I picked Deborah Levy’s Hot Milk up in London Bridge station one summer, the cover screamed at me so I gave it a chance.
This Man Booker Prize-shortlisted sensation is a mesmerising story about the relationship of Sofia, a 25-year-old London barista, and her mother Rose who is ill with an ailment yet to be explained. The two are staying in the sweltering heat of Spain for a cure, an explanation to Rose’s inability to use her legs.
As a reader, you swim through the disillusioned narrative of Sofia who is struggling to put a label on her identity. Liberated in her found sexuality, Levy explores her character of Sofia within a modern fairy-tale trope in which the absence of a guiding prince is gone. Instead, he is replaced by a desire to know who she is, where she comes from in her role as daughter.
The tide comes ‘in with all the medusas floating in its turbulence’ as a metaphorical reflection of the impact Rose has as the story’s monster. Levy’s exploration of ideas of ancient ancestry, mythology and familial bonds grounds the story in a tangible yet philosophical air.
Sofia sees herself ‘as an unwilling detective’ as her mother’s daughter but in this unwillingness, she finds an understanding of her identity. The hypnotic description of the Spanish heat, the mother’s dependence and Sofia’s passivity creates an addictive story to follow.
As a comparatively quick-read at just over 200 pages, I give HIGH praise of Hot Milk as a delight to read and an enjoyable story to get swept up in.
My favourite quote: ‘A white lorry was making its way towards us in the distance. It was loaded with tomatoes grown under plastic on the sweltering desert slave farms. I wheeled my mother into the middle of the road and I left her there.’
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