Middle sister, 18 years old, lives in an unnamed country. She reads 19th century literature while walking around her unnamed town, using a flashlight if necessary. She is stalked by a 41 year old man, a high-ranking renouncer of the state; that is to say, a violent paramilitary. This stalking causes problems in her relationship with maybe-boyfriend, whose life may now be in danger as a result.
What a book. So very, very brilliant. But so very, very difficult, perhaps unnecessarily. And there's the rub. The anonymity - no names, no place-names, no specific designators of any kind - is terrific. Of course, this is the Troubles, Belfast in the 1970s. Middle sister and her family, and the stalker Milkman, too, are obviously the Catholics, though that's never stated. And it's wonderful because it works. The Troubles could be lots of places where violence simmers and occasionally breaks out, where an entire group is scapegoated, where no one can trust anyone, and where the wrong word to the wrong person can have dire consequences. But reading a narrative scrubbed of specificity in this way is awkward and laborious. The reader is taxed from the outset; add in middle sister's inside-out syntax, manic digressions, chronological lurches, and the (necessary) local colloquialisms, and it's a relief to be finished.
Yes, I'm relieved. But perhaps because of the effort involved, I also won't forget Milkman anytime soon.
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