Deborah Levy

"Shortlisted for the Goldsmiths Prize 2016 'Today I dropped my laptop on the concrete floor of a bar built on the beach. My laptop has all my life in it and knows more about me than anyone else. So what I am saying is that if it is broken, so am I . . .' Two women arrive in a village on the Spanish coast. Rose is suffering from a strange illness and the doctors are mystified. Her daughter Sofia has brought her here to find a cure with the infamous and controversial Dr Gomez - a man of questionable methods and motives. Intoxicated by thick heat and the seductive people who move through it, both women begin to see their lives clearly for the first time in years. Through the opposing figures of mother and daughter, Deborah Levy explores the strange and monstrous nature of womanhood. Dreamlike and utterly compulsive, Hot Milkis a delirious fairy tale of feminine potency, a story both modern and timeless."

Hot Milk

Shortlisted for the 2016 Man Booker Prize, Hot Milk moves "gracefully among pathos, danger, and humor” (The New York Times). I have been sleuthing my mother’s symptoms for as long as I can remember. If I see myself as an unwilling detective with a desire for justice, is her illness an unsolved crime? If so, who is the villain and who is the victim? Sofia, a young anthropologist, has spent much of her life trying to solve the mystery of her mother’s unexplainable illness. She is frustrated with Rose and her constant complaints, but utterly relieved to be called to abandon her own disappointing fledgling adult life. She and her mother travel to the searing, arid coast of southern Spain to see a famous consultant--their very last chance--in the hope that he might cure her unpredictable limb paralysis. But Dr. Gomez has strange methods that seem to have little to do with physical medicine, and as the treatment progresses, Sofia's mother's illness becomes increasingly baffling. Sofia's role as detective--tracking her mother's symptoms in an attempt to find the secret motivation for her pain--deepens as she discovers her own desires in this transient desert community. Hot Milk is a profound exploration of the sting of sexuality, of unspoken female rage, of myth and modernity, the lure of hypochondria and big pharma, and, above all, the value of experimenting with life; of being curious, bewildered, and vitally alive to the world.

Lindy

"You have such a blatant stare,' she said, 'but I have watched you as closely as you have watched me. It's what mothers do. We watch our children. We know our gaze is powerful so we pretend not to look.' 

She had catalogued over a billion words but she could not find words for how her own wishes for herself had been dispersed in the winds and storms of a world not arranged to her advantage.

My love for my mother is like an axe. It cuts very deep. 

Where did I learn to express indignation I did not feel, my voice veering up the scales to land on a note which could be described as accusing? Where did I learn to adopt an attitude that I do not believe in? And what about the word Beloved?

I want to get away from the kinship structures that are supposed to hold me together. To mess up the story I have been told about myself. To hold the story upside down by its tail.

As if she were folding her growing child back into her womb in the way an aeroplane folds its wheels back into its body after take-off.

My laptop has all my life in it and knows more about me than anyone else.

So what I am saying is that if it is broken, so am I.

Sarah Christine Gill

The door to the concrete terrace on the beach opened of its own accord. A breeze filled the room. A warm desert breeze carrying with it the deep, salt smell of seaweed and hot sand. The waves were crashing on the beach, the table on the terrace had my laptop resting on it. the night stars made in China were open under the real night stars in Spain. All summer, I had been moonwalking in the digital Milky Way. It's calm there. But I am not calm. My mind is like the edge of motorways where foxes eat the owls at night. In the starfields, with their faintly glowing paths running across the screen, I have been making footprints in the dust and glitter of the virtual universe. It never occurred to me that, like the medusa, technology stares back and that its gaze might have petrified me, made me fearful to come down, down to Earth, where all the hard stuff happens, down to the check-out tills and the barcodes and the too many words for profit and the not enough words for pain. 

By the time I had finally climbed down the mountain path that led to the beach, I had journeyed as far from myself as I have ever been, far, far away from any landmarks I recognized. 

I was flesh thirst desire dust blood lips cracking feet blistered knees skinned hips bruised, but I was so happy not to be napping on a sota under a blanket with an older man by my side and a baby on my lap.

All is calm. All is quiet. The sun is rising. A black column of smoke is coiling in the sky. There has been an explosion somewhere far away. I set off on a hike in the mountains as Gómez had advised, surrendering to the harsh landscape, discovering its detail, the perfect form of the small succulents growing between rocks, the lustre of their skin, their geometry and fleshiness. A bottle of water was stashed in my rucksack, headphones clamped over my ears as I listened to an opera, Akhnaten, by Philip Glass. I wanted big music like fire to burn away the random terror that was crawling under my skin. Lizards flashed under my trainers as I walked away from the black smoke in the sky and into the arid valley, heading in the direction of what looked like the ruins of an ancient Arabian castle. After about an hour I stopped to rest in their shade and look for a trace of the path that would take me back to the beach. 

Ingrid sat astride the Andalusian in her helmet and boots. High in the dizzying sky an eagle spread its wings and circled the horse. The delirium of the music thundered through my headphones as she gal- loped towards me. Her upper arms were muscled, her long hair braided, she gripped the horse with her thighs and the sea glittered below the mountains.

The hot rocks. The transparent sea. The medusas are in abeyance. They have disappeared from the ocean today. Where have they gone? My face is pressed down on the white pebbles. I am naked apart from the glass sliver near my eyebrow. I no longer want to know what anything means. 

The heat of the white pebbles warms my belly, the salty sea leaves white streaks on my brown skin. It is paradise, but I am not happy. I am like the dog that used to belong to Pablo. History is the dark magician inside us, tearing at our liver. There is a whole day to kill on the Beach of the Dead. 

The Kiss. We don't talk about it but it's there in the coconut ice cream we are making together. It's there in the space between us as Ingrid scrapes the seeds from a vanilla pod with her penknife. It's lurking in her long eyelids and in the egg yolks and cream and it's written in blue silken thread with the needle that is Ingrid's mind. I don't know what I want from Ingrid or why she enjoys humiliating me or why I put up with it. 

It seems that I have consented to being undermined. 

This is a richly mythic, colour-saturated tale from the Man Booker - shortlisted author of Swimming Home - Deborah Levy explores the violently primal bond between mother and daughter. Today I dropped my laptop on the concrete floor. It was tucked under my arm and slid out of its black rubber sheath, landing screen-side down. The digital page shattered. Apparently there's a man in the next flyblown town who mends computers. He could send off for a new screen, which would take a month to arrive. Will I still be here in a month? My mother is sleeping under a mosquito net in the next room. Soon she will wake up and shout, 'Sofia, get me a glass of water', and I will get her water and it will be the wrong sort of water. And then after a while I will leave her and return to gaze at the shattered starfield of my screen. Two women arrive in a Spanish village - a dreamlike place caught between the desert and the ocean - seeking medical advice and salvation. One of the strangers suffers from a mysterious illness: spontaneous paralysis confines her to a wheelchair, her legs unusable. The other, her daughter Sofia, has spent years playing the reluctant detective in this mystery, struggling to understand her mother's illness. Surrounded by the oppressive desert heat and the mesmerising figures who move through it, Sofia waits while her mother undergoes the strange programme of treatments invented by Dr Gomez. Searching for a cure to a defiant and quite possibly imagined disease, ever more entangled in the seductive, mercurial games of those around her, Sofia finally comes to confront and reconcile the disparate fragments of her identity. Hot Milk is a labyrinth of violent desires, primal impulses, and surreally persuasive internal logic. In this dazzling new novel, Deborah Levy explores the rhythms of female rage and sexuality and the ways in which children and parents are both debtors and creditors.

Catarina

This had to be the final journey and I think my mother knew that, too.

We had traveled a long way from home. To be here at last in this curved corridor with its amber veins threading through the walls felt like a pilgrimage of sorts, a last chance. 

This was another style of walking, entirely free of pain, of attachment to kin, of compromise. 

It was a relief to pass Rose over to someone else. 

Yes, we are limping together. I am twenty-five and I am limping with my mother to keep in step with her. My legs are her legs. 

I gazed at the deep blue Mediterranean below the mountain and felt at peace. 

Uncomfortable. At the same time shimmering and boring, almost nausea inducing. I had so many thoughts I wanted to write after I finished this. I forgot them all. Moms. Daughters. In breastfeeding haze. Her mom dying, hoping my mum won't. Care giving. Do I have it in me and why not?

Dora Tominic

Disclaimer: this is not a review.

Uncomfortable. At the same time shimmering and boring, almost nausea inducing. I had so many thoughts I wanted to write after I finished this. I forgot them all. Moms. Daughters. In breastfeeding haze. Her mom dying, hoping my mum won't. Care giving. Do I have it in me and why not?

really enjoyed this one! i've long come to terms with the idea that rambling plots with beautiful prose is not a deterrent but perhaps an ideal for me personally, however i don't think this one gets too lost in the weeds. a work that leaves you tethered but not wholly grounded 

tiff <3

Rielle Miguel

Mommy issues. Huge. Chestnut (Ft. Natalia Dyer) vibes with gay relationship you want but also is kinda toxic? But also so visually romantic, very call me by your name vibes with being abroad and yada yada yada

Sentiment or admission embroidered on silk, sun and sea and stings, a dog, mother and daughter....I loved

Jessie Kronke

I loved all the characters 🫶, from Fia, to the mother Rose, Ingrid, Juan, Gómez, Julieta and Matthew. It's a humourous and attentive story set in a beautiful place 🌅 near the sea. I adored the ending, with all its twists, 📖 especially how the narrator reacts to them. Overall really good!

Molly Bridge

GOD I LOVE DEBORAH LEVY. Desert sun, salt, matricide - this book is sublime and full of surprises. 

heleen de boever

A wonderfully disorienting, yet cleverly constructed novel. Sofia, the protagonist, slaps interpretations and words on her experience of reality as if she's trying out different meanings until one of them fits (relatable). Loved the amazonian, unknowable character of German love interest Ingrid too.

SHORTLISTED FOR THE MAN BOOKER PRIZE 2016 SHORTLISTED FOR THE GOLDSMITHS PRIZE 2016 Plunge into this hypnotic tale of female sexuality and power - from the Man Booker shortlisted author of Swimming Home Two women arrive in a village on the Spanish coast. Rose is suffering from a strange illness andher doctors are mystified. Her daughter Sofia has brought her here to find a cure with the infamous and controversial Dr Gomez - a man of questionable methods and motives. Intoxicated by thick heat and the seductive people who move through it, both women begin to see their lives clearly for the first time in years. Through the opposing figures of mother and daughter, Deborah Levy explores the strange and monstrous nature of womanhood. Dreamlike and utterly compulsive, Hot Milk is a delirious fairy tale of feminine potency, a story both modern and timeless.

Neverland ✨

I've really tried all the time to keep reading it but just I couldn't anymore, the writing style is really bad and I can't figure out the point of the story.

Mariah crawford

Let me start by saying this book felt like a pointless read. It wasn’t horrible but there just wasn’t much of a point to anything in the end. The writing was fine & it was easy to get through but I wouldn’t recommend this read. Most books take you to another place & bring you through different emotions & this just didn’t. I just finished it about 5 minutes ago & I’ve never felt this way about a book so I guess I’m still a bit surprised & don’t really know much to say about it 😅

ame 

this novel is like hot summer air on a slow warm day. it’s so hazy yet not fast at all, it’s so sad but heartwarming and optimistic. the characters are all so surreal, the setting is so perfectly picked and so vivid. and the open end??? just so good. it leaves sm for the imagination and interpretation. the mother-daughter relationship is written like ocean vuong writes, some of the quotes are just so heartbreaking. i loved this book a lot, it’s really short too but touches so so many themes

jiaqi kang

Poetry... !!!! what Call Me By Your Name wishes it was, except Levy makes the summer oppressive and claustrophobic and relentless. Everything is covered with cling film.

Jade Flynn

Read for my 'Exceeds Expectations' N.E.W.T in Defence Against the Dark Arts 2019 #magicalreadathon. Prompt - First book now that you've just remembered from your TBR. Career choice - Ministry of Magic, Department of Mysteries Worker. Whoever designed the cover should be fired immediately. It gives the impression of a quick light-hearted beach read which couldn't be further from the truth. Yes it's set in a Mediterranean sun-baked setting but it's countered with a dark story primarily about obsession, sexuality, a mother's love and rage. Told using the best use of incantatory language I've read in recent memory.

SHORTLISTED FOR THE MAN BOOKER PRIZE 2016 A richly mythic, colour-saturated tale from the Man Booker-shortlisted author of Swimming Home--Deborah Levy explores the violently primal bond between mother and daughter. Two women arrive in a Spanish village--a dreamlike place caught between the desert and the ocean--seeking medical advice and salvation. One of the strangers suffers from a mysterious illness: spontaneous paralysis confines her to a wheelchair, her legs unusable. The other, her daughter Sofia, has spent years playing the reluctant detective in this mystery, struggling to understand her mother's illness. Surrounded by the oppressive desert heat and the mesmerising figures who move through it, Sofia waits while her mother undergoes the strange programme of treatments invented by Dr. Gomez. Searching for a cure to a defiant and quite possibly imagined disease, ever more entangled in the seductive, mercurial games of those around her, Sofia finally comes to confront and reconcile the disparate fragments of her identity. Hot Milk is a labyrinth of violent desires, primal impulses, and surreally persuasive internal logic. Examining female rage and sexuality, Deborah Levy's dazzling new novel explores the strange and monstrous nature of motherhood, testing the bonds of parent and child to breaking point.

Edyta

I enjoyed this book and I didn't enjoy it. It's well written and captivating at times but I wasn't able to empathize with the main character. The themes of attraction, monstrosity, anthropological study, and symbiotic illness are interesting but they weren't developed.

Hazel Evans

Initially put off by the simplicity of language, eventually sucked in by the story. A recommendable summer beach read.

Gary Homewood

Anthropologist daughter accompanies her mother to see a dubious doctor in a scruffy seaside town in southern Spain. Medusa jellyfish in the sea; Greek mythology, slightly odd characters, psychologically complex. The mundane made to seem strange and dream like.

Protagonists inner voice struggling to articulate and understand a journey of discovery. Anthropology as a theme; observing people and their interrelationships.

Hot Milk

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