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A review by boxcar
Lapvona by Ottessa Moshfegh
dark
funny
mysterious
sad
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.75
Wow. Moshfegh is such a good writer. Such a fucked up book, on all fronts, but it retains a semblance of humor and the tragedy and repulsive elements aren't overwrought, somehow. The characters all suck. Some suck because they exert terrible evils upon others, abuse their undue powers, whether as a man or a king, on those stripped of agency; some suck because they accept and honor the squalid state they live in. Obviously the former is a hell of a lot more despicable than the latter, if it needs to be said. Still, I'm not sure there is a good character in this book. There are victims, and each character (save the lord, Villiam) endures immense hardship and suffers more than any human should in any just world.
Somehow, Moshfegh manages to level the playing field by imbuing something fucked up in everyone. The baseline is way underground; good in this world is criminal, depraved in mine. This fact makes what happens even more shocking! In a world of depravity, men and specifically men with power still push the bar even further beneath Earth's crust, still demolish even the most abhorrent norms, making the sinful seem to be saints. There is whimsy where suffering should be, flippancy where grave detail should lie. The dissonance is carefully crafted and poignant. As I was reading I realized that I had in a way adjusted my own morals, shifted the purview of what I thought good and right and the space I thought bad and wrong. I was immersed in the world, and I came to sympathize, if not fully, more than I would expect to, with some of the flawed characters whose actions, in my reality, in real life, would be more than enough for me to condemn without thinking twice. Is this my brain grasping for hope, for something to root for? Or is it the fallible nature of our minds, our ability and curse to adapt and integrate ourselves into systems of pain and unfairness? I have no fucking clue what the answer is, and it's certainly nothing quite so profound. It's probably that I was enraptured with the book, the writing, and forgot reality for a beat. Still, I'm not sure the last time I was so immediately and hungrily inward in reply to a novel. Why is that?
I think that can be faithfully attributed to the tone in contrast to the plot and characters. Dissonance, I mentioned earlier, may be the word I ascribe with the most confidence to this book. A fairy tale where no one is a hero and everyone is a scoundrel, to put it lightly. Still, she manages to keep it a fairy tale! She writes such horrid things, but spends no time on them, simply introduces horrors and abominations to everything we and/or I hold to be right and estimable. It has all the elements of a fairy tale: the vaguely medieval setting, a king/lord, ambiguous heirs, a mysterious and witchy old lady, peasants and a hint of magic. But everything and everyone is horrible.
I'm writing in circles, because I guess I'm figuring out what I reaped from the story as I write about it. All I know is that I got something, and I can't say that for every book, or even most books I've read. I wouldn't call this an enjoyable read, even though it gets much closer to enjoyable than the subject matter and plot should allow. I'd certainly call it a great book, though.
Somehow, Moshfegh manages to level the playing field by imbuing something fucked up in everyone. The baseline is way underground; good in this world is criminal, depraved in mine. This fact makes what happens even more shocking! In a world of depravity, men and specifically men with power still push the bar even further beneath Earth's crust, still demolish even the most abhorrent norms, making the sinful seem to be saints. There is whimsy where suffering should be, flippancy where grave detail should lie. The dissonance is carefully crafted and poignant. As I was reading I realized that I had in a way adjusted my own morals, shifted the purview of what I thought good and right and the space I thought bad and wrong. I was immersed in the world, and I came to sympathize, if not fully, more than I would expect to, with some of the flawed characters whose actions, in my reality, in real life, would be more than enough for me to condemn without thinking twice. Is this my brain grasping for hope, for something to root for? Or is it the fallible nature of our minds, our ability and curse to adapt and integrate ourselves into systems of pain and unfairness? I have no fucking clue what the answer is, and it's certainly nothing quite so profound. It's probably that I was enraptured with the book, the writing, and forgot reality for a beat. Still, I'm not sure the last time I was so immediately and hungrily inward in reply to a novel. Why is that?
I think that can be faithfully attributed to the tone in contrast to the plot and characters. Dissonance, I mentioned earlier, may be the word I ascribe with the most confidence to this book. A fairy tale where no one is a hero and everyone is a scoundrel, to put it lightly. Still, she manages to keep it a fairy tale! She writes such horrid things, but spends no time on them, simply introduces horrors and abominations to everything we and/or I hold to be right and estimable. It has all the elements of a fairy tale: the vaguely medieval setting, a king/lord, ambiguous heirs, a mysterious and witchy old lady, peasants and a hint of magic. But everything and everyone is horrible.
I'm writing in circles, because I guess I'm figuring out what I reaped from the story as I write about it. All I know is that I got something, and I can't say that for every book, or even most books I've read. I wouldn't call this an enjoyable read, even though it gets much closer to enjoyable than the subject matter and plot should allow. I'd certainly call it a great book, though.