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. 

The protagonist, as with the author’s other book Eileen, is resentful and bitter, but her unlikableness is balanced by her sharp wit and humor. Her dark and idiosyncratic view of life, along with the periods of piecing together things she has done but can’t remember, is reminiscent of Fight Club. The tone, nihilism with an edge of hope, is similar too. Overall this book is interesting, unique and worthwhile if you can go along for the ride.

I really do not like the implications this book is making, like at all. I'm not sure if that's just how I'm reading it all, but to me, the book is sort of implying that the protagonist, who's nameless (which tbh feels like an on the nose reference to The Stranger, tho I haven't seen anything from the author about referencing that book or anything; I'll go back to this point in a bit), got better and started somewhat appreciating things only after she had this year of isolating herself and making herself feel absolutely nothing. Only after she fully disconnected herself from the world did she start to somewhat appreciate it, and that makes no fucking sense. To me at least. I have very strong sentiments against nihilism, and that whole "oh nothing really matters its all so absurd and meaningless anyways" kind of rethoric, to me it's simply a stupid way to look at the world and a quick ass way to turn you into a depressed, cruel person. The meanest, most questionable people I've met all subscribe to that rethoric, they were all people who were outright mean and did so many questionable things, and when asked about any regrets or conscience about their actions, they'd just answer "we're all gonna die anyways, aren't we?" and i hate that, more than anything in this world. If you know ANYTHING about human beings you'd know we're social beings, even the most introverted of people need someone around, need company. Isolating yourself from everyone? Yeah, you're just stripping yourself from the things that MAKE YOU human. I was ranting about this book once and I remember saying something like, the worst thing that happened to this woman was being human, she sees being human as this curse that she's bound to, she sees her grief as a curse, as something to be rid of, when that's just so not how you deal with these types of things. Emotions, as painful as they may be, are part of what makes us human, and outright rejecting them and trying to push them away, trying to pretend they don't exist by sleeping them away, is NOT how you deal with them. If an emotion is too painful, too much to deal with, you wanna learn how to manage the pain, how to reconcile with the emotion itself and be in a conversation with the emotion, not simply push it away and expect life to be beautiful after you've done so.

I was talking to a friend who loves this book, and she told me that what she loves about this book is the unapologetic portrayal of depression, and that it gave her a sense of safety in that she doesn't feel she HAS to be the best of people when she's depressed, that reading about this absolute asshole of a person made her realise she doesn't owe anyone anything, doesn't owe anyone being a perfect victim, in her depression. I disagree with her to an extent. I can appreciate that this book offers an unapologetic portrayal of depression (and narcissism, but that's another conversation entirely) that would normally never be portrayed, because it's true, people don't usually write books about what happens when assholes are depressed and reading about any perspective is always a good way to understand other people. I also agree that people don't owe anyone a "perfect victim" attitude; people who are depressed, are in a process of grief, or just genuinely aren't having the best of times in their lives, don't owe anyone perfection and they get to make mistakes and be angry and be mean, cus after all they're human beings who are dealing with complicated shit and are bound to make mistakes. What I don't like is what people are taking out of the book BECAUSE of the implications the ending of the book makes.

We do owe each other things. Not perfection, but we do owe each other. We owe each other kindness, we owe each other respect, we owe each other generousness. We owe each other the ability to make mistakes AND the ability to recognise those mistakes and apologise when appropriate. We owe each other patience when someone is going through a difficult time in their lives, and we owe each other accountability and gratefulness when we're the ones going through hard times and people are sticking to our side. This book is saying we don't. Reva, the only character with any fucking braincells that are willing to go through any human emotions at all, is never given the grace that our MC is, and the moment that she is given that grace? At the end, quite literally when she dies, after the MC has pratically stopped talking to her. That's not how human empathy works. Your empathy is like a muscle. If you distance yourself from people, isolate yourself, stop talking to anyone and make a cocoon out of your home, your empathy will loose strength and the connections you make with people will be weaker, you won't give them the same slack or grace you'd give them when surrounding yourself with humanity. That whole "Reva is beautiful" shit? Would be more likely to happen after Reva and our MC hang out a lot than after they've stopped talking.

Have you never ended up being friends with someone you used to hate? Have you never ended up appreciating things about someone you thought were annoying as fuck? Have you never gotten soft on someone after seeing how utterly human they are, just like you? Embracing your humanity (and that of others) is what makes life beautiful to live, NOT the other way around. Which is what this book is trying to imply. You know what I think would happen to the MC? After the ending, sometime in the future? I think she'd crash. She'd have a massive mental breakdown where all her repressed emotions catch up to her, and either she embraces them and learns to live with them, learns to embrace her humanity, or she'd have another "year of rest and relaxation". This "method" of hers is, realistically, the worst way someone can deal with their grief and their pain. And worst of all its not even realistic, cus let's be fucking real w each other NO ONE has enough money to sustain themselves through a "year of rest and relaxation" like this mf does. You wanna know why rich people get depressed? Because they try so hard to distance themselves from the rest of the world that they strip themselves of their humanity in the process. Think you're better than 99.9% of the world? Think you're different than them? The only way to make yourself different from literally ALL of humanity is to strip your humanity away. Which is what rich people do. They get rid of their empathy, their kindness, and their generosity, and THAT is what makes rich people depressed. They're making themselves miserable in an attempt to distance themselves from the rest of the world. It's honestly embarrassing. And y'know what? That's exactly what this woman is doing.

I HATE to see this book on Instagram posts of "thought daughter bookshelf" or any posts that imply that if you read this book, enjoy it and analyse it or whatever, you know something the rest of us don't, you're more intellectual than the rest of us. What's so intellectual about dehumanising yourself? What's so secret and fun and elite about denying yourself the beautiful thing that are emotions? I learnt absolutely nothing from this book. Literally nothing. If anything, I learnt to be wary of people who take the message of this book to heart, because it's do not want to be close to people who don't even give themselves the privilege of feeling human just to make themselves feel better than the rest of us. How desperate do you have to be, to make yourself feel better, superior, than the average person, that you'd go so far as to dehumanise yourself to do so?

I draw comparison with the book The Stranger cus tbf, they are quite similar. Both the protagonists don't have a name, both books have this topic of absurdism and somewhat nihilism. But there's a very, VERY big difference between the two and that is that The Stranger knows this kinda life is bullshit and not worth living. In The Stranger, the character by himself (as in, he's not actively trying to make this his situation) does not feel anything at all, can't bring himself to care about anything, and once the consequences of not caring about anything catch up to him, it's already too late. The Stranger looks at all the "oh life is meaningless we're all gonna die anyways" and says yeah no that's absolute fucking bs, this is what happens when you subscribe to that kinda rethoric. And the guy is miserable when all the consequences of "not caring" catch up to him, he's desperate for ANY human connection, ANY emotions. In My Year of Rest and Relaxation... that does not happen. The MC is actively making herself apathetic, actively ridding herself of any and all human emotions she could possibly feel and only ever surviving instead of living, and by the end of it she's... happy? She appreciates life? She sees beauty in things? I call absolute fucking bs on that. My Year of Rest and Relaxation is implying that by doing the same thing the MC does you'll get to a point of bliss, that by isolating yourself life will eventually be worth living and you'll be a better person and you'll get all these epiphanies and whatever tf not. The Stranger says the truth, which is, if you try to do the same shit as the MC, you'll be fucking miserable as shit. So. Yeah. I call bullshit on this book, but at least I can appreciate the accurate portrayal of how much of an asshole rich people distancing themselves from humanity can be. Just adding up more reasons to eat the rich!

This was a grueling read with a detestable main character and disgusting events. I could barely put it down. I found it well written, stuffed (over-stuffed?) with references and connections to other works so the themes were always exploding outwards in many directions. Honestly not sure how sincerely I should take

the inner peace at the end as a sign of redemption

but I found it to be pretty satisfactory. I feel like this demands a reread but I'll have to muster up some major fortitude before I can attempt it. I read the back 2/3 in quarantine which definitely contributed to the atmosphere, Would recommend if you have COVID. 

Slow but worth the read. The ending was okay.