That Hot Milk is the favourite to take this year’s Booker Prize is, I think, a simple function of Deborah Levy’s being the only one of this year’s sextet to have been previously shortlisted. I was not a fan of her Swimming Home, but the good news is that Hot Milk is a considerable improvement. Levy’s backstory, however, surely still plays into her Booker-fame – she spent a long time away from the world of writing and novels before she published Swimming Home, and nothing pulls a panel’s heartstrings like the returning hero.
This must be true, because Hot Milk retains many of the faults that Swimming Home boasted – and the shortlisting of that earlier novel baffled me. There is the focus on the privileged, and yet the aching focus on their terrific troubles: Hot Milk‘s protagonist, Sofia, is a PhD student working in a coffee shop whose mother and father are the sort of global citizens whom Theresa May despises, and who finds nothing odd about comparing the fate of bankrupt Greece with her own personal travails: “As a result of [my father’s] first default, my mother has a mortgage on her life” [p. 138].
In that quotation, too, is the sort of gnomic bathos in which Levy unwittingly majors (“My laptop is my veil of shame” [p. 66]). The novel has a sort of unwieldy governing metaphor encoded in its title: Sofia leaves the flat whites behind early on to shepherd Rose, her probable hypochondriac of a mother, to a clinic in Spain which promises to succeed where every medic has previously failed, and return feeling to Rose’s legs; but milk stays with her. Across the landscape of late capitalism she sojourns, with milk as her guide: “‘We have travelled a long distance from the cow with a bucket of raw milk under its udder. We are a long way from home,'” her boss tells her at one point [p. 32]. Long-life milk – a “stable commodity” – comes to stand in some improbable, vaguely queasy, way for the curious attenuation that characterises the Europe she moves through.
There’s no denying that the longer Hot Milk goes on the more clunky it becomes (fifteen pages from the end: “I waded into the sea up to my belly button, which is the oldest human scar, and discovered I was crying” [p. 203]). But it’s also true that in its set-up – a weirded Europe which seems more or less to have experienced its apocalypse without anyone noticing – Hot Milk finds a lot to recommend itself. In some ways, it feels like the best post-crash European novel yet, its young people unable top find work, its older people unable to give up on all the fripperies that got us here in the first place. “‘Greece is a smaller country than Spain, but it can’t pay its bills,'” says a lifeguard studying for a master’s degree in philosophy. “But the phrase about the dream being over implied that something had started and had now ended. It was up to the dreamer to say it was over, no one else could say it on their behalf” [p. 5].
As statements of the post-2008 European experience go, that takes some beating. Likewise, everyone in the novel feels distanced from their own selves, from the society around them: despite her surname of Papastergiadis, and her father’s ancestry, Sofia cannot speak a word of Greek; laptops are designed in America and made in China, bottled water sourced in Milan and shopped to Singapore to be exported to Spain; Sofia is desperate to “get away from the kinship structures that are supposed a to hold me together” [p. 63]. The events of the novel – is Rose’s doctor a quack, are the lovers Sofia takes in the Spanish heat in some way sinister or strange, can she rebuild her relationship with her estranged father? – all pass by at one remove, described as coolly as Sofia seems to move through them (“I am anti the major plots” [p. 143]). A lot has ended here, but nothing has finished.
This way in which Hot Milk captures our particular moment makes it a great deal more engaged and engaging than Swimming Home, and may even justify not just its shortlisting but its status as favourite. About an American doctor selling a superficially more straightforward remedy for Rose’s illness, her Spanish doctor says: “I can sell you his medication for the disorder he invented. […] We must not always be a slave to the pharmaceuticals” [p. 179]. What we are told ails us may not; our remedies may not be cures; but what are the alternatives, and do we trust who provides them? Sofia says her mother “relies on human kindness and painkillers” [p. 13]; perhaps we all do. A novel that asks these questions, even if not always elegantly, is an important one.
But does Hot Milk have quite the consistency of voice of Eileen? Does it convince like His Bloody Project? Is it as complete in its statement as The Sellout? You may guess I think not in each case, but in its defence Hot Milk is a very different, more elusive and poetic, novel than any of those others. If it’s a teensy bit self-regarding, perhaps that’s the price we pay for the views its unforgiving gaze provides. I sort of don’t like Hot Milk, but I can’t dismiss it. The bookmakers might be right.