on my year of rest and relaxation by ottessa moshfegh

thoughts are short and scattered and unrefined; wrote this in late february.

i thought my year of rest and relaxation was a mediocre book. before i launch into my thoughts, here’s also my take on reflections in general: my reflections are never going to be objective evaluations. before i dive into a book i carry certain expectations / reasons for reading them and so my review of them, in part, is also a review of whether the book has superseded my expectations. it’s not all about how clever the author is but more so to do with how it made me feel.

and my year of rest and relaxation made me feel nothing. it was plotless, which i understand was kind of the point, mirroring how the protagonist (who is unnamed) wallows in fields of indifference and unconsciousness. i found the constant descriptions of drug consumption repetitive and tedious to read, and the dull monotony of her voice echoed how i felt inside. it was not escapism, and for once, the fact that it was relatable did not make me feel better. i am in the midst of disapproving the romanticisation and glorification of my own sadness and yet continuing to indulge in it; the protagonist condemns herself to the confines of her nihilism, and lingering in pools of melancholy as if they represent an eternal state of mind should not be justified when one is from such a privileged position, when they have infinite resources to try and change the situation.

also, for the writing of the book itself – it was ordinary compared to the beautiful prose of writers such as adichie and hosseini. i found the ending rushed, like moshfegh was trying to come up with something deep but ended up looking hastily unplanned.

this was nevertheless an enjoyable read, but i think it appeals more to people who have a surface worldview and think they’re really deep for reading something that doesn’t conform to the fluffy world of romantic YA literature they’re so accustomed to.

a quote from the book sums itself out – ‘art that was supposed to be subversive, irreverent, shocking, but was all just canned counterculture crap’. there it is!