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I decided to read Anna Burns’ newest novel Milkman after it was recently longlisted for the Man Booker Prize 2018. Opening Milkman, I knew very little about the book, and I think by the time I read the final pages I knew even less. Bear with me – that’s not a bad thing. Milkman is dazzlingly and deliciously unclear. The story twists and bends and deflects and hides, and nothing is linear. Everything is obscured, from the characters known only through pseudonyms, (“middle sister”, “maybe-boyfriend”, “Somebody McSomebody”) to the tumultuous 1990s Belfast backdrop, which is never referred to by name, raising questions about the significance of identity and personhood.

Fundamental to Milkman is the concept of difference. Fear of difference, fear of being different, fear of being perceived as different. The novel opens on the narrator, known as middle sister, describing her discomfort at being the centre of the town’s idle talk. Soon you’ll tumble into a world where “over the water” and “over the street” are the mantras of everyday life. In leaving Belfast unnamed, the politics of “over the street” differences become not only a question of religion, but of normative pressures that cross community lines.

At one point, middle sister’s thoughts land on a nearby residential road, dubbed by the community as the “red light street.” Unmarried couples, two couples of gay men, and one woman living with two men, all reside here – the street has become an epicentre of difference. Dwelling on her neighbours, middle sister pictures their response to the so-called red light street: “I don’t want to judge… but it has to be judged, judged harshly, and then condemned.” It’s this kind of hypocrisy and fear of difference that brings a healthy dose of reality to Milkman amidst some more absurd moments (like when middle sister’s maybe-boyfriend’s parents abandon their young children to become world-famous ballroom dancers) and creates a jarring sense of recognisability for readers.

Do not expect a clear-cut plot or a neat three-act structure: it’s not what Milkman is here for. As a reader, I found this had its pros and cons. The story can be hard to follow at times, even tedious, with all its diversions. But if you accept that Milkman is the story of a living, breathing city, and all the twists and turns that entails – written with an excellent, finely-tuned style and distinct feminist overtones to boot – you’ll quickly see why it’s one of the most lauded novels of the year.

 

This review previously featured in our print edition, available now across campus and in select locations across Dublin.