c/1646782124700-MNYORX456SMHKULYLB0A/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-11-10%2Bat%2B8.22.48%2BAM.jpg Young Mungo Young Mungo - Picador, UK Cover https://www.douglasdstuart.com/gallery-3 daily 0.75 2026-04-24 https://www.douglasdstuart.com/johnofjohn daily 1.0 2026-04-24 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5dc39817598601058cf7855c/2e2c97ef-5054-4788-baf9-000cc95a2d13/Screenshot+2025-12-09+at+1.06.36%E2%80%AFPM.png https://www.douglasdstuart.com/a-private-view-the-new-yorker daily 0.75 2026-04-23 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5dc39817598601058cf7855c/3cd66521-94e3-48a9-b41c-7699dcd3ae38/A+Private+View+Graphic.png A Private View - A Private View The New Yorker - April 20th 2026 “…None of the men looked up as my mother came down the museum stairs. I felt sorry for her. I wished I could make them notice. When she reached the middle landing, she paused, and I could tell she was resisting the urge to go back up and give them a second chance to get a good look. I smiled as she began to descend the final set. She gave a little kick with each step so that her long coat parted and revealed a shapely leg. Jean wasn’t wearing her glasses, which helped to spare her from disappointment. She couldn’t see that the men had ignored her but I was certain she had felt it. She couldn’t see me from this distance, either, but she didn’t squint or search about; she simply arrived in the space knowing I would be there for her. I was always there for her. As she neared the bottom of the stairs, she unbuttoned her coat. She was wearing her favorite dress, the knitted one with herons embroidered on the front, their necks intertwined and the moonlit sky behind them set with paillettes and sequins. It had the cheap glint of Lurex and although it was loose it clung to her body in the places she was softest…” Click ‘The New Yorker’ to read the full story: