Reviewed by Isabella Agostino

⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆

I finished this manically, all in one evening.

I appreciate how Moshfegh handles the sexually explicit content in this satirical novel. The descriptions of intimacy are sterile, devoid of sensuality, sometimes full of boredom, and at times, desperate. This seems to be the point—treating sex, both with others and yourself, as fleeting or routine, equal to eating and sleeping. The way intimacy is delivered in this novel is where I’m most convinced of its genius. It’s in these moments that the reader is made to feel like they, too, are in the haze of a cocktail of semi-legal drugs.

I’m still working out how I feel about the ending. I get, in a straightforward way, how the whole text is wrapped up neatly with Reva and what transpires on 9/11, and how the bitter truth is that privilege triumphs effortlessly. I mostly feel a burning sensation, as this book left me fueled to continue in my active repulsion of the Girl, Interrupted syndrome.

On that note, I’m concerned about the categorization of My Year as Sad Girl Lit. The book is so purposefully absurd in its depiction of depression that it almost makes me want to join the 5 a.m. club. Job well done—ennui cured! But, seriously.