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“I mean, how many Edith Wharton stories do I have to read, or [stories] about gilded life?” he asks rhetorically, questioning the assumptively innate literary credentials of stories about posh folks’ experiences. ​“People from the middle classes never have that levelled against them. It’s never hummus porn, or baba ganoush porn,” he says pithily, ​“it’s just literature. All that caring of banter does is silence anyone who wants to document with clarity about poverty.”

The story of Shuggie, and of Mungo in a way, are Douglas Stuart’s way of revising the erasure of the communities he never recognised in art growing up. As he pointedly puts it: ​“My childhood had always been hidden from people, so I thought I’d give it the dignity of details. People are coming on this journey, so they’re coming, and they’ll feel for these characters.”

There was once a time when Young Mungo had a different title: Loch Awe. It was inspired by a second narrative that weaves through the nov