Book Review: My Year of Rest and Relaxation
Don’t judge a book by its cover.
I’m from Paris and I read a lot. So when I stepped into the Union Square shop of McNally Jackson during a recent trip to NYC, I felt like a kid in a candy shop; or more accurately, a 40-year-old woman in the essential oils aisle of a giant para-pharmacy.
When I saw My Year of Rest and Relaxation, I was completely drawn to it, though I wasn’t sure whether I wanted the book or the promise on its cover. But I didn’t overthink, I just grabbed it. In my defence, a few days later, when I had another female friend over for coffee at my Paris apartment, I caught her being drawn to it too. She picked it up and started looking. Can’t blame her. What could be more appealing to exhausted moms than a year of rest and relaxation?
Hate to break it to you ladies, but this book has nothing to do with that fantasy year of sleep-enhancing Himalayan salt lamps, holy cacao facials, or sound massages tuned to the frequency of your better version.
It’s actually a story about depression. It’s about a young woman’s struggle with the loss of her parents, an abusive boyfriend and the overstimulating lifestyle and shallow relationships NYC has to offer. So she casually decides to withdraw from life and literally descend into hibernation. With the help of hard psychotic drugs prescribed by a psychiatrist who seems more unhinged than she is, she numbs herself with scary cocktails of heavy drugs and blacks out for days in her Upper East Side apartment, just to.. well, hibernate.
So how can a book about depression be so fun to read?
That’s the talent of Ottessa Moshfegh. Her writing is sharp and witty with a perfect flow. She invites you into the depths of a character who, on paper, isn’t particularly relatable, quite weird even, but you just can’t help tag along. With a small, sharply written cast of side characters, spot-on NYC anecdotes, and brutal one-liners, she just nails it for me.
At first glance, the main character; a young, beautiful WASP, wealthy enough to afford to work an easy job at a Chelsea art gallery, has no obvious reason to throw her life away. Her best friend Reva, who actually has to work hard to get what she has simply been given (and is casually throwing away): a social status, a skinny body, rich person skin, and culture - because she works at an art gallery representing an artist literally jerking paint off his dick. But even Reva can’t help but tag along on her friend’s journey, like the rest of us.
After writing mine, I read a few reviews on the book and I was surprised to see how our main character was described so casually as spoiled or narcissistic. I may have my share of unhinged too, but as I kept reading, I just couldn’t help but admire her.
Don’t we all sometimes feel life gets too heavy to handle, and we just want to disappear? Doesn't the meaninglessness of life get so overwhelming sometimes that we simply want to skip it by hibernating? I remember, I did when I had two babies and no help. I wanted to just skip that part of life, hibernate. But I just couldn’t afford to drug myself away. She could. She actually had the guts to do it. Let’s face it: it is not an easy mission to intoxicate yourself the way she did. So… respect, I guess?
Also, I don’t think privileged people are less prone to depression. If anything, money gives more space and time to look for meaning in life that you may most probably not find. At least, not constantly. If you are working three jobs to feed your children, good for you, you’d be busy surviving. In the end, everyone gets a share of their challenges. But I totally get how neglectful, self-absorbed (and also dead) parents can lead to obsessing over a guy treating you like a glory hole and make you think that “his sadism is actually a satire of actual sadism.” And how a lot of money, inherited from abusive parents at a young age can completely work against you.
In the end, I didn’t simply just watch this girl throwing her life away, I got her. I don’t know what it says about me, but a little bit similar to the way her crazy psychiatrist did, I guess.
I absolutely loved the end of the book too. Ottessa gave us the perfect proof of meaningless of life and the irrelevance of what we desperately try to do in it, one way or the other, more precisely our character’s way or Reva’s.
Finally; in my opinion, this story could only happen in New York. I’m not from there, but I found myself thinking: only New York could mess someone up like this, and only a New York girl could react to it this way. Sometimes, the love-hate relationship between an author and a city makes for the best kind of novel. For me, this was as much a book about New York as about the girl lost in it.
Some Additional Notes:
I realised while writing this piece that our main character was the only one that wasn’t given a name in the book.
Despite the fact that it’s actually published years ago, I found that it’s still buzzing in the US. I think there is no reason why it shouldn’t buzz as much in Europe. I decided to publish this piece in French too.
A friend told me that my favourite contemporary director Yorgos Lanthimos was adapting the book into a movie. This is so exciting that I could totally hibernate until its release.
Can’t wait to read Eileen, please share your thoughts in the comment section.