my year of sedation and being a shitty friend and person

- My dumbass thinking Infermiterol was really a medication (I am a therapist that knows some medications but clearly was "tricked" to think this was, lol)
- There is something so interesting about the writing that it was hard to put down sometimes
- I knew, <i>knew</i> what the ending was going to be;

The book was set in 2000, and knew it'd go into 2001 and it would relate back to 9/11

I wanted to like it so bad Im sorry

Authors Note: I wrote this with 80 pages to go and intend to finish it today. Perhaps my mood will change at pages end, but I doubt it.

I had a hard time finding this book believable. After all the raving about Moshfegh that I had heard from press, former high school students I taught, other literary types, I found myself intrigued to finally dive in. But something was off about this writing. I had my doubts and skepticisms. Was it me? Probably, I thought. Let’s see what this is all about. I regret that to a degree for two reasons. Moshfegh interviews well and seems generally interesting and articulate. But never do background mid-read, kids. Do it before if it’s class or after if it’s pleasure. 

I would border on calling this book pornographic in the clinical sense of the word. I fear that reading one of her influences was Bukowski soured everything for me. It still might be me, but the narrative came off as a post modernist attempt at being obscene with an unloveable character. But unlike Bukowski, whose merits are debated ad nauseam and to nauseous ends, there is just no truth behind this story of the narrator. Bukowski worked because Chinaski was someone worth rooting for or against, depending on perspective. The Voice in this story held nothing compelling. Her privileged neglect is unfortunate, dare I say even tragic, but wholly uninteresting and lacks any compelling qualities. At least in the few details that Moshfegh offers us. 

I am reminded, unfortunately, of Jay McInery’s The Good Life and sort of harsh transgressive narrative about hopelessness with uninspired sexuality, drugs, and partying as a means to escape self imposed monotony. And the people I’ve known in my life that use sex and drugs to escape the boredom of their own existence comes off as pathetic. There is nothing remotely transgressive about an emotionless, privileged, know it all know nothing. This is why New York is such a trite backdrop of a story, an easy choice, and true as it may be for the end of the century, the end of the millennium, there’s nothing remotely original about putting a book written 17 years later in that setting. 

I wish I could go back to the conversations with the young people, often women and queer femmes, that I had about Moshfegh’s novels. Those were inspiring. I wish I had the ability to see what they see in these books. But much like Bukowski was titillating when I was their age, offering something that the curriculum didn’t through subversion, sexuality, drugs, and violence, Moshfegh’s Relaxation doesn’t hold weight after you’ve seen some real shit. Ultimately you stop rooting for the Chinaski’s, the people that keep letting themselves down. You find their misery pathetic and sad. You hurt for them, but you know you can’t help them. I think this type of work is good for young people, it belongs to teenagers who know there is a curtain being pulled around them to try and protect them. But this is imaginative and not experiential. And though it’s fiction and the escape is supposed to be the point, I still want the real in it. At least Hank gave us his scars, his vomit, his misogyny. I don’t feel that here.

With all this said, the casual racism, an attempt at capturing the attitudes and conversations about race in America as we entered a new millennium, were so off putting. Race was not transgressive then, now, or at any other time. The suggestion that this character has both some awareness of racism and race, but seems obnoxiously ambivalent at best about her experiences and understanding was just poorly executed. The attempt to center Whoopi Goldberg at the center of this exploration of whiteness was awkward at best and, frankly, racist in total. There is a tone-deafness in this choice on Moshfegh’s part, even if it’s drawn from her real experiences. And I sense that it is. But a pretty little rich white girl obsessed with Goldberg as a cutesy Aunt Jemima fantasy without context of how subversive Goldberg actually is was a bad choice. It’s race tourism. 

I feel off about my feelings on this. I was rooting to lover Moshfegh, had such high hopes that maybe mainstream literature was taking a turn for the better. But among the several modern feminist novels the industry is pushing out on us, I’m not feeling very hopeful. I’ve read enough zines, small press, and self published authors that are strong voices in the transgressive. I know the work exists and it’s truly emotional work. Some of it is autobiographical, some of it is meta exploration or the self, some of it brilliant fiction by a bevy of writers. But this ain’t it. This is the wet dream of the feminist lit classes I took in the 90’s, the shape of their lit porn to come. But honestly, near 30 years later Lucy by Jamaica Kincaid is much more horrifying an ordeal than anything found here. I’m not giving up fully, I own two other books of hers, gifts from former students. But this isn’t on the list of modern writers I’m going to hype. 

I am not quite sure why this book made the book-tok cut as the subject matter is rather serious and dark. It centers around drug abuse, depression, internalized misogyny and painfully heterosexual relationships. I honestly believe this book should come with a trigger warning because the thoughts shared in it are not dark but rather suicidal and dangerous. 

I appreciate "weird" books, but the protagonist of this story is such a truly dreadful person it makes it difficult to read. 

I'm not necessarily going to judge this book for having a lack of plot because a lot of literary fiction has that as a convention of the genre. I can also acknowledge that the story has something to say metaphorically and symbolically about parenthood. Parental trauma, parental loss, and also specifically the loss of a mother to a daughter are all themes that are present. Unfortunately, though the theme is present, it doesn't come to any meaningful conclusion, or even really present commentary. It feels like the author has dropped a thousand puzzle pieces in your lap and then walked away. 

I'm not inclined to read further into those metaphors because of the protagonist. I understand that she is meant to be a bad person, and somehow sleeping for a year is meant to make her a better person. It's argued in the text that this is because she is able to let go of her emotions and trauma. She hibernates theoretically so she can process these feelings, but instead she just grows some distance and thus is less attached to those feelings. I believe the author could be trying to make a point about how we don't give mental injuries the same rest that we do to physical injuries. On a surface level, that's very true, but I think it misunderstands how people process emotions and mental injury. Resting is important, but working your mind and re-laying neural tracks is arguably more important. 

The narrator... how do I even describe her? She's a rude, entitled, misogynistic, racist, anti-Sematic, fatphobic, brat. She's completely horrible to everyone around her, but especially her best friend Reva. When the narrator goes on her hibernation, Reva tries over and over to connect with her and help pull her from this self-imposed isolation. Even as Reva's mother is dying from cancer, the narrator just complains about how she's sick of hearing about it while also being sure to point out how she's skinnier than Reva. She goes on and on about how she's so skinny, and she doesn't even have try unlike poor Reva who is bulimic. The narrator hates Reva, she complains about how she's not cool, and she's annoying, and she's not fashionable, and she's talkative, and she's sweet, and blah blah blah. Reva isn't perfect. She's judgmental and she's sleeping with her married boss, but the way the narrator treats her is so unacceptable. She doesn't even want to attend Reva's mother's funeral because it'll interrupt her sleep experiment. 

It's impossible to describe how horrible and entitled she is. When she was fired from her job at an art gallery for sleeping in the supply closet all the time, she SHIT ON THE FLOOR OF THE GALLERY! Like girl, they are not committing some heinous crime against you. You were fired for not doing your job. 

The description describes this book as funny. It's not. I don't think I laughed or even smiled a single time while reading this. Was I supposed to laugh when she made fun of men for not wanting to hit on her, implying that they were scared of her "perfectly pink pussy"? Because I didn't. Was I supposed to laugh when she called the "old Jews" in her apartment lobby slovenly? Because I didn't. Was I supposed to laugh when she threatened to kill herself to get her ex-boyfriend, who is currently in a committed relationship, to come over and fuck her? Because I didn't. Was I supposed to laugh when she called an autistic child "retarded"? Because I FUCKING DIDN'T. This book is not funny. It's mean-spirited, and just because the protagonist magically gets better in the last 30 pages of the book doesn't mean all is forgiven. 

I'm not convinced by the premise. This women is just going to sleep for a year, and it's going to magically make herself a better person? I thought the message was going to be different. I thought the message was going to be that you can't wish your way to a better self. You need to work and apologize and change your ways, and then maybe someday you can be a person that you like. But NO! Her plan actually works. She literally wakes up one day and is a better person! Now she wants to be around Reva, and she even says she loves her. She feeds the birds, and is polite to retail workers. The narrator is just BETTER. I'm baffled by that. Even within the metaphor of treating a mental injury like a physical one, you still need to slowly rebuild strength in your injured limb. 

Also Reva dies in 9/11. I saw it coming, of course. But that is literally so ridiculous. I've never seen a book do a drive-by mention of 9/11, so that at least was a unique experience. 

Don't read this. It's boring and horrible. I'm sure there are better literary fiction books that you could be reading. 

 it felt crass just for the sake of it 70% of the time and only crass for a reason the rest of the 30%. the only time the vulgarity didn’t feel like shock value and actually felt like it had a meaningful purpose was the scene with the dog pissing on the ice. it felt like a prime representation of life’s “silliness” that made the main character so miserable.

i felt for the protagonist for the majority of the book (beginning and middle mainly) despite how bad of a person she was, but the ending made me actually hate her because imo it made it clear that she didn’t “heal” from the morbidities of the world at all, but rather she finally got to a place where she truly achieved being above it all.

a woman (possibly her old friend) plunged to her death, and the main character described her as beautiful and was in awe of seeing her be beautiful as she plummeted, in a way that felt like “damn. that could’ve been me but i’m not shallow and worldly anymore because i listen to the radio in the park while i feed the squirrels. this possible reva really should get her shit together like me, and maybe she wouldn’t have died in 9/11.”

maybe the main character having no real redemption was the whole point and was proof that she was really a lost cause, and that this “enlightenment” she experienced was only temporary. but if so, that just makes this book so unbelievably bleak, if all she is is a representation of how awful and inescapable american consumer culture is or whatever. like we all already know that