The Brooklyn Rail

In many ways, Seán Hewitt’s debut novel rests upon pillars propped up by queer stories already central to the canon. Its plot—a young coming of age story disrupted by the introduction of a new sort of love, set against the backdrop of a humming English village—may bring to mind the work of writers such as Philippe Besson, Douglas Stuart, or André Aciman. In the case of Open, Heaven, a reader might expect to have a steady grasp on Hewitt’s narrative before it can even begin; however, the novel reaches beyond assumption in its ingenuity. Hewitt doesn’t make an attempt at overturning the trope, but rather tactfully distills it.

Set over the course of a year in the early aughts, Open, Heaven’s young protagonist James feels his life becoming intertwined with another boy, Luke. With hazy vision in recounting this first love—clarity overtaken by the disorient of memory, of which modern-day James makes no attempt at countering—he spirals in the echo of infatuation, remembering his high-school pursuit of a connection unlike anything he’d ever felt before and has yet to feel since. But the story that we get, centered around young James and his friend Luke, is more than a simple love story. Hewitt’s success in Open, Heaven is in its questioning of our foundational impressions of love, and even further, our ability to truly offer it to one another. What becomes clear as the story progresses, in a particularly queer way, is that James’s devotion isn’t to Luke. It’s to perfection.

The complicated dynamic between gay identity and near-impossible standards of idealism has been explored before, ranging from meditations on body image to examinations of “Best Little Boy In the World” syndrome. These critiques—or this lived experience—feel silently present throughout Open, Heaven, though are never brought to the forefront in any explicit way. But with our knowing eyes, we are able to recognize the unraveling markers of this queer exchange in Hewitt’s story. Open, Heaven’s central narrative is set shortly after James has come out to his family and surrenders to having been outed at his school, becoming one of the few, if not the only, out boys in his circle. And while neither his home or social life come with frightening markers of homophobia, it’s a queer yearning for closeness—closeness to family, closeness to a lover—that is thrust to the center and made elusive by the continuing pursuit of idealism. In referring to his parents’ acceptance of him—having shed an initial closeted performance—James begins to feel the weight of the new role he’s stepped into: “They had chosen me over the village, and now I couldn’t be anything but perfect.”

But it’s in the coalescing of James’s personal performance with the gilded desire that he projects onto Luke that the weight begins to feel suffocating. Queer adolescence spent in solitude leaves you reaching—at times, desperately—for company. In its absence, imagination becomes your closest friend. And, of course, who among us imagines a love or a future full of complication, nuance, or imperfection?

Luke’s appearance, even in memory, is glossed over. His image is elevated, so high above the clouds that their mist keeps the reader—and James for that matter—from seeing him with blemished clarity. As the two grow closer to one another, James remains in constant pursuit, chasing after a dream of the boy there in front of him that may be as intangible as the shimmering mist surrounding him. But the fog serves another purpose as well. James nurses fantasies of being swept away and considers the feel of another boy’s hand on his body—and stops short of wondering how it might feel to truly be seen by Luke. “I would make myself into whatever shape he wanted, I would be anyone for him.”

The tortured close friendship between two young people still unaware of themselves and unable to speak with language they haven’t yet learned is a cultural cliche at this point, particularly in queer circles. But then again, cliches earn their name precisely because they’re common, and that does not make these friendships any less special, no matter the ending or its fallout. The closeness shared between James and Luke is heartwarming to read, feeling specific and universal at once. Hewitt’s language is lush and beaming. The world he creates in his storytelling is well-realized—though, buried beneath the colorful romance is a foundation of tangled insecurity, anxiety, and longing. The rapid turning of the seasons keeps the reader in suspense, waiting to see, desperately, whether or not this soil will allow for blooming. “The bare ground was drying out under a morning sun, and there was a sheet of untethered mist hanging over it. I carried on past the shed and turned carefully to look behind it. That was the first time I saw him. “

Open, Heaven is a soaring demonstration that “heaven” is a place that we ourselves create, gilded over and rippling in our imaginations—and that it may be impossible to reach for just that reason. Until we make it, however, we can lay our faith somewhere else: on the potential of new, clearer sight with each new morning sun.