My Year of Rest and Relaxation isn’t a novel of either-or’s, but rather of messy middles. It follows a year in the life of a 20-something New York heiress who decides to drug herself into sleep for a year (with the aid of an unethical, conspiracy-addled psychiatrist) because she doesn’t like her life very much. That premise–and Ottessa Moshfegh’s almost gleeful execution of it–will horrify you. It will likely repulse you. And yet, from the first words on the first page, My Year of Rest and Relaxation is hypnotically readable, even enjoyable. My sense of anxiety and distaste never lessened, but it’s still, somehow, one of my can’t-miss novel recommendations of the year.
You can read my full review of this unforgettable novel below.
My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh
- publisher: Penguin Press
- publication date: July 10, 2018
- length: 304 pages
- cover price: $26.00
But coming out of that sleep was excruciating. My entire life flashed before my eyes in the worst way possible, my mind refilling itself with all my lame memories, every little thing that had brought me to where I was. I’d try to remember something else–a better version, a happy story, maybe, or just an equally lame but different life that would at least be refreshing in its digressions–but it never worked. I was always still me.
—My Year of Rest and Relaxation, page 40
From June 1999 to June 2000, the narrator of My Year of Rest and Relaxation decides to sleep. She’s an heiress to a lot of money. She’s a Columbia art history graduate. She has a nice apartment in Manhattan and a cushy job at a pretentiously “edgy” art gallery. Her parents are dead. She hates her best friend. She is an utterly intolerable person and seems to know it. So she sleeps in an attempt to start over, with the help of a psychiatrist so incompetent it’s almost malicious.
You would be forgiven, after hearing the premise, for thinking that My Year of Rest and Relaxation is a magical realist fairy tale. How else could someone sleep for a year? The answer is that the narrator doesn’t, exactly: she naps and sleeps and blacks out and visits the bodega and watches movies and starts the cycle over again. If the plot is dreamy, the novel’s feel is not; in fact, it is almost oppressively real, especially as it’s grounded in the quirks and side effects of psychotropic medications.
My Year of Rest and Relaxation name-checks all sorts of pop and high culture references with the density and playfulness of a Hollywood satire. (In fact, its closest tonal match is probably Netflix’s depressing-but-beautiful Hollywood sitcom Bojack Horseman.) It skewers the art world, skewers wealth, skewers college, skewers dating, skewers shopping, and skewers psychiatry.
It even skewers the omnipresence of 9/11 in pop culture: as the novel progresses, the clock runs ever-closer to September 2001, and Ottessa Moshfegh gently toys with her readers with references to Zeno’s paradox of ever-halving time and an anti-terrorism taskforce that’s quartered in the Twin Towers. I was torn between marveling at Moshfegh’s talented satire and also feeling profoundly rubbed the wrong way by it. I think that’s the point. (To be clear, Moshfegh does not make light of 9/11–quite the opposite–but if you’re disturbed by reading some dark humor about the event, this novel likely isn’t for you.)
The emotional heft of the novel lies in the narrator’s relationship with her best friend, Reva, who visits the narrator frequently while she is “sleeping.” Reva adores her. She loathes Reva. Their push-and-pull–the (unnamed) narrator’s a WASP, Reva is an out-of-place Jew; the narrator is effortlessly thin, Reva is bulimic; Reva’s mother is dying, the narrator’s parents are already dead–allows Moshfegh to ruthlessly probe at the characters themselves and at broader archetypes about women in New York. Neither Reva nor the narrator is a good person. You don’t particularly enjoy spending time with them. Yet I felt an intense, almost mothering connection to both that kept me tethered to the novel no matter how far out it gets.
My biggest discomfort with My Year of Rest and Relaxation is a profoundly personal one. Many of the drugs that the narrator is prescribed for her “insomnia” are drugs I’ve taken myself for my very real bipolar disorder: lithium, Seroquel, trazodone, and Risperdal, for one, though the list goes on a lot further than that. As the narrator describes her weight loss, her wan-ness, her nausea, her atrophy, I became overwhelmingly angry. Psychotropic meds are horrible. If I didn’t need them, I wouldn’t take them. It’s a deep conflict I have within myself that I am an enormous advocate for mental health treatment, and also someone who loathes taking my meds.
In light of that, reading about a privileged skinny white girl taking those meds and dealing with their side effects for fun–or rather, not quite for fun, as she’s clearly struggling, but also not quite because she needs them–made me irritable. It got under my skin. It gave me bad dreams last night, not to mention all of the other disturbing things about the novel that bothered me, too.
And yet I am immensely grateful to have read My Year of Rest and Relaxation.
Ottessa Moshfegh is a writer so talented that I felt literally dazzled, like I couldn’t look at a page too long or it might burn me. There is not a word out of place here. There is not a single careless joke or plot point, although the narrator as a character is deeply careless. It’s a marvel to watch the pieces fit together.
My Year of Rest and Relaxation is as skillfully, intensely drawn as Escher art. It will befuddle you the longer you think about it, so don’t think: just read. Moshfegh’s protagonist may be busy wasting her life, but while reading about it, I only felt more intensely alive. ★★★★★
Related books you might also enjoy:
- The Answers by Catherine Lacey
- literally show me a healthy person by Darcie Wilder
- Sweetbitter by Stephanie Danler
My copy of My Year of Rest and Relaxation came from my local library and I was in no way compensated for this review.