Hot Milk

Review: 4 stars

I love browsing bookstores, especially with my sisters. On a trip to Toronto last fall, my older sister shared some of her favourite reads with me as we were perusing the stacks at Type Books on Queen. The one that got me intrigued was ‘Hot Milk’ by Deborah Levy. Shortlisted for the 2016 Man Booker, the novel follows Sofia and her mother Rose, on their Hail Mary journey to Almería, Spain for a cure for Rose’s mysterious limb paralysis.

In the opening pages, we learn that 25-year old Sofia is being inducted into adulthood, awash in the jarring taste of one’s first major failure. “The dream is over for me. It began when I left my lame mother alone to pick the pears from the tree in our East London garden that autumn I packed my bags for university…It ended when she became ill and I abandoned my Ph.D.” Over the course of the novel, we see Sofia become the foil to her previous self as she wades into new shapes and forms of being. She changes her occupation from ‘Waitress’ to ‘Monster’ on a health intake form over subsequent visits to a seaside first-aid hut. The stifling heat, incessant jellyfish stings and her pent up madness and desire have swirled into a combustible being. Sofia has emerged anew. She triumphantly frees a murderous dog from an abusive owner, takes a first aid student to be a lover and then takes Ingrid, a seamstress and her muse, also as a lover.

The irresistible tide of the Andalusian pilgrimage sucks Sofia in and upends the predictable prison she has created in her mind and the physical constraints of being her mother’s legs. At one point, Rose considers amputation to rid herself of the limbs that fail her. In actuality, her limbs are already severed from her, yet tethered to her - Sofia is her only source of mobility. A daughter as an extension, yet separation of one’s own self. As the novel reaches its conclusion, the severance becomes permanent - mother and daughter are more estranged than ever. One living an ever smaller, shorter, boxed-in life, and the other bursting with possibility, melted by the hot Spanish sun into something malleable, finding its organic shape day by day.

The writing is gorgeous, experimental and bold. Passages read like poetry, and Levy plays with form throughout - bulleted lists punctuate chapters, as do grammar-defying lines such as “I was flesh thirst desire dust blood lips cracking feet blistered knees skinned hips bruised”. Just like hot milk, the writing froths over the reader, with only a pale residue remaining long past the last page, a stubborn mark that refuses to be forgotten. A searing, complex and enthralling read.

The Great Believers | poignant, empathetic, engrossing

Review: 3 stars

I embarked on a spree of reading National Book Award winners and finalists, given my luck with 'A Little Life' and 'Pachinko', which were both 5-star reads for me. I was excited to have a chance while on vacation in Italy over the summer to read 'The Great Believers' by Rebecca Makkai.

'The Great Believers' is jointly told by Yale Tishman, a gay art curator in 1980s Chicago, and Fiona Marcus, Yale's friend, who travels to Paris in search of her estranged daughter. It is a story about those whom we've lost, and those who are left behind - and the debate over which constitutes the more tragic life lived. The novel anchors around the friendships, betrayals and the inexorable march of death as AIDS claims one life after another. The novel's intensity reflects the pacing of a horror film; the reader is constantly puzzling over which character's actions will drive him to be the next victim of the pandemic. Fiona, who ends up being an end-of-life character to many of the friends over time, remarks at one point that "they were walking every day through streets where there had been a holocaust, a mass murder of neglect and antipathy". I invested heavily in Yale's character, whose sense of morality and nobleness appear to be a salve against the affliction felling his dearest friends. We travel with him as he experiences heartbreak, success and failure, all the while fearing what his eventual diagnosis will be.

Makkai has resurrected many survivor stories from that period, and woven them into a two-part narrative that commemorates those who were lost and never fully grieved over given social stigma of the time. The novel is well researched, respectful and successfully balanced between male and female perspectives.

Overall, I found Yale's plot more compelling and emotionally arresting than Fiona's, and caught myself several times reading rather quickly through Fiona's narratives. That said, this was a solid, sobering read for those interested in contemporary historical and LGBTQ fiction.

Conversations with Friends | modern, ironic, millennial

Review: 4 stars

‘Conversations with Friends’ was the September 2019 selection for the ‘Now Read This’ bookclub. I had been on a bit of a reading hiatus given how busy work was, and was looking for a lighter, romantic read. I found this and more upon diving into Sally Rooney’s witty novel about two friends - Frances and Bobbi - and the love affairs that entangle them.

Frances and Bobbi are ex-lovers and co-workers. They perform spoken-word poetry together in clubs, with Frances harnessing the power of words to write, and Bobbi captivating audiences with her beauty and star power. Their relentless banter reveals how highly they regard one another and themselves, forming a fierce twosome that gleefully view the world through ironic, anti-establishment lenses. This unified front begins to crumble with the introduction of a married couple - Melissa and Nick - into their lives. Frances, known for her steely facade and general dislike of people, finds herself falling tumultuously into lust and love with Nick, a handsome, seemingly bland actor who she delightfully discovers can rival Bobbi in conversational ability. As the two make bad decision after bad decision to continue their affair, it is this masterful conversation that inhibits their ability to emotionally come clean to one another. It is as though the articulation of real feeling is the only topic that cannot be broached, and so begins the unravelling of the romance.

I found it difficult to be wholly sympathetic to any of the characters. Rooney presents each of the four-some in full - charms, shortcomings, messy back stories and all - which is what a life truly is. Her three-dimensional rendering of the key characters inflicts on the reader the same realization as growing up inflicts on everyone. There are no clean lines that love nor friendship can be boxed in - no fully right or wrong way to feel or act. This was what I found most appealing about the book, and what I think elevated it from being a simple romantic narrative. I’m looking forward to tackling Rooney’s sophomore release - ‘Normal People’ soon…just a few more books on my nightstand to get through first!

The Song of Achilles | mythical, original, poetic

Review: 4 stars

‘Circe’, Madeline Miller’s sophomore novel, has been atop my to-read list forever. When I saw ‘The Song of Achilles’ on sale, I decided to give it a spin first. I’ve completely forgotten my Greek mythology, aside from a brief re-watching of Troy several years ago, so I came to the character of Patroclus afresh.

‘The Song of Achilles’ is a re-telling of Achilles’ journey from brash golden child to tragic hero, etched in the canons of Greek history. It is an original perspective, told through the observations and emotions of Patroclus, Achilles’ sworn companion and secret lover. Patroclus is the perfect foil to Achilles - his dark, weak frame and penchant for failure, versus Achilles’ bronze, demi-god physique and battle prowess. Yet against all odds (and the efforts of Achilles’s sea-nymph mother, Thetis), the two fall passionately in love and embark on an entwined journey to manhood.

The well-known tale of the siege of Troy is enriched greatly by Miller’s willingness to place Patroclus’ and Achilles’ love affair at the centre of the saga. With this novel lens draped over the fated sequence of events, we learn that it is actually this love that drives the unfolding drama and tragedy. From Pactroclus’ fatally successful pantomime to Achilles’ grief-consumed death at the hands of Paris - each pivotal event is spun from their inseverable bond to one another. As Achilles forages into the iron-scented, blood-soaked realm of the warrior, Patroclus strays deeper into morality - becoming a healer and offering a hearth for Trojan refugees. Patroclus remains Achilles’ most sage confidant, the only true knower of his heart.

Miller also offers a well-researched take on the politics of warfare - from where the Greek encampments could be placed depending on positions of honour, to the sequence in claiming the spoils of war. This account of Troy is dramatic, deeply personal and engrossing. I recommend this to aficionados of Greek literature as equally as I do to those who have forgotten their grade school lessons in Greek mythology.

Less | self-deprecating, light, human

Review: 2 stars

I could’ve done with less of Less. I decided to read it as part of the Now Read This bookclub, and also because it won a Pulitzer. It also came recommended by Kevin, from the BMVQ store, and he recommended ‘A Little Life’ also, which I adored. Given all this, my expectations were pretty sky high, and they quickly plummeted as I kept reading.

Less follows the whirlwind travels of 50-year-old Arthur Less, a faded novelist who is escaping his ex’s nuptials. As we go from Mexico to Germany to Japan, Less encounters new paramours, all the while reminiscing about his old ones. Our protagonist is highly self-deprecating, at times over-confident (as when he believes he can speak German), and above all, unmoored. Where the novel succeeds is in the charm Less brings to embarrassing situations, juxtaposed with his comically critical self-regard.

Perhaps this novel was difficult for me to relate to given the stage of life Less is in, but I felt that too much effort was exerted to create the whimsical atmosphere that permeates the novel. I also didn’t personally like Less’ character, as much as I may have found it to be a very round and well-developed persona. Flirtatious and awkward exchanges between Less and lesser characters are drawn-out and not in line with my sense of humour. Even the mysterious first-person narrator who tells us of Less’ trials and tribulations is who we expected it to be all along, making for a anticlimactic ending.

For those who have read Greer before, or are interested in a fairly light LGBTQ comedy, this might be a good fit for you. However, personally, I felt my time could’ve been better spent on another read.

A Little Life | tortured, unforgettable, compulsive

Review: 5 stars

I recently discovered the Queen Street BMV store in Toronto, where you can buy new (and recently released) books for 10-50% off list price. As usual, I was taking my baby out for an afternoon stroll and decided to pop in to find my next read. 

I thumbed through the stacks of popular reads on display, hesitating on "Americanah", before my eyes wandered to "A Little Life" on the staff picks shelf. The novel is often described as a portrait of the friendship between four men, and it piqued my interest since I thought I could gain insight into the mysterious world of male relationships. 

I was forewarned by Kevin, the staff recommender, that this would be a heavy read - one that I would need to mete out over days, if not weeks. I had felt the same way about "A Fine Balance" by Rohinton Misry, one of my favourite books, so readily jumped at the challenge. 

How can I appropriately synthesize this book?

Intensely, compulsively readable and plot-driven. Emotionally draining and replenishing. I found myself rushing through sentences, and then abruptly closing my eyes to abate the inevitable tragedy I knew would transpire several lines down. My heart chilled and physically ached as Jude tentatively unfurled his past and as he reviled and hacked at his own body. I blinked back tears during the small domestic moments and effortless gestures of affection between Willem and Jude. I raged against Caleb and his monstrosity. I reflected on my own friendships and how at a loss I was when dear friends have questioned their self-worth or will to live. I had to steel myself constantly for the next paragraph, the next page, the next chapter, for the onslaught of pain, misfortune and sorrow that I knew might obliterate the pockets of warmth that enveloped the characters just short pages ago (especially during "The Happy Years" period). 

It is an emotionally difficult read. Yanagihara distils the essence of being a friend, a parent, an enemy to yourself, and reveals it through small thoughts, small feelings, small actions. It speaks truths and assaults your lack of creativity - for there are so many different lives, so many different kinds of pain, that we cannot begin to imagine. She gets it so right, and stumbles so infrequently that it is difficult for me to understand how she conceived of this tale and its details. The addictive cycle of hurt, intervention, half-hearted appeasement and willful pretending is likely one that rings true for many friendships who have endured through pain. 

This book is a gift - a story that I thought about before I went to sleep and as I was on vacation in Vancouver (and cursing myself for leaving it behind in Toronto). It will stay with me for a long time, and will be a book that I consistently recommend to all serious readers.