A little more than halfway through Deborah Levy’s hypnotic new novel, Hot Milk, its narrator, Sofia, throws a vase on the floor. She is in a rented beach house with her mother, Rose, in southern Spain – but if this sounds like a holiday, it’s not. Rose has remortgaged her flat to come here, to a mysterious clinic run by a man called Gómez: perhaps Gómez can cure the mysterious paralysis that confines Rose to a wheelchair and binds her daughter to her with chains of control and dependency. But there is no cure here – only strange pronouncements from a doctor who may very well be a quack; a chained alsatian on the beach that won’t stop barking; the relentless sun and a sea full of poisonous jellyfish.
Related: Deborah Levy: 'If we don't read books by women, we're missing essential data'
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