My Year of Rest and Relaxation
A Novel
(Sprache: Englisch)
Entertainment Weekly's #1 Book of 2018
"One of the most compelling protagonists modern fiction has offered in years: a loopy, quietly furious pillhead whose Ambien ramblings and Xanaxed b*tcheries somehow wend their way through sad and funny and strange...
"One of the most compelling protagonists modern fiction has offered in years: a loopy, quietly furious pillhead whose Ambien ramblings and Xanaxed b*tcheries somehow wend their way through sad and funny and strange...
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Entertainment Weekly's #1 Book of 2018"One of the most compelling protagonists modern fiction has offered in years: a loopy, quietly furious pillhead whose Ambien ramblings and Xanaxed b*tcheries somehow wend their way through sad and funny and strange toward something genuinely profound."
- Entertainment Weekly
From one of our boldest, most celebrated new literary voices, a novel about a young woman's efforts to duck the ills of the world by embarking on an extended hibernation with the help of one of the worst psychiatrists in the annals of literature and the battery of medicines she prescribes.
Our narrator should be happy, shouldn't she? She's young, thin, pretty, a recent Columbia graduate, works an easy job at a hip art gallery, lives in an apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan paid for, like the rest of her needs, by her inheritance. But there is a dark and vacuous hole in her heart, and it isn't just the loss of her parents, or the way her Wall Street boyfriend treats her, or her sadomasochistic relationship with her best friend, Reva. It's the year 2000 in a city aglitter with wealth and possibility; what could be so terribly wrong?
My Year of Rest and Relaxation is a powerful answer to that question. Through the story of a year spent under the influence of a truly mad combination of drugs designed to heal our heroine from her alienation from this world, Moshfegh shows us how reasonable, even necessary, alienation can be. Both tender and blackly funny, merciless and compassionate, it is a showcase for the gifts of one of our major writers working at the height of her powers.
Named a Best Book of the Year by:
The Washington Post, Time, NPR, Amazon,Vice, Bustle, The New York Times, The Guardian, Kirkus Reviews, Entertainment Weekly, The AV Club, & Audible
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Onewhenever i woke up, night or day, I'd shuffle through the bright marble foyer of my building and go up the block and around the corner where there was a bodega that never closed. I'd get two large coffees with cream and six sugars each, chug the first one in the elevator on the way back up to my apartment, then sip the second one slowly while I watched movies and ate animal crackers and took trazodone and Ambien and Nembutal until I fell asleep again. I lost track of time in this way. Days passed. Weeks. A few months went by. When I thought of it, I ordered delivery from the Thai restaurant across the street, or a tuna salad platter from the diner on First Avenue. I'd wake up to find voice messages on my cell phone from salons or spas confirming appointments I'd booked in my sleep. I always called back to cancel, which I hated doing because I hated talking to people.
Early on in this phase, I had my dirty laundry picked up and clean laundry delivered once a week. It was a comfort to me to hear the torn plastic bags rustle in the draft from the living room windows. I liked catching whiffs of the fresh laundry smell while I dozed off on the sofa. But after a while, it was too much trouble to gather up all the dirty clothes and stuff them in the laundry bag. And the sound of my own washer and dryer interfered with my sleep. So I just threw away my dirty underpants. All the old pairs reminded me of Trevor, anyway. For a while, tacky lingerie from Victoria's Secret kept showing up in the mail-frilly fuchsia and lime green thongs and teddies and baby-doll nightgowns, each sealed in a clear plastic Baggie. I stuffed the little Baggies into the closet and went commando. An occasional package from Barneys or Saks provided me with men's pajamas and other things I couldn't remember ordering-cashmere socks, graphic T-shirts, designer jeans.
I took a shower once a week at most. I stopped tweezing, stopped bleaching, stopped waxing, stopped brushing my hair. No
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moisturizing or exfoliating. No shaving. I left the apartment infrequently. I had all my bills on automatic payment plans. I'd already paid a year of property taxes on my apartment and on my dead parents' old house upstate. Rent money from the tenants in that house showed up in my checking account by direct deposit every month. Unemployment was rolling in as long as I made the weekly call into the automated service and pressed "1" for "yes" when the robot asked if I'd made a sincere effort to find a job. That was enough to cover the copayments on all my prescriptions, and whatever I picked up at the bodega. Plus, I had investments. My dead father's financial advisor kept track of all that and sent me quarterly statements that I never read. I had plenty of money in my savings account, too-enough to live on for a few years as long as I didn't do anything spectacular. On top of all this, I had a high credit limit on my Visa card. I wasn't worried about money.
I had started "hibernating" as best I could in mid-June of 2000. I was twenty-four years old. I watched summer die and autumn turn cold and gray through a broken slat in the blinds. My muscles withered. The sheets on my bed yellowed, although I usually fell asleep in front of the television on the sofa, which was from Pottery Barn and striped blue and white and sagging and covered in coffee and sweat stains.
I didn't do much in my waking hours besides watch movies. I couldn't stand to watch regular television. Especially at the beginning, TV aroused too much in me, and I'd get compulsive about the remote, clicking around, scoffing at everything and agitating myself. I couldn't handle it. The only news I could read were
I had started "hibernating" as best I could in mid-June of 2000. I was twenty-four years old. I watched summer die and autumn turn cold and gray through a broken slat in the blinds. My muscles withered. The sheets on my bed yellowed, although I usually fell asleep in front of the television on the sofa, which was from Pottery Barn and striped blue and white and sagging and covered in coffee and sweat stains.
I didn't do much in my waking hours besides watch movies. I couldn't stand to watch regular television. Especially at the beginning, TV aroused too much in me, and I'd get compulsive about the remote, clicking around, scoffing at everything and agitating myself. I couldn't handle it. The only news I could read were
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Autoren-Porträt von Ottessa Moshfegh
Ottessa Moshfegh
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Ottessa Moshfegh
- 2019, 304 Seiten, Masse: 12,8 x 19,3 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: Penguin US
- ISBN-10: 0525522131
- ISBN-13: 9780525522133
- Erscheinungsdatum: 03.08.2023
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
I don't think I'm ever going to get over Ottessa Moshfegh's My Year of Rest and Relaxation. Parul Sehgal, The New York TimesOttessa Moshfegh is easily the most interesting contemporary American writer on the subject of being alive when being alive feels terrible. She has a freaky and pure way of accessing existential alienation, as if her mind were tapped directly into the sap of some gnarled, secret tree. . . . Watching Moshfegh turn her withering attention to the gleaming absurdities of pre-9/11 New York City, an environment where everyone except the narrator seems beset with delusional optimism, horrifically carefree, feels like eating bright, slick candy candy that might also poison you. Jia Tolentino, The New Yorker
Darkly comic and ultimately profound new novel. . . . Moshfegh s extraordinary prose soars as it captures her character s re-engagement. Vendela Vida, New York Times Book Review
Because this is a novel by the superabundantly talented Moshfegh she s an American writer of Croatian and Iranian descent we know in advance that it will be cool, strange, aloof and disciplined. The sentences will be snipped as if the writer has an extra row of teeth. . . . Moshfegh writes with so much misanthropic aplomb, however, that she is always a deep pleasure to read. She has a sleepless eye and dispenses observations as if from a toxic eyedropper. . . . Though this novel is set nearly 20 years ago, it feels current. The thought of sleeping through this particular moment in the world s history has appeal. Dwight Garner, The New York Times
Just finished My Year of Rest and Relaxation, by Ottessa Moshfegh: caustic, funny, dark addition to the lineage of unlikeable female protagonists (by Mona Awad, Sheila Heti, Anita Brookner, Jean Rhys, Emily Bronte . . . + grandmamas Lady MacBeth + Medea)" Margaret Atwood via Twitter
The bravado in Moshfegh s comprehensive darkness makes her novels
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both very funny and weirdly exhilarating. . . . As in Eileen, Moshfegh excels here at setting up an immediately intriguing character and situation, then amplifying the freakishness to the point that some rupture feels inevitable. Her confidence never flags; hers are the novels of a writer invigoratingly immune to uncertainty and self-doubt. Slate
One of the most compelling protagonists modern fiction has offered in years: a loopy, quietly furious pillhead whose Ambien ramblings and Xanaxed bitcheries somehow wend their way through sad and funny and strange toward something genuinely profound. Entertainment Weekly, Best Books of 2018
A strange, exhilarating triumph. . . . Moshfegh writes with a singular wit and clarity that, on its own, would be more than enough. (Her 2015 debut, Eileen, was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize, and Rest has already been optioned for film by Australian actress Margot Robbie). But the cumulative power of her narrative and the sharp turn she takes in its last 30 pages becomes nothing less than a revelation: sad, funny, astonishing, and unforgettable. Entertainment Weekly
Moshfegh s tale of self-care gone off the rails is a caustically funny skewering of artistic pretension and consumption, but also a meditation on grief, privilege and social cohesion. Huffington Post
The most exciting book of 2018 is about a girl sleeping for a year. . . . Ingenious, darkly comedic. . . . The novel speeds to the best last page of any book I ve likely ever read. Vice
This book isn t just buzzy and maniacally entertaining it s a mean-spirited, tenderhearted masterpiece. New York Post
My Year of Rest and Relaxation is the most poignant, vulnerable, mature, and dare I say it? sincere work that its gifted author has yet produced. Boston Globe
In flat, deadpan, unembellished prose recalling the cadences of Joan Didion and the clear-eyed candor of Mary Gaitskill, Moshfegh portrays the vacuous interior life (she has virtually no exterior life) of a narcissistic personality simultaneously self-loathing and self-displaying. . . . My Year of Rest and Relaxation is most convincing as an urbane dark comedy, sharp-eyed satire leavened by passages of morbid sobriety, as in a perverse fusion of Sex and the City and Requiem for a Dream. Joyce Carol Oates, The New York Review of Books
Bizarrely fascinating. . . . Moshfegh knows how to spin perversity and provocation into fascination, and bleakness into surprising tenderness. NPR
It s another acerbic character study from an author making a career out of bringing absurdly unlikable people to life. No one can discomfit a reader quite like her. AV Club
One of the pleasures of reading Ottessa Moshfegh is that unusually, these days she rarely writes in the present tense. Instead, the sense of immediacy, the sense of being inside a character, the sense of things happening and having psychic value, both to the writer and her reader, is provided by the structure and content of her sentences. . . . One of the other pleasures of reading Moshfegh is her relentless savagery. All this is delivered as comic it is comic but it s not exactly funny, though of course we laugh. Guardian
Darkly hilarious . . . [Moshfegh s] the kind of provocateur who makes you laugh out loud while drawing blood. Vogue
Electrifying. . . a reminder that there is something to life outside the economic exchange of time for money and money for goods, even if that unnamed thing is obscure and perplexing and just a bit monstrous particularly as a woman. Literature may not have the all the answers, but it can show us the power and allure of saying no. Vanity Fair
I was cringing during every moment of Ottessa Moshfegh s My Year of Rest and Relaxation, and yet I could not put the book down. . . . It is mostly, almost by juxtaposition, about the realness of a more subtle and very private expression of pain, no matter the cause, no matter how seemingly trivial. That s what kept me reading even as my cringing muscles grew sore: feeling in my screwed-up face, barked laughs, and watery eyes the translation of that private kind of pain into something I could share. Claire Benoit, The Paris Review
There s a casually intimidating power to Moshfegh s writing the deadpan frankness and softly cutting sentences that makes any comparison feel not quite right. Anne Diebel, London Review of Books
One of the most compelling protagonists modern fiction has offered in years: a loopy, quietly furious pillhead whose Ambien ramblings and Xanaxed bitcheries somehow wend their way through sad and funny and strange toward something genuinely profound. Entertainment Weekly, Best Books of 2018
A strange, exhilarating triumph. . . . Moshfegh writes with a singular wit and clarity that, on its own, would be more than enough. (Her 2015 debut, Eileen, was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize, and Rest has already been optioned for film by Australian actress Margot Robbie). But the cumulative power of her narrative and the sharp turn she takes in its last 30 pages becomes nothing less than a revelation: sad, funny, astonishing, and unforgettable. Entertainment Weekly
Moshfegh s tale of self-care gone off the rails is a caustically funny skewering of artistic pretension and consumption, but also a meditation on grief, privilege and social cohesion. Huffington Post
The most exciting book of 2018 is about a girl sleeping for a year. . . . Ingenious, darkly comedic. . . . The novel speeds to the best last page of any book I ve likely ever read. Vice
This book isn t just buzzy and maniacally entertaining it s a mean-spirited, tenderhearted masterpiece. New York Post
My Year of Rest and Relaxation is the most poignant, vulnerable, mature, and dare I say it? sincere work that its gifted author has yet produced. Boston Globe
In flat, deadpan, unembellished prose recalling the cadences of Joan Didion and the clear-eyed candor of Mary Gaitskill, Moshfegh portrays the vacuous interior life (she has virtually no exterior life) of a narcissistic personality simultaneously self-loathing and self-displaying. . . . My Year of Rest and Relaxation is most convincing as an urbane dark comedy, sharp-eyed satire leavened by passages of morbid sobriety, as in a perverse fusion of Sex and the City and Requiem for a Dream. Joyce Carol Oates, The New York Review of Books
Bizarrely fascinating. . . . Moshfegh knows how to spin perversity and provocation into fascination, and bleakness into surprising tenderness. NPR
It s another acerbic character study from an author making a career out of bringing absurdly unlikable people to life. No one can discomfit a reader quite like her. AV Club
One of the pleasures of reading Ottessa Moshfegh is that unusually, these days she rarely writes in the present tense. Instead, the sense of immediacy, the sense of being inside a character, the sense of things happening and having psychic value, both to the writer and her reader, is provided by the structure and content of her sentences. . . . One of the other pleasures of reading Moshfegh is her relentless savagery. All this is delivered as comic it is comic but it s not exactly funny, though of course we laugh. Guardian
Darkly hilarious . . . [Moshfegh s] the kind of provocateur who makes you laugh out loud while drawing blood. Vogue
Electrifying. . . a reminder that there is something to life outside the economic exchange of time for money and money for goods, even if that unnamed thing is obscure and perplexing and just a bit monstrous particularly as a woman. Literature may not have the all the answers, but it can show us the power and allure of saying no. Vanity Fair
I was cringing during every moment of Ottessa Moshfegh s My Year of Rest and Relaxation, and yet I could not put the book down. . . . It is mostly, almost by juxtaposition, about the realness of a more subtle and very private expression of pain, no matter the cause, no matter how seemingly trivial. That s what kept me reading even as my cringing muscles grew sore: feeling in my screwed-up face, barked laughs, and watery eyes the translation of that private kind of pain into something I could share. Claire Benoit, The Paris Review
There s a casually intimidating power to Moshfegh s writing the deadpan frankness and softly cutting sentences that makes any comparison feel not quite right. Anne Diebel, London Review of Books
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