Book Review: Open, Heaven by Seán Hewitt
When I first stumbled upon Open, Heaven, it was the name Seán Hewitt that caught my attention. A poet turned novelist? I knew I was in for some magical prose. What I didn’t expect was to be so profoundly moved by a story that explores the bittersweet tapestry of teenage longing and nostalgia, wrapped in lyrical beauty. As I turned the pages, I found myself transported back to my own adolescence, a time marked by the intensity of desire and the haunting pull of memory.
At the heart of Open, Heaven is James, a sensitive, introspective teenager trapped in the idyllic yet stifling village of Thornsmere, frozen in time between the Great Wars. As he returns home twenty years later to confront an old farm for sale, the past floods back—a tapestry of memories, desires, and regrets woven together with shimmering threads of light and dark. Hewitt’s exploration of adolescence feels achingly authentic, reminding us of how formative—and sometimes painful—those years can be. The opening line, “There are intervals of light and dark overhead, like the sun breaking through willows,” sets a tone that resonates throughout the novel, encapsulating the emotional nuances of youth.
The dynamic between James and Luke, the charming newcomer, is the essence of the novel. Their relationship pulsates with a burning tension, fraught with fear and longing. Hewitt captures the delicate balance of friendship and desire with an artistry that left me breathless. Each look, each subtle gesture—whether it’s the warmth of shared spit on a bottle or the haunting beauty of a hand print—holds an intensity that evokes a sense of familiarity. “I was terrified of exposing my desire,” James admits, echoing sentiments many of us have felt. Hewitt’s writing invites us to relive those moments of exquisite vulnerability, a reminder that some loves are never quite realized, yet mark us indelibly.
The pacing of the novel flows like the meandering rivers of memory—sometimes rushing, sometimes lingering. There were moments when the writing felt incomplete, leaving me yearning for more clarity. Yet, it’s in this very incompleteness that Hewitt captures the essence of our own fragmented recollections. The quote, “Time runs faster backwards,” resonates deeply; it mirrors our own experiences of revisiting the past, where moments can slip away like sand, leaving us with lingering echoes of what once was.
Open, Heaven is more than a story of youthful desire; it’s a meditation on memory and the heartache of irretrievable time. It is melancholic yet beautiful, encapsulating the rawness of queer longing with a delicate touch. While some passages may feel heavy with nostalgia, they ultimately enrich the narrative—Hewitt is not afraid to explore the tension that exists within love that is both platonic and charged.
This novel isn’t just for fans of coming-of-age stories; it speaks to anyone who has ever grappled with their own past, who has felt the pangs of longing and the weight of unfulfilled desires. Open, Heaven is a haunting reminder of how memory lingers, making its presence felt long after the pages have been turned.
In conclusion, if you’re looking for a deeply reflective read that invites you into the captivating world of memory and adolescent longing, look no further. This remarkable debut is sure to leave an imprint on your heart, just as it did on mine. Thank you, Random House UK, Vintage | Jonathan Cape, and Seán Hewitt, for the opportunity to experience this heartfelt work!