Unpacking the Vapid Layers of My Year of Rest and Relaxation
When I first picked up My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh, I was drawn in by the tantalizing premise: a young woman attempting to detach herself from the plethora of modern societal pressures through an unconventional year-long hibernation. Having enjoyed Moshfegh’s previous work, I expected to dive deep into a rich, unsettling exploration of identity and detachment—something along the lines of You Too Can Have a Body Like Mine. Instead, what I found was a frustrating 300-page nightmare of vapidity that left me wondering how this book had garnered such acclaim.
The plot centers around an exceptionally privileged narrator living in Manhattan, armed with an arsenal of prescription drugs and a cavalier attitude toward her own self-destruction. Conceptually, the exploration of mental health and societal disconnection could be compelling. However, I struggled to grasp the underlying substance here. The characters, particularly the protagonist, are strikingly unlikable. Moshfegh seems to relish in crafting characters that embody the worst facets of humanity, almost as if to prove a point about the ills of the affluent. Yet, as a reader, I found myself unable to empathize with them, leading to an emotionally hollow reading experience.
Moshfegh’s writing style is sharp and vivid, which could have served to elevate the overall narrative, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped in a haze of pretentious self-satisfaction. The descriptions often felt like they were inviting me to indulge in the grotesque without offering any deeper insights. It’s as if writing about “unlikable women” has become a badge of honor; Moshfegh’s dismissive tone toward the very concept left me longing for more complexity.
One can’t help but notice the critical praise surrounding this book, with readers noting its “dark humor” and “thought-provoking” elements. But I found myself questioning: what exactly am I supposed to be pondering here? The characters’ depravity might serve as a reflection of societal realities, but that doesn’t imbue the writing with intrinsic value. At one point, Moshfegh’s assertion in an interview sparked indignation within me, as she brushed off criticisms of her characters’ unlikability as “sexist and idiotic.” But aren’t we allowed to critique a character’s development? Just because a character is intentionally unlikeable doesn’t frame them as profound.
The much-discussed ending, where the narrator’s epiphany culminates in a juxtaposition of wakefulness and death, felt forced and shallow. Instead of evoking insight, I was left reeling from the sheer audacity of presenting such a trite conclusion as profound. The notion that a character, only recently awakened from a year of drug-induced slumber, can grasp the essence of life through a sensational tragedy felt more like a cheap literary trick than a genuine resolution.
So, who might find joy in My Year of Rest and Relaxation? Perhaps readers who revel in the discomfort of its characters or find themselves drawn to tales of social commentary wrapped in frosty self-absorption. However, for those of us seeking authentic engagement and emotional resonance from literature, my advice is to skip this one in favor of more enriching reads.
In the end, Moshfegh has undoubtedly sparked a widespread conversation about mental health and privilege, but I can’t help but feel that this book is a hollow vessel, masquerading as provocative. If it’s discomfort and darkness you’re seeking, I recommend diving into something much more fulfilling—like the captivating work of Nicole Krauss or the unsettling brilliance of Megan Abbott. Reading should evoke emotions beyond rage and disbelief; it should offer us something to carry beyond the page.
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