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Moshfegh really has a knack for portraying scenes of destitution and squalor, images so grey and sad and repugnant in their mundanity that you just have to keep going to see where it all goes. Languid pacing that feels like wading through molasses suddenly shorn through with a shock of red hair, which then somehow descends into one of the most unexpected twists I'd read recently. The author really excels at expressing the inner thoughts of her protagonist, the titular Eileen, looking back at yet another sad and uneventful Christmas that was anything but.