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3.57 AVERAGE
3.57 AVERAGE
I'm very late to the game with this one, (published in 2016) but glad that it's given me scope to make some comparisons to books that hadn't been published then. There was some commentary on Goodreads about how people were directed to this book because of David Sedaris and I could only assume he quietly revelled in the macabre that Moshfegh had the gumption to pursue.
I loved every line of this. Eileen, the character might just be my favourite anti hero ever. Mostly I just loved how it was written. Moshfegh sets the scene so well; it's so well constructed, so well structured.
Eileen is written from the point of view of old lady Eileen recalling her depraved life when she was 24. It's first person singular, and told as though she's personally recounting the story to us, the reader. It's an intimate telling.
It's set in December, in particular late December in 1964 - the week before Christmas. This is the story, she tells us, of how she disappeared.
She lived with her father, an ex cop alcoholic. Everything about her home and family life was "grimy, ruined, frozen." Eileen is obsessed with her looks, weight, appearance in a manner not unlike the heroine of Ferrante's "The Lying Life of Adults." You can also spot the exact germ of an idea for "My year of rest and relaxation" about two thirds in.
Moshfegh doesn't waste any time getting into the gruesome. First we're picturing a fairly normal protagonist with a rich inner life living an uninspired life, and next thing she's picturing icicles slicing through her breasts, shoulders or brain. In the end, the icicle does get her but not as she thinks it will. She often feels like slamming the door but doesn't in case the icicle cuts through her collarbone.
She has a little dead mouse in the glove compartment of her car which she looks at from time to time to remind herself: Glad I'm not you. She feels the same way about the boys in the child prison she works in. At first she loved reading their files for the crimes they committed but after a while, they became "old hat" to her. Eileen has no empathy. She's completely shameless about it, to us, her confidante. To her colleagues, she wears her "death mask" (a "fake it til you make it" concept to protect the sensitivity of her soul being pierced by others) while to us, she reveals the inane rules of the prison (7 minutes per visit, shaking down of visitors, being sent to the cave for the mildest of misdemeanours). She wears her dead mother's clothes and steals lipsticks. She's an accomplished shoplifter. Eileen is gross. Malnourished, lonely, desperate. You'd never want to be her or be near her. So this is exactly why it's so strange that Rebecca takes such a shine to her.
There are eerie clues on every page that lend a sense of foreboding towards what will happen in this noir novel. What's embarrassing for me is that Moshfegh wrote it to garner commercial acclaim so that she could live off writing books, the type of books she actually wanted to write. She bought a book called "90 day novel" as a joke, followed it for a couple of months and ended up finding it pretty interesting to see how freedom of expression can come from such boundaries (It ended up being an oulipian thing). She was cringing at the thought of the Booker people finding out Eileen's humble / sardonic / greedy origins.
I should probably be more embarrassed that I was ready to herald this as a literary masterpiece when the author herself has said it’s anything but, but I’m not. I really enjoyed every single word she wrote, the richness of the characters and pace of the plot. It’s great. You should read it.
I loved every line of this. Eileen, the character might just be my favourite anti hero ever. Mostly I just loved how it was written. Moshfegh sets the scene so well; it's so well constructed, so well structured.
Eileen is written from the point of view of old lady Eileen recalling her depraved life when she was 24. It's first person singular, and told as though she's personally recounting the story to us, the reader. It's an intimate telling.
It's set in December, in particular late December in 1964 - the week before Christmas. This is the story, she tells us, of how she disappeared.
She lived with her father, an ex cop alcoholic. Everything about her home and family life was "grimy, ruined, frozen." Eileen is obsessed with her looks, weight, appearance in a manner not unlike the heroine of Ferrante's "The Lying Life of Adults." You can also spot the exact germ of an idea for "My year of rest and relaxation" about two thirds in.
Moshfegh doesn't waste any time getting into the gruesome. First we're picturing a fairly normal protagonist with a rich inner life living an uninspired life, and next thing she's picturing icicles slicing through her breasts, shoulders or brain. In the end, the icicle does get her but not as she thinks it will. She often feels like slamming the door but doesn't in case the icicle cuts through her collarbone.
She has a little dead mouse in the glove compartment of her car which she looks at from time to time to remind herself: Glad I'm not you. She feels the same way about the boys in the child prison she works in. At first she loved reading their files for the crimes they committed but after a while, they became "old hat" to her. Eileen has no empathy. She's completely shameless about it, to us, her confidante. To her colleagues, she wears her "death mask" (a "fake it til you make it" concept to protect the sensitivity of her soul being pierced by others) while to us, she reveals the inane rules of the prison (7 minutes per visit, shaking down of visitors, being sent to the cave for the mildest of misdemeanours). She wears her dead mother's clothes and steals lipsticks. She's an accomplished shoplifter. Eileen is gross. Malnourished, lonely, desperate. You'd never want to be her or be near her. So this is exactly why it's so strange that Rebecca takes such a shine to her.
There are eerie clues on every page that lend a sense of foreboding towards what will happen in this noir novel. What's embarrassing for me is that Moshfegh wrote it to garner commercial acclaim so that she could live off writing books, the type of books she actually wanted to write. She bought a book called "90 day novel" as a joke, followed it for a couple of months and ended up finding it pretty interesting to see how freedom of expression can come from such boundaries (It ended up being an oulipian thing). She was cringing at the thought of the Booker people finding out Eileen's humble / sardonic / greedy origins.
I should probably be more embarrassed that I was ready to herald this as a literary masterpiece when the author herself has said it’s anything but, but I’m not. I really enjoyed every single word she wrote, the richness of the characters and pace of the plot. It’s great. You should read it.
dark
mysterious
reflective
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
dark
emotional
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Should've been 100 pages shorter. Pacing is a thing, Ottessa.
In the end I don't think this is as brilliant as her novella McGlue, although that novella set the bar very, very high.
There's a monotony to Eileen's obsession with excreta. But really, the trouble is in the novel/novella difference. In a novella, something has already happened at the outset, and the gradual way Mossfegh let readers see why McGlue was standing trial for murder was remarkable. But with the progressively unfolding action of a novel she's not as skilled.
But here Mossfegh is really good at capturing a certain kind of in-turned aggression and morose delectation, plus all the ways Eileen hopelessly attempts to use those to connect to people.
Here is Eileen, struck dumb in the presence of her friend-crush: "I had nothing to contribute. I tried, pathetically, to make up for my flatness with self-pity. 'I don't get out much,' I told her."
If I had a nickel for every time I've tried (and failed with) this exact gambit... I wish I were kidding.
There's a monotony to Eileen's obsession with excreta. But really, the trouble is in the novel/novella difference. In a novella, something has already happened at the outset, and the gradual way Mossfegh let readers see why McGlue was standing trial for murder was remarkable. But with the progressively unfolding action of a novel she's not as skilled.
But here Mossfegh is really good at capturing a certain kind of in-turned aggression and morose delectation, plus all the ways Eileen hopelessly attempts to use those to connect to people.
Here is Eileen, struck dumb in the presence of her friend-crush: "I had nothing to contribute. I tried, pathetically, to make up for my flatness with self-pity. 'I don't get out much,' I told her."
If I had a nickel for every time I've tried (and failed with) this exact gambit... I wish I were kidding.
Another self-loathing girly narrative similar to My Year of Rest and Relaxation.
This book is not for everyone, it was mega bleak and unhinged. I almost called it quits but held on because if Olivia Rodrigo recommended the book then it must be good right?
The writing was fantastic but the plot was very loosey goosey here, maybe I should’ve saved this one for spooky season.
3/5 ⭐️
This book is not for everyone, it was mega bleak and unhinged. I almost called it quits but held on because if Olivia Rodrigo recommended the book then it must be good right?
The writing was fantastic but the plot was very loosey goosey here, maybe I should’ve saved this one for spooky season.
3/5 ⭐️
Dark, dirty and sinister. Great details in the telling.
dark
funny
mysterious
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
I think we all have a bit of Eileen within us