2026 was the 20th year in which we, Suzy and Rachel, have met to discuss that year’s Booker Prize shortlist (though we have completed 26 shortlists in total over that time). We decided to venture further and wider this year in celebration of our 20th Booker anniversary, so off to Tasmania we went, with its NZ-esque scenery, stunning food and friendly people. Amongst (and even during) the museum visits and restaurant bookings, we completed our reading and discussed the Booker finalists in detail.
It felt like the judges stepped things up a notch in this year’s selection, with books that were unconventional in form and structure. Via strong opinion, ambiguity and challenges to what we thought we knew, the authors seemed to want the reader to join the narrative and contribute to the interpretation of it. (Though some gave us more freedom than others.) It was an honour to be given that trust, and we enjoyed the layers of understanding, ie how we felt immediately upon finishing each book, how it sat with us and ruminated in our thoughts over days, and how our interpretations developed when we discussed the books in detail and helped one another find new meaning.
The point of any human life is to be found acceptable by as many people as possible. We die for the lack of it. It is equally important to be absolutely yourself. This is something they say about any artist at the top of their game: the thing that’s good about them is that they are absolutely themselves. But as an actor I must be absolutely not myself. A whirling void.
Black Bag
What sat with us the most was that feeling of being invited in. We had to make an effort to understand Black Bag, to speculate on what the catastrophe and aliens were in The End Of Everything, wonder how accurate history books are, and consider how unspoken histories and secrets affect communities. Elizabeth Strout says she left space for the reader to enter her story but we didn’t agree, feeling that she suffocated the reader with her opinions.
No one is superior to anyone else in this world.
The Things We Never Say
This invitation to the reader also highlighted the difference between being seen and being understood. Black Bag is visible but unknowable, the men in The Disappearers and Cal in John of John struggle to live authentically, Artie Dam hides his true feelings as he searches for connection, and the historical figures in May We Feed the King can only be understood through someone else’s interpretation.
The helicopter … had filled him with the raw excitement you always feel in early adolescence when you think some family disaster is going to break the monotony, or when the TV announces another war. Things are going to change now, you think. Whatever happens, they’ll never be the same again. You can’t quite communicate to anyone how different things are going to be.
The End of Everything
Identity was a recurring theme, particularly masculinity and queer life. The novels examined the pressures placed on men and the consequences of failing to conform to societal expectations. Black Bag approaches maleness through anonymity, Rebecca Perry’s king is quite unkingly, and Strout’s Artie Dam carries the weight of the world on his broad shoulders. In The Disappearers and John of John, sexuality and social acceptance are central to the characters’ lives.
I have to have something to show at the end of this life. If I’m for hell, then I deserve a love that was worth it.
John of John
We also noticed the importance of objects. Not just on the shortlist but in several of the longlisted books too. In Black Bag, The End of Everything and May We Feed the King, for example, physical things had layers of meaning, as a representation of a time, or to shine light upon a person or concept. What they represented depended on who was looking at them, and we were often left to decide for ourselves what significance to attach to them.
The rule is this: it must appear as if the person or people have just left the room. The viewer must feel as if the air is alive with their energy, that they only just missed them, that they will be back at any moment. If this isn’t the case, the scene is no more than an arrangement of objects. The scene is dead.
May We Feed The King
For our best-ofs, we agreed on several categories.
Best cover: Black Bag
Best character: Black Bag
Worst character: Artie Dam
Most shocking moment: The attack in The Disappearers
Most disappointing outcome: The Things We Never Say
See below for more of our best and worst-ofs.
RACHEL
● The books on this year’s longlist and shortlist intrigued me, flummoxed me, and challenged me, and I loved the opportunity to seek greater understanding of them. It was a perfect shortlist to mull over and deep dive into, and my feelings for each book grew as time went on.
The book that rose in my estimation most was The End Of Everything. I actually read this twice and everything came together for me on the second reading. I know you shouldn’t have to read a book twice to get it, but that is often the case with classics and I could see this becoming one. I loved how the messaging opened up to me on that subsequent read, and I’m not averse to one day undertaking a third read.
The book that stood out most to me from the outset was Black Bag. Its look at masculinity and how people act/react when normal behavioural markers are removed, was captivating. The humour was a welcome relief amongst tough subject matter in the other titles. Luke Kennard demonstrated so much restraint in his character development of Black Bag and as such I felt both that I knew him intimately and also didn’t know him at all. He is a character who will stay with me forever.
Best couple: Black Bag and Justine, for how awkward it was
Best setting: Island life in John of John
Best metaphor: The artefact in The End of Everything being whatever the reader wanted it to be
Best ending: Black Bag
Rachel’s ranking of shortlisted books:
1. Black Bag
2. The End Of Everything
3. John Of John
4. The Disappearers
5. May We Feed The King
6. The Things We Never Say
SUZY
● What an incredibly special year! How unbelievably wonderful to have undertaken 20 Bookerthons with Rach. So many illuminating conversations, with lots of laughs and hearty debates. I look forward to another 20 years of Bookerthons with Rach! 🥂💫
In this year’s shortlist, there were a couple of books that tried to get important points across but did so in a way that made me feel like I was being spoonfed, ie May We Feed the King and The Things We Never Say, with the latter being the biggest offender. The End of Everything was the obligatory wacky book that I didn’t understand but upon hearing Rach’s research was completely wowed. The final three (The Disappearers, John of John and Black Bag) were all stunning books but in very different ways. The standout read for me was The Disappearers. It was powerful and very necessary.
When people do cruel shit to you it never stops being a current event. Get hit by a car or shot in the belly or struck by your husband—it’s the same thing, because nothing freezes you in time like violence. It leaves a mark inside and outside that slams the door shut on the past because in the past you did not have this mark. It arrests the future, stagnates it because wherever you go you take that mark with you.
The Disappearers
Most joyful moment: The simple pleasure Black Bag got from buying new curtains
Best setting: The ravaged countryside in The End Of Everything
Best revelation: Learning about mere exposure after researching Black Bag
Best ending: The Disappearers
Suzy’s ranking of shortlisted books
1. The Disappearers
2. Black Bag
3. John Of John
4. The End Of Everything
5. May We Feed The King
6. The Things We Never Say
READ FOR BOOKERTHON
Set in Kingston, Jamaica, in 1988, The Disappearers follows eight gay men rehearsing a play in a society where homosexuality is criminalised. When a violent attack leaves one of them dead, the survivors respond in different ways as they grapple with trauma, fear and the consequences of living in a hostile society. Spanning the 1980s and 1990s, Marlon James explores queer identity, masculinity, violence and the compromises people make to survive in a culture shaped by prejudice and persecution.
This is what Aids is after all, isn’t it? One long set of disappearing acts. First is watching the friends and family disappear. Second act is when people try to disappear you. Third act is watching your body vanish from itself and wondering where the fuck you going, piece by piece, until all of you gone … If there is a fourth act it’s when everybody erase your name as if you were never born in the first place.
SUZY
● The Disappearers is at times overwhelmingly violent, but it also felt like the author was exposing an important truth and therefore the violence was purposeful. The reader gets a sense of the fear felt by a community of people who are deemed to be unlawful merely for existing. And while set in Jamaica, this obviously isn’t just a Jamaican problem. This book was urgent and horrifying, and very rarely hopeful. It feels wrong to say I enjoyed it, but despite it being so brutal it’s a magnificent read.
RACHEL
● The Disappearers is a brutal novel, full of violence, sex, abuse, control and power. I know it’s an important commentary on society, especially life in Jamaica where homosexuality remains illegal, but this book is so merciless it is often hard to read and hard to fathom, not only for the misery but also for the rambling, drawn-out narratives.
There is a large cast of characters and I often struggled to remember who was who. I did read the novel over an entire month with several other books on the go, so maybe if I’d read it all at once I would have connected with it more. But ultimately, I did not particularly enjoy The Disappearers, and I would not recommend it to many people, but I do appreciate its significance and agree it has earned its place on the Booker Prize shortlist.
Published 2026
Riverhead Books
616 pages
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Chosen by Tessa
Set in Dublin, Intermezzo follows two estranged brothers, Peter, a lawyer in his thirties, and Ivan, a younger competitive chess player, as they navigate grief and their complex brotherhood following their father’s death. Through their complicated romantic relationships and contrasting personalities, Rooney explores family dynamics, love, loneliness and the difficulties of human connection. The novel employs shifting perspectives and contrasting narrative styles to examine the brothers’ inner lives and their changing relationship with one another.
There is more to life than great chess. Okay, great chess is still a part of life, and it can be a very big part, very intense, satisfying, and pleasant to dwell on in the mind’s eye: but nonetheless, life contains many things. Life itself, he thinks, every moment of life, is as precious and beautiful as any game of chess ever played, if only you know how to live.
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This book took me a while to get into, but once I did for the most part I enjoyed it. It is definitely more character-driven than plot-driven, exploring how two brothers, Peter and Ivan, deal with grief after their father’s death.
There is a real contrast between the brothers. Peter is older, with a successful career as a lawyer and seemingly confident, but underneath he is emotionally lost and struggling with his relationships. Ivan is younger, quieter, and socially awkward with a passion for chess.
I found the characters and their relationships interesting, particularly the way old hurts and misunderstandings affect the brothers as they try to find their way forward. There are also several complicated romantic relationships, which add another layer to the story.
I was particularly invested in Ivan and Margaret’s relationship. Despite their age difference their connection felt genuine, and I enjoyed seeing how it developed. I also liked seeing how being with Margaret affected Ivan and gave him a different way of looking at himself and his life.
I found Peter’s relationships with Sylvia and Naomi more complicated. Sylvia, his former partner, has such a significant place in his life, and their relationship is complicated by the changes in her circumstances following an accident that left her with chronic pain. I found their situation both sad and difficult. Naomi is very different from Sylvia. She is younger, more spontaneous and seems to approach life with a different attitude. I found their characters interesting, but would have liked to understand more about what they really wanted from Peter.
Rooney explores grief, loneliness love, family and the messiness of relationships in a way that often feels realistic. The characters can be selfish, confused and contradictory, and they don’t always understand what they want or how their actions affect others. Her fragmented writing style took some getting used to, particularly Peter’s inner thoughts, but it does reflect his unsettled state of mind and the confusion he is experiencing.
I also liked the way chess is woven into the story. It’s about thinking ahead and trying to work out what the other person might do, but life and relationships aren’t nearly so predictable. I thought the title Intermezzo was a clever choice, as in chess it refers to an unexpected move that interrupts the expected sequence of play. In a way, their father’s death does something similar, disrupting both brothers’ lives and forcing them to rethink things.
Although I found parts of the book slow, I became increasingly invested in the characters as the story progressed. I found the ending genuinely hopeful. The characters don’t suddenly have everything figured out, but there is a sense that things can change and perhaps even be repaired.
I really wanted to enjoy Intermezzo, but unfortunately, it just wasn’t for me. I struggled to connect with the characters and found the lack of plot made the book feel a little slow and directionless. I realise this is very much Sally Rooney’s style, focusing on relationships, inner thoughts and the messiness of everyday life rather than a strong storyline, but I need a little more to keep me interested.
I found the relationships both brothers had with their girlfriends a bit uncomfortable. I don’t generally have a problem with age gaps between partners, but in this case, some of the dynamics felt a little off to me.
There’s no denying Rooney is good at exploring complicated emotions and relationships, and I can see why her writing appeals to so many readers. However, despite some interesting themes around grief, love and family, I never really warmed to the characters or became invested in their stories.
In this novel, Rooney explores relationships between siblings, parents, and lovers, and what is considered a relationship norm, with both of her lead characters seeking unconventional connections. However, there is a lot of internal dialogue which sometimes felt a bit like rinse and repeat. I was drawn in at the start but lost interest around the middle, only to gain it back again towards the end. Though in saying that, I was never heavily invested in the storyline.
Rooney developed her characters well. I really liked Ivan with his boyish, nerdy charm. Though his constant apologising annoyed me at first, upon reflection, it actually aligned quite well with his personality. The one person I couldn’t quite understand was Peter’s previous girlfriend, Sylvia. I never warmed to her, and I felt her character was a bit undercooked. Her reasoning for her actions didn’t quite add up for me. On the other hand, I really liked Margaret, an older woman trying to figure out if she should just jump in boots and all, or call it quits while she still had her dignity.
Overall, it was a nice read fully focused on the internal struggles of the lead characters, with little action or plot to consider. I would recommend this to people who enjoy character-driven stories and deep internal dialogue.
I was not prepared for how much this booked moved me. I had read Normal People and been underwhelmed and had not enjoyed Rooney’s writing style. To be fair, I still find her style slightly irritating, with minimal punctuation, no quotation marks and the sort of sentence structure that would get you a fail in any high school English exam. One reviewer has described her prose as Yoda-like:
“Lifting awkwardly her head she swallows once, and again. Blotchy her face he thinks.”
Fair point.
However, what she does demonstrate brilliantly is her understanding of human nature and the complex nature of human relationships, the imperfections of life plans and the textured reality that is love, life and the pursuit of happiness. The story centres on brothers Peter and Ivan, separated by a sizeable age gap but also by vastly different personalities. The recent death of their father and their strained relationship with their mother brings in the complexities of parent/child love as well as sibling love. Added to this fraught mix are three love interests, two for Peter and one for Ivan.
I suppose you could describe Peter’s story as polyamory and in many reviews, Peter’s character gets a bashing for being selfish and unsympathetic but strangely, I found myself being persuaded by his struggle to make sense of his attachments to two very different women.
Ivan is probably autistic, a chess genius and socially awkward. His burgeoning relationship with a much older married woman was tender and convincing and I found myself feeling really invested in their mutual happiness despite societal and familial pressures against the relationship.
By the second half of the book, I was totally wrapped up in this complex family web, where the characters rage with different layers of grief, anger, frustration and yet finally find love, maturity and more common ground than they imagined. I think Rooney really understands people and how they tick. There is an awful lot of sex in this book, some of it adds to the narrative but honestly, I felt some of it was unnecessary. Cleverly, there is also a dog which (to augment the chess theme) becomes a pawn in the family dynamic.
I think if a book makes you cry several times and see some way to understanding relationships that are totally alien to your own, then the author has done a good job.
Sally Rooney is a master of character development. The people in her books are so carefully constructed with flaws, strengths and quirks they are like real people. In Intermezzo I thought Peter was the strongest character. Though not overly likeable, I understood his justifications for some questionable decision making and found him most nuanced.
However, in this book everyone’s inner thoughts are overly detailed and long passages of repetitive internal dialogue would halt plot progression and my interest. Therefore, this realist and traditionally structured novel left me wanting. Lately I’ve read a lot of books that are inventive in form and structure and I’ve enjoyed reading outside of the box so it was a marked change switching to this style. In saying that, this is the book I would recommend to the widest audience (even though you now can’t buy it in the UK (don’t get me started on banned books)) as I think it is universally appealing. But for me at this stage of my reading, it sits as a mid range literary experience.
Published 2024
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
464 pages
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Artie Dam is a 57-year-old history teacher whose seemingly comfortable life is plagued by a troubled mind and an emerging family secret. Written in Strout’s understated, character-driven style, the novel explores marriage, parenthood, loneliness and the things people leave unspoken, against the backdrop of political division in contemporary America.
He had said something like, “why don’t people ever say anything real?” And now he knew why. Because to say anything real was to say things that nobody wanted to know. Or if they wanted to know, they would not care in the right way. Or even understand. It was a private thing to be alive. He understood this now.
SUZY
● I find Elizabeth Strout’s books very same-y and The Things We Never Say was no exception. My frustration about the similarities with her stories didn’t stop me from being drawn into this one, but I felt weirdly resentful about it.
One of the main issues I had was that it felt like we were meant to think the main character was a great person, but there really was no particularly compelling reason to think this as he presented as a very average man. Unfortunately, in the patriarchal society we live it it’s not unusual for very average men to be upheld as special creatures but I’m pretty disinterested in spending my leisure time reading about them.
RACHEL
● Here is my summation of this book: America is in a dire state and we should all just be nice to one another. This is true of course, and I’m sure these sentiments will resonate with many Americans. But Strout has delivered her concerns in such a simplistic way that everything is clearly spelled out with no room for reader involvement. Artie considers suicide, then we are told: “America is committing suicide”. Artie, whose surname is eyerollingly Dam, is like a giant metaphor for life in the United States, and he is so laden with thematic burdens that he is unrealistic, though I’m sure Strout intended for us to love him.
The Things We Never Say feels more like a vehicle for Strout’s personal concerns than a novel. It is idealistic and moralistic (“nobody is superior to anyone else in this world”), and never does more than scratch the surface of many, many topics (pandemic, Trump, depression, suicide, masculinity, mental health, free will, civil war, Gaza, WWII, social media, AI, fat-shaming, homophobia, antisemitism …) I could list more but the point I’m making is that Strout stuffs too many topics into a short amount of space without offering real insight into any of them.
I did read to the end but wasn’t invested in the outcome, didn’t learn anything and wasn’t encouraged to expand my thinking, which is ultimately what I want from a book shortlisted for the Booker Prize.
Published 2026
Random House
224 pages
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Chosen by Bridget
In Maine, 1789 real life midwife Martha Ballard delivered babies and kept daily notes of her work, community and surroundings. As an advocate for women she spoke up on behalf of a local woman at a rape trial. In The Frozen River Lawhon has brought the midwife to life, fleshed out her diarieis and placed her in the midst of a murder mystery after a body appears from a thawing river. A historical, feminist thriller.
I am fifty-four years old, and that boy is my last. This knowledge is both a relief and a sadness—I have brought nine children into this world, after all, and only six are still living. Like all mothers, I have long since mastered the art of nursing joy at one breast and grief at the other.
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This book started out like it could have been a great read, but the further I got, the less believable the narrative became. Lawhon took several creative liberties while building this novel around the real-life diary entries of Martha Ballard, an 18th-century midwife and healer.
The plot centres on a true-to-life rape accusation and had the potential to offer deep insight into the struggles women faced during that era. While it did touch on these themes, I wish the author had leaned into the historical realities of women’s lives a bit more. Instead, elements like the symbolic fox and falcon, along with a horse that only the Martha could control, shifted the tone from believable historical fiction inspired by true events into a pure fictional (or made-up) novel.
That said, I did enjoy uncovering the identity of the killer. Lawhon executed that reveal well. Her primary adversaries were satisfyingly nasty antagonists. However, the character development for the rest of the cast fell flat. Everyone related (or soon-to-be related) to Martha was portrayed as morally superior to everyone else, which felt unrealistic.
Overall, it was an enjoyable, easy read that didn’t require too much deep thought. While decent, I wouldn’t recommend to everyone.
I ended up DNFing The Frozen River. I thought it was slow, boring and overwritten, but what annoyed me most was the characterisation of midwife Martha Ballard. In the lengthy, self-congratulatory afterword Lawhon explains that Martha was a real person who kept extensive “day books” of fact that contain “little or no editorialising”. Lawhon admits she has therefore invented Martha’s personality for the novel. In doing so, I think she’s done the real Martha a huge disservice.
The fictional Martha is preachy, self-righteous and disparaging about most people she meets – both men and women – but ironically is heavily heroised. She has “a list of men she hates”, often says she is “unable to disguise her contempt”, and on one occasion brutally chastises a group of women for gossiping, then shortly afterwards speaks ill of someone herself and thanks a visitor “for the gossip”. When I tapped out, Martha was on her way to single-handedly solve a murder and avenge a rape …
What frustrates me is that the real Martha sounds remarkable enough. She appears to have been a humble and effective advocate for women, as well as an accomplished midwife who attended a thousand births and had an extraordinary survival rate. In 1789 that competence was feminist in itself, and an honest portrayal of her would have been inspiring enough. Instead Lawhon imposed a modern kind of angry morality onto Martha, making her unbelievable and unlikeable. This poor characterisation was a distraction from any historical merit the book might have.
At bookclub I learned how the novel ends, and it sounds ridiculous so I was glad I never made it that far!
The novel is set over a hard winter in late 18th century Massachusetts, and the central character is midwife, Martha Ballard. It is principally a murder-mystery although other themes include racism, sexism, sexual violence, illiteracy and poverty.
The time frame of the novel flips between current and previous events to give you an insight into Martha’s life and family and how she came to be a midwife. Lawhon blends supposition with historical fact about society, midwifery and the law of the period to create a really rounded portrait of Martha’s life.
The setting and the season are paramount to the way the story unfolds, with the weather playing a key role in events. The onset of a harsh winter with severe snow fall and plummeting temperatures heightens the feeling of isolation and entrapment in the town of Hallowell. More of a chillybin of suspicion than a cauldron but you get the picture. I loved the feeling of claustrophobia. No-one can easily leave town, bodies cannot be buried because of the frozen earth, townsfolk are snowed in, travel becomes difficult and dangerous, and supplies are not arriving because of the eponymous frozen river. The town is split in two by the river, but it also serves as a metaphor for division on so many other levels.
There are several strong female characters who I loved apart from Martha. Rachel Foster who speaks out about being raped by two of the town’s luminaries but also an itinerant Black healer known only as The Doctor. The mutual respect and collegial relationship between Martha and The Doctor was plausible and laudable as they both struggle to advocate for women’s health in a society prejudiced by gender and by race.
So far so good but unfortunately there was some over-egging of other characters for my taste. Martha’s husband Ephraim was just a bit too perfect to feel authentic. The author must have been channelling Charles Ingalls from The Little House On The Prairie when she dreamt him up. I suppose men like him could have existed in frontier America, but it wasn’t just his character but also their marriage which was a little too Mills and Boon for me and possibly too modern for the period. Likewise, I couldn’t make sense of the roles the animals made in the book. A silver fox and a peregrine falcon are significantly involved but seemed a little unnecessary.
Although I enjoyed the book, it was really brought alive for me by the author’s notes at the end where Lawhon explains exactly how much of the content is documented historical fact (a surprisingly large amount) and how much she has invented to flesh out the story. In some areas, where she has supposed material, she has based it on statistical likelihood. Standout fact is that the real Martha Ballard never lost a mother during childbirth. That is an incredible statistic for the times.
The ending is preposterous, but the baddy is so foul, I enjoyed him getting the comeuppance he deserved. I read this as a feminist text, about proto-feminists battling systems stacked against them, both legal and medical.
I really liked the idea behind The Frozen River, especially knowing that Martha Ballard was a real person. Her story and the historical setting were what appealed to me the most, and I enjoyed learning about the life of a midwife and the role women played in the community at that time.
Unfortunately, I struggled with how the story was told. I found the plot repetitive and, for me, it became a too same-same throughout. I often felt like we were going over the same ground and I wanted the story to move forward.
I also didn’t feel that the characters were particularly well developed. Even though the real-life Martha was fascinating, I never really felt connected to the fictional Martha or the other characters.
I enjoy historical fiction based on real-life people and events, so was eager to read The Frozen River. The protagonist, 18th century healer and midwife Martha Ballard, is a character who has seen and experienced much throughout her long career.
The story is set in Hallowell, Maine in 1789, during a particularly brutal winter. When the Kennebec River freezes, entombing a man in the ice, Martha is summoned to examine the body and determine the cause of death. When a local doctor declares the death an accident, Martha is determined to investigate for herself. As a woman in her profession, she knows much of what goes on behind the closed doors of Hallowell.
I found the author’s notes at the end of the book particularly interesting. Lawhon explains that the novel is “inspired by real-life events as opposed to based on them.” She says “roughly 75 percent closely follows the historical record”, while the rest is her “version of what could have happened”. I appreciated her honesty about where fact ends and fiction begins.
Martha herself kept an extensive diary, but it didn’t record her inner thoughts and feelings. Instead, it was more of a record of the births she attended, daily life and court cases. Lawhon has therefore created a version of Martha that she felt could be plausible.
One thing I thought Lawhon portrayed particularly well was the atmosphere of the period, particularly the attitudes towards women and how difficult life was for them at the time. They had very little power, and their voices and experiences were often dismissed, especially when powerful men were involved.
This wasn’t a five star read for me. I found it a bit slow and mundane in places. It also dealt with heavy themes, with several assaults I found hard to read.
Overall, I found The Frozen River engaging. I was curious about the central mystery and what had really happened. After finishing the book I watched a documentary on Martha Ballard which I found really interesting and I think, for me, the book would have been better served if Lawhon had made it more true to her actual life (however it is a work of fiction). This isn’t an author who I would rush out to read more of her books.
Published 2023
Doubleday
448 pages
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Chosen by Rachel
Set in Soviet-occupied Latvia between 1969 and 1989, Soviet Milk is the story of an unnamed mother and daughter struggling under Soviet rule. The mother, a gifted doctor unwilling to compromise with the regime, falls foul of the state and is banished to the countryside. The dual narrative details her growing despair and troubled relationships with motherhood, her daughter and her country.
The prisoners, crowded into tiny airless rooms with naked bulbs overhead, had waited either for death or to be deported to Siberia. Such were those times. Crimes against the regime were an everyday occurence. I had to go through the formatity of this circle of hell.
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I read Soviet Milk some years ago and it was a book that stayed with me so I decided to revisit it via bookclub. It was just as good the second time around. I loved that the mother, daughter and grandmother had clearly defined personalities and were representative of the different stages of occupation. The grandmother remembers life before Soviet rule, the mother is shaped and thwarted by it, and the daughter doesn’t realise she’s a prisoner having grown up inside it and knowing nothing else.
The generational analysis is cleverly done within a dual narrative. Sometimes both mother and daughter give us a version of the same event and sometimes one tells of events for the other because clearly they cannot. The gaps and omissions tell their own story. The pacing is excellent and it’s easy to be drawn into the next fragment, and the next and the next and then realise you’ve read half the book in one sitting. Soviet Milk is a book that is important historically but also intimate and deeply human.
I found Soviet Milk a beautiful book to read and became fully immersed in the story. The writing is simple and understated, yet the subject matter is complex and deeply affecting. Spanning the period from the end of the Second World War to the fall of the Berlin Wall, the novel is told through the alternating voices of an unnamed mother and daughter. I particularly liked this structure because it allowed me to experience their lives, feelings and struggles from two very different perspectives.
The relationship between the mother and daughter is at the heart of the novel. Their bond is complicated by the mother’s depression and by the difficult political and social circumstances of Soviet Latvia. The mother, a talented doctor, is clearly struggling with mental illness throughout the book even before she is forced to move from Riga (the capital of Latvia) to a rural location after she confronts the abusive husband of a childless women who seeks her help. The daughter spends much of the novel trying to understand her mother. I found this particularly sad as she grows up attempting to reach someone who seems increasingly unable to connect with life. Despite this there are still moments of tenderness between them, but these become fewer as the novel progresses.
The mother is perhaps the most tragic figure in the novel. She is intelligent, independent and passionate about her work, but the circumstances in which she is forced to live gradually erode her sense of hope. At times I found her behaviour difficult to understand. At the same time, I felt great sympathy for her because it is clear that she is battling with her own suffering.
I saw Soviet Milk as both a political novel and an intimate family tragedy. The Soviet occupation of Latvia is an ever-present force in the story, shaping the choices, opportunities and emotional lives of the characters. Yet the politcal circumstances never overwhelm the personal story. Instead the two are closely connected, making the mother and daughter’s struggles ever more poignant. The grandmother, step-grandfather and the mother’s friend Jessie bring warmth and stability to the family. Their love and generosity add hope to the story.
I found the novel moving without being overly sentimental, with underlying themes of family, motherhood, isolation and the awful circumstances of living under Soviet rule. Overall, Soviet Milk was a quietly powerful and memorable read. It also made me think about the world’s existing climate that we live in at present.
Soviet Milk is the second book we’ve read this year where the primary characters are intentionally left unnamed. Neither the daughter, her mother, nor her grandmother are given a name, leaving three generations of women defined only by their family roles. I’ve discovered that this significantly alters my connection to them. It creates a distance between myself and the protagonists. It made me reflect on why a name feels so vital to emotional connection even though the novel itself is a deeply thought-provoking read.
The story forces you to consider impossible questions: What would you do under a regime where the government can make you disappear for failing to comply with their rules?
I also found myself wondering how I would have coped with a mother struggling so acutely with her mental illness. At times, the daughter clearly suffers from compassion fatigue, frustrated and unable to understand why her mother isn’t trying harder to survive. Yet, this tragedy creates a quiet silver lining: it pushes the daughter toward her grandmother, allowing them to build a warm, deeply comforting bond.
This was a grim read about life in the communist block between the end of WW2 and the fall of the Berlin Wall. Not exactly a cheery read.
Set in occupied Latvia, the story dwells principally on a mother and daughter (both unnamed) and their stories are delivered in a tag-team format. The mother is a brilliant and dedicated doctor whose patients worship her, but the same drive which has made her a successful physician, sees her fall foul of the communist regime. I liked how we learned about an event from one protagonist and then immediately were given the same event from the perspective of the other. Their personalities differ and we get an insight into how each handles the suffocating challenges of oppression.
I enjoyed Ikstana’s use of metaphor, most especially that of milk, which appears several times in the novel and represents the ideology the Latvians are expected to swallow but which the two main protagonists resist. There are many wonderfully drawn characters here and while descriptions of life under a Communist regime were not surprising, the novel does a great job of portraying how crushed and powerless the characters were made to feel.
Like other books we have read this year, this is a study in how some people can find the strength to resist persecution, some crumble and others manage to just grind through until their freedom is granted. I recommend it.
I really enjoyed Soviet Milk. What I found most interesting was the insight into everyday life for women living in Soviet Latvia. It shows how women were expected to work, raise children and keep going, while having very little freedom to choose the life they wanted. There’s a real sense of how the political system filtered into ordinary family life and affected relationships, opportunities and mental health. I also loved the complicated relationship between the mother and daughter. It’s sad at times, but there’s humour and warmth too. For me, the novel brought the reality of life under Soviet rule to the surface in a very personal and human way.
Published in Latvian in 2015
Translated into English by Margita Gailitis in 2018
Peirene Press
192 pages
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