Crying Over

Spilt Milk, By Lana Citron is an all together confusing thing of a novel. Citron writes in a style that is at once intriguing and infuriating. Stream of consciousness like, and rambling, there is a uniqueness and authenticity there that I want to like, but the fact of the matter is, the styling is just poorly done.
The first fault that I had with the novel, aside from the style, was that of character. It's lacking. The novel is written both in the perspective of Murrey, the character who is first introduced, and switches often to that of Manfredi, the second main. This in itself is not a problem AS a style, but failed again, in the execution. For quite a while I as the reader was unsure whether Murrey Pouge was a male or female character, which meant that I had no description of Murrey's character - whether physical or otherwise which might clue me in. Manfredi, however, was obviously male, and had red hair. Eventually I realized that Murrey was indeed female, but the switching of perspectives coupled with the vague style of writing and lack of character definition left me feeling lost and confused. Which "she" was Manfredi referring to? Was Murrey describing her romantic relation with a girl this time, and a male next time? I couldn't keep track.

By the time I finally got a grip on who was who, and a vague feeling of what was going on, I was nearly half way through the novel and had already considered giving up on it more than once. But, being persistent I ploughed ahead.

I did, eventually, begin to invest somewhat in Murrey's semi-tragic (though not all together explained) existence and her relationship with Manfredi - it was not until the two come together that the narrative styling becomes much more coherent - but the feelings were short lived. Just when I felt some - albeit shallow - connection to the two, they were wrenched apart with no explanation, the narrative returning to its cryptic "shes" & "hes" and the reader was thrust roughly back to where they began.

The ending of the novel, just as ambiguous as the start, was not disappointing in its plot so much as the delivery. Queue typical scene of estranged daughter coming home, mother dropping whatever glass object is in hand (in this case, the all the more cheesy bottle of milk) and a return to a previous childhood state of living. Then bring on the exaggerated perfection of a taxi down the lane, a turning of the head just in time - so cinematic it's sickening - but no, the author is acknowledging the cheese factor with a tossed aside "but no, that isn't how it happened at all". Finally, some self humour and clarity, come too late, and too jarringly different from the style of the rest of the novel.

The one thing I would give this novel is its drive to stay connected to realistic rather than romantic paintings of love - the theme which it claims on its very cover - but even then, the intertwining stories (which we, in the end, come to see as merely half truths) still strive for a romantic nature that harkens back to age old loves. And realistic interpretations - while imperfect - do not have to be anti-love stories, and made up lies, but rather simple ins and outs of life.

A confused, jarring, disconnected novel, I have to say i was mad enough to yell at it on several occasions, and ultimately slam it across the table upon its completion. Spilt Milk does not come highly recommended.