Well I have embarked on a reading of Anna Burns' novel
Milkman. This is a book that it probably pays to read a little about it before even opening it. Otherwise if one has heard nothing of it, it's disorienting in a way and at a pace that one may never have encountered before, no matter how many classical, avant garde or experimental tomes may be in the rear view. It can be offputting enough to end up unfairly abandoned, in fact.
I was stunned by the time I'd got through ten pages. I set it aside thinking right well I have read some strange books in my life, but this one... maybe this one is not for me.
However I then read a few reviews including one by Mark O'Connell for
Slate. That one (and not only for its wicked bits of humor) made me decide to go back and resume reading
Milkman, linger in it where I liked, not get hung up on anything else along the way.
https://slate.com/culture/2018/12/milkman-booker-prize-novel-review.html
I liked this bit:
Certainly much of the discussion around its Booker victory centered on its
supposed difficulty. A number of reviews, including
Dwight Garner’s in the New York Times, have referred to it as a “stream-of-consciousness” novel. (Just to clear up a basic technical question, the narrative is voice-driven, but it no more employs the device of stream of consciousness than
American Psycho or
Pale Fire—or for that matter Dwight Garner’s review in the Times
.) Garner also declared the book “willfully demanding and opaque,” claiming that literary modernism had given us “eyes for the poetry in a novel like ‘Milkman
,’ but an attentive reader will spend days between stations while searching for it.” This conclusion echoed certain dismayed responses to Burns’ Booker victory in the U.K. press, such as
a review in the London Times which concluded, of a representative passage, that “this could all have been said much more snappily.” When I read this particular complaint, I have to admit I laughed out loud, so perfectly did it seem to me to encapsulate a certain understanding of the critic as inconvenienced customer of literature. It bears noting that some of the most memorable passages in all of fiction— Borges’ exhilaratingly comprehensive attempt to describe his glimpsing of the universe in miniature in “The Aleph,” say, or Beckett’s description of Molloy’s insanely logical methodology for sucking 16 pebbles “in impeccable succession”—are also remarkably deficient in snap.
And this sold me in:
The book’s long sentences, its penchant for the exhaustive, can at times be challenging, and there were stretches where I found its uncanny energies stagnated for too long. But it also seems clear to me that these insistent strategies are in service of the book’s mood of total claustrophobia, and that they contribute to, rather than diminish, its overall effectiveness. As with so much of the national tradition from which she emerges—Synge, Joyce, Beckett, O’Brien, the whole collectible beer-mat set of the overwhelmingly male canon, few of whom get hassled for being insufficiently snappy—Burns seems to convey through her style a deep ambivalence about the English language itself. Because it would be strange, would it not, to write a book about a community for whom every conceivable aspect of the “country over the water” was an object of obsessive and justified suspicion, and to write it in the language violently imposed on one’s people by that colonizing nation, and yet to do so in a manner that did not convey that there was something uncanny, something essentially off, about that language as the community’s primary means of self-expression?
It was another way of looking at what I was reading, one that made Burns' spiky, bewildering use of language seem inevitable rather than arbitrary.
I'm having a blast with it now, and I completely understand why this exasperating, comical, heartbreaking tale got the Man Booker Prize last year, despite some ill-formed or misaligned passages (which one may forgive but only even recognizes as "off" after finally managing to start surfing on --rather than wondering if drowning in-- the waves this author raises).
The compounded polarizations in the book remind me that the essence of what we're living through in the States [again?] right now was owned by the fractured Irish for more than a hundred years and at that was only borrowed from yet other breaking waves throughout human history. But Burns in this book draws some different lines in the sand, asking if our patriarchs ever really got to set all the boundaries, yet she still limns as at once tragic and ludicrous the very concept of trying to define "encroachment" from the standpoint of an oppressed figure or community.