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Spilt Milk, by Chico Buarque
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From world-renowned Brazilian writer Chico Buarque comes a stylish, imaginative tale of love, loss, and longing, played out across multiple generations of one Brazilian family. At once jubilant and painfully nostalgic, playful and devastatingly urgent, Spilt Milk cements Chico Buarque’s reputation as a masterful storyteller.
As Eulálio Assumpção lies dying in a Brazilian public hospital, his daughter and the attending nurses are treated—whether they like it or not—to his last, rambling monologue. Ribald, hectoring, and occasionally delusional, Eulálio reflects on his past, present, and future—on his privileged, plantation-owning family; his father’s philandering with beautiful French whores; his own half-hearted career as a weapons dealer; the eventual decline of the family fortune; and his passionate courtship of the wife who would later abandon him. As Eulálio wanders the sinuous twists and turns of his own fragmented memories, Buarque conjures up a brilliantly evocative portrait of a man’s life and love, set in the broad sweep of vivid Brazilian history.
- Sales Rank: #862607 in eBooks
- Published on: 2012-12-04
- Released on: 2012-12-04
- Format: Kindle eBook
Review
Spilt Milk confirms Buarque as one of the most remarkable contemporary authors... It is one of the outstanding Brazilian novels of our time Financial Times An exceptionally vivid picture of Brazilian high society... an absorbing, if bitter, meditation on Brazil Sunday Telegraph Try to imagine that Bob Dylan and Ian McEwan were the same person. That's Buarque Sunday Times
About the Author
A two-time winner of the Prêmio Jabuti, Brazil’s most prestigious literary award, Buarque has written acclaimed novels, plays, and poetry, and is a legendary figure in Latin American music. He lives in Rio de Janeiro.
Most helpful customer reviews
11 of 11 people found the following review helpful.
A life in recollection
By TChris
Spilt Milk begins with the rambling narrative of a hospital patient, Eulálio Assumpção, speaking to a girlfriend who, it soon becomes clear, is present only in his imagination. Assumpção is old -- he says his life has become "unbearably long, like a fraying thread" -- although whether he is actually one hundred years old, as he sometimes believes, is not entirely clear. Assumpção's connection to reality is tenuous. At times he believes his long-dead parents will be coming to rescue him from captivity. Other times he believes his daughter is arranging his discharge. Some days he is convinced he will not survive the night and asks for a priest to perform the last rites; other days he thinks he is being kidnapped.
Assumpção lives in his memories but his memories are indistinguishable from his dreams. "Memory is truly a pandemonium," he says, yet by rummaging around all sorts of things can be found. His memories resist chronology or any other order; they are called to mind by free-association. Whether those memories are reliable is another question. Assumpção recognizes that his memories have increasingly become memories of memories, copies that degrade each time they are reproduced. The reader is left to sort out truth from falsity in the confusion that is Assumpção's life in recollection.
With a minimum of well chosen words, Chico Buarque sketches Assumpção's long life and the colorful lives that surrounded him: the father ("the most influential politician in the old Republic") who took him whoring and introduced him to cocaine while he was still a child; the mother who wears tragedy well; the relatives who are misfits, criminals, and victims; the wife who taught him the true meaning of desire; the daughter whose husband leaves her during her pregnancy; the great-grandson born in prison, or perhaps in an army hospital, depending on how Assumpção remembers the story. Of course, whether we should accept these characters at face value is doubtful. Does Assumpção really have a great-great-grandson named (as are all his male descendants) Eulálio, "already a strapping young man of my size," who set fire to his school and stole his wife's jewelry from Assumpção's home so he could buy the latest mobile phones and phosphorescent tennis shoes? Not knowing quite what to make of Assumpção's stories -- no matter how confidently Assumpção tells them -- is part of the novel's appeal.
Assumpção's strongest memories are of his wife Matilde, his first and irreplaceable love, yet even here his account of their relationship is confusing and marked by contradiction. Assumpção was a jealous husband; whether that jealousy was founded is, like so much else in this novel, never clear. Assumpção believes Matilde abandoned him, although the timing and circumstances of that abandonment change each time Assumpção recalls them, as does Matilde's eventual fate. What shines through as trustworthy are elemental emotions: Assumpção's desire for Matilde and his despair at her loss. His life was full when they were together. After she left, the story of his life "would consist of many pages and little ink" -- empty pages. Perhaps his malleable memories of his daughter and of the offspring of his offspring are just an old man's last attempt to put words on the page.
Buarque's evocative prose captures the Copacabana of Assumpção's youth like sepia-tinted photographs. Still, it is the poignancy of Assumpção's life -- a long transition from privilege to poverty and perhaps, in the end, a life not entirely lived -- and the stark contrast of his memories of Matilde that make Spilt Milk memorable. If I could, I would give Spilt Milk 4 1/2 stars.
6 of 6 people found the following review helpful.
The lost art of the monologue - rediscovered!
By Grady Harp
Chico Buarque is a wordsmith of the first order. In this his fourth novel (translated form the original Portuguese by Alison Entrekin) he reveals in pleasing himself and his reader with a sad love story that while it is as Brazilian in essence as anything written it is also a tlae that crosses all country lines, so appealing is his ability to entertain and capture the imagination.
Eulálio d'Assumpção is on his deathbed. Born a century ago into Brazilian aristocracy, he has watched his world change, or crumble, and still he lingers. "As the future narrows, younger people have to pile up any which way in some corner of my mind. For the past, however, I have an increasingly spacious drawing room." The marvel of Buarque's wirting is how he divides the past form the present without loosening the ties that bind them together. He juggles memory and experience and often makes us guess which is real.
Eulálio has seen a lot of life, starting with the death of his politically important father being gunned down either by political opponents or the husband of a woman he seduced. It's no coincidence that Eulálio's life echoes, to an extent, that of his country, for Buarque has long put politics at the center of his art. A well-known musician and playwright, he was imprisoned in the late 1960s by Brazil's ruling dictatorship and remained an outspoken critic of the regime after his release. That's because Eulálio is adrift, not just within his life but also in his memories, which shift and overlap, repeating throughout the novel like the choruses of a song. Warehoused in a derelict hospital, he moves back and forth between past and present, mesmerizing us with characters and incidents, blurring the boundaries between what he imagines and what he recalls. And at the heart of everything is his wife Matilde, with whom he fell in love at his father's funeral, a dark-skinned choir girl who may or may not be the daughter of another official.
SPILT MILK is a series of connected monologues, each chapter written as a single paragraph to highlight how each incident or memory bleeds into the next. And in the final analysis of the work, though we are completely in love with Eulálio's story, the pertinent aspects of the message are about societal class given the knowledge of Brazil's scourge of racism and slavery, and it is this aspect of the love between Eulálio and Matilde that marks the serious unerpeinning of Buarque's message: even the most prominent among us fade into the vapor of history, becoming footnotes, dead-end streets. The same is true of our inner lives, which disappear as we do, all our loss and love and longing little more than, yes, spilt milk. And yet, the novel insists, this is neither good nor bad, just inevitable; hence, the title, with its implication that nothing is worth crying over. As Eulálio puts it, remembering the funeral of his grandson or great-grandson (he can no longer distinguish between them): "The gravediggers were in a bad mood, and when the coffin hit the bottom of the grave with a heavy thud, the muffled sound struck me as the end of the Assumpção line. It was fine by me; I'd had enough."
At novel's end it seems that Buarque is stating that all of life is an illusion and those thing we treasure the most probably matter the least. This novel may be short in length (It can comfortably be read in an evening) but it is long on merit . Grady Harp, December 12
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
Spoilt milk
By reader 451
Memory is identity, and this is what ought to have guided Buarque's Spilt Milk. We are the narrative we have constructed out of our past, and when that narrative begins to unravel, there can be but little left. So when Assumpçao's memories begin to dissolve and merge into the present as he lies, aged one hundred, on a hospital bed, we know he must be close to the end. Buarque manages to hold our attention for a full novel's worth of remembrances. Sweetly nostalgic yet sober-minded, Assumpçao's account takes us on a long, slow-motion slide from Copacabana villa to emergency room stretcher through the hovels of a Rio suburb. And as socio-historical sketch, this works. The narrator, the hero, is the scion of an aristocratic family from Brazil's imperial times, but through ill luck and pusillanimous children, he sees it all wasted and he descends to the level of the poor, coloured people he once patronised. Bit by bit, whether through political or personal circumstance, he loses it all until all he has left is his name.
As a private drama, however, this is less engaging. The problem is that the faltering mind of a dying man is a poor guide to constructing a cast of characters. Central to Assumpçao's memories are his wife Matilde, but such are his divagations that one is left unsure whether she left him, died young, or never existed. Indeed she might only be a fantasy born of that young nurse to whom he purports to be telling his life story. Rather than feeling touched, though, we are left bemused. The same goes of the relationship with the narrator's son, or is it his grandson, or great grandson and after all, do we care? When memories go, everything goes: the problem is that it is difficult to build a sufficiently engaging novel around that premise.
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