Haven’t we all at some point wished, for one reason or another, that we could completely disengage from society and emerge as a new person? I certainly have. I wouldn’t have thought I would enjoy reading about that desire for 300 pages, yet here we are. I loved this book, in all its nihilistic glory.

I’ve never tabbed a book so much or so quickly in my life. As in: there’s a tab next to the first line of the first page and at countless points throughout. And, out of the three full blocks of colours that I used, an entire colour was dedicated to the narrator being awful; an awful friend, an awful person, just awful. Truthfully, I don’t think there’s a single likeable character in this novel. It’s wonderful.

Moshfegh’s imagery is spot on and I could picture every scene in vivid detail, including those I’d have preferred not to. I don’t think I could have picked a better time to read this book; as I laid in bed ill, having not moved for hours on end, I could get terrifyingly close to relating to the narrator. 

Along with the drugs, and the sleeping, and the miserable monotony, there’s the underlying foreshadowing around 9/11 which I think is laced beautifully throughout. I loved the final chapter, and the first chapter, and every chapter in between.

I haven’t felt so thoroughly engaged with a novel in a long time. This was my first book by the author and after this experience, it’s certainly not the last. A definite addition to the re-read pile, I already know I’m going to be talking about this for the rest of time.