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Revision as of 13:32, 11 August 2020
, 13:32, 11 August 2020no edit summary
|reviewer=Jill Murphy
|genre=Literary Fiction
|summary=Mother's Milk is a masterpiece of style and construction from a writer clearly at the top of his game. It has clear sight, intelligence and a vicious wit, but it lacks in an emotional connection.
|rating=4
|buy=No
Ack. Who cares about such spoiled people? Not me. I just cannot make an emotional connection with their ilk. I think this fault is probably more mine than it is St Aubyn's - I don't suppose I'd be happy to hear that my own troubles were unimportant, paling into insignificance as they do besides the poverty of sweatshop workers in developing countries. But then again, I'm not asking them to make an emotional connection with me by writing a book, am I?
Notwithstanding my moaning, Mother's Milk really should have won the Booker. It's quite wonderful. From the powerful opening sequence in which Robert Melrose describes his own birth, to the hilarious interlude when a drunken Patrick tries to replace a bottle of whisky on his hosts host's drinks trolley, St Aubyn doesn't put a foot wrong. He's been compared to Waugh, to Hollinghurst, to Updike. He is the equal of all three, at the very least. If you can see past my inverted snobbery, you will think this book is a tour-de-force.
Thanks to the publisher, Picador, for sending the book.
We also enjoyed [[At Last by Edward St Aubyn]].
{{amazontext|amazon=0330435914}}
