I am back from two weeks in Colombia, which were not exactly two weeks of rest and relaxation. But I have my new laptop, finally! I also had lots of time to catch up on reading – I’ve finally caught up with my “reading goal” (SNORT) after being behind it for most of the year. Oh wait, I just checked and I’m still one book behind. Not that it matters. Not that anything matters, amirite? Haha, maybe I’m just feeling the effects of the novel I just finished, or I’m still stupefied from jetlag/general travel exhaustion. I thought I’d beat the jetlag, but I think what’s really made me tired was all the transfers that my v. cheap tickets involved. That or the two teens sitting behind me on one flight playing Who Wants to be a Millionaire on the in-seat console for nine straight hours, poking and prodding the back of my seat with their over-enthusiastic fingers. Or the heatwave, which seems to have finally ended. Anyway.
MY YEAR OF REST AND RELAXATION (Ottessa Moshfegh)
If I were an annoying, pretentious book reviewer (which I clearly am, OBVIOUSLY!), I would call this A MILLENIAL CLASSIC. Or maybe A CLASSIC OF THE MILLENIAL ERA sounds better? But seriously, I found something so deliciously liberating and relatable and ANTI CAPITALIST in this novel about a woman who decides to sleep her life away, in an attempt to achieve a metamorphosis of some sorts. An emergence from a cocoon, etc.
I initially thought this book was only going to take place in her apartment (man, that would have been a challenge! A novel where a character never leaves the room and never interacts with anyone? Could it work? I guess it would be very “experimental”), so I was pleasantly surprised to see her interacting regularly with her best friend, her shitty ex-boyfriend, and even venturing outwards from time to time, as the result of an extremely powerful sleeping pill that causes her to sleepwalk, sleep-shop, sleep-club, etc.
I really loved the narrator in this – it’s truly her voice that makes the book, i.e. her complete lack of interest in anything other than sleeping. I kept laughing at how callous she was towards her best friend.
Some of the most powerful passages come near the end, when the narrator is in a museum looking at art (she studied art history, worked in a museum before deciding to hibernate, and tellingly wonders early on in the book if she should have been an artist, had she had the talent). It’s a long passage, but I’m going to type up the whole thing, because I like it (especially the description of painting as a ‘distraction’). Looking at the paintings, she wonders about the artists:
“Did they want more? Could they have painted better, more generously, more clearly? Could they have dropped more fruit from their windows? Did they know that glory was mundane? Did they wish they’d crushed those withered grapes between their fingers and spent their days walking through fields of grass or being in love or confessing their delusions to a priest or starving like the hungry souls they were, begging for alms in the city square with some honesty for once? Maybe they’d lived wrongly. Their greatness might have poisoned them. Did they wonder about things like that? Maybe they couldn’t sleep at night. Were they plagued by nightmares? Maybe they understood, in fact, that beauty and meaning had nothing to do with one another. Maybe they lived as real artists knowing all along that there were no pearly gates. Neither creation nor sacrifice could lead a person to heaven. Or maybe not. Maybe, in the morning, they were aloof and happy to distract themselves with their brushes and oils, to mix their colors and smoke their pipes and go back to their fresh still lifes without having to swat away any more flies.” (286)
People will be writing dissertations about this book, I think, and what it says about “modern life” and “women in fiction,” etc.
Other quotes I liked:
“Since adolescence, I’d vacillated between wanting to look like the spoiled WASP that I was and the bum that I felt I was and should have been if I’d had any courage… I thought if I did normal things – held down a job, for example – I could starve off the part of me that hated everything. If I had been a man, I may have turned to a life of crime. But I looked like an off-duty model.” (35)
“Having a trash chute was one of my favorite things about my building. It made me feel important, like I was participating in the world. My trash mixed with the trash of others. The things I touched touched things other people had touched. I was contributing. I was connecting.” (115)
“I could think of feeling, emotions, but I couldn’t bring them up in me. I couldn’t even locate where my emotions came from. My brain? It made no sense. Irritation was what I knew best.” (137)