![]() ![]() Tuttle, a wildly unscrupulous psychologist. She means to ask: You feel it, too, don’t you, sometimes? Don’t you ever just want to check out and nap? For, say, months? The narrator pursues her good long rest with the help of a stack of bad movies - Whoopi Goldberg is her spirit animal of brainless banality - and a massive clutch of prescriptions from Dr. Moshfegh doesn’t mean this to be a critique of only well-off Manhattanites. But she chafes at conspicuous consumption and shallow friendships, feeling detached from an inner life. The narrator is a young, attractive woman who lives in Manhattan off an inheritance from her parents. ![]() But it’s not Moshfegh’s biggest concern in “My Year of Rest and Relaxation,” a darkly comic novel that makes something new out of familiar themes of disenchantment. ![]() Lots of them: “My Ambien, my Rozerem, my Ativan, my Xanax, my trazodone, my lithium,” she says, like reciting a rosary. The unnamed narrator of Ottessa Moshfegh’s new novel takes pills. ![]()
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