![]() ![]() That, and her fascination with Whoopi Goldberg movies and the coffee from the store down the block is as much life as she can manage for now. Using a dodgy shrink with smelly cats to write prescriptions for side effects to her prescriptions, she gradually rabbit-holes into the sort of heavy drugs that feature sleepy eye and skull and crossbones symbols. ![]() In the style of those Eliots and Brontes and Austens where all the women do is loaf in living rooms fainting about with sewing waiting for men to come and buy them up, so our narrator flops in a modern-day fug, lifeless and without ambition. A grimy New York book is always a winner, and here Moshfegh takes the lethargy and defeatism of twentieth century East Coast living and rolls it up into her protagonist, a nameless, monied female narrator on the cusp of George W’s America, who decides that she needs to sleep the days away instead of engaging with any sort of life at all, for at least a year. ![]()
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