My Year of Rest and Relaxation:
I didn’t want to read it. I’m beyond glad I did.
Well, damn.
When I first picked up this book to read, it was with a sigh because it would be the reading discussed for next week’s literary movements class. The class itself was one that I actively did not care about. Unlike what you would assume from the name of the subject — as I had done — the class would not talk about ‘-isms’ so much as, well, drain my life. Why? Because all the readings thus far had been boring and painful. The class was testament to why I was constantly questioning why I was studying literature for the fact that in me studying it, I lost my passion for reading it.
The last time I enjoyed reading as a hobby was back before I fully understood what an essay was. Back in those naivety youngin’ years, there was no stress associated with books — whether because in reading one I would think in the back of my mind of all the plethora of other ones I had to read, that I would think about how boring Tolstoy was, that I didn’t give a shit what this Austen character felt, that Hemingway never got the point, that it’s been 15 minutes and I really should spend my time organising my to-do list. I could tick ‘read’ off it anyway.
So when it came to this, My Year of Rest and Relaxation, a whole book for a class that had, so far, made me reading things that made me want to fling myself into an abyss, well I had half a mind to skip it. Arguably, this book was the reason I was still enrolled in the class. I had purchased it before semester started and when it did, it was too late for me to refund it. Seven weeks later and when it came to said book I figured I might as well. I had paid for this reading so why not try to read Ottessa Whatever Her Last Name Was’ random-book-that-will-probably-do-my-head-in-as-it-tries-to-be-artistic-and-avantgarde-but-is-just-plain-unreadable.
Alas, about eleven minutes ago, I finished reading the line “There she is, a human being, diving into the unknown, and she is wide awake,” and lost all sense of what do other than write.
It has been a while since a book grabbed me like this one. When I say ‘a while,’ I’m talking about a good seven years. Why? Simply put: I stopped making time to read books that I actively enjoyed reading. Whenever I would speak to lecturers about how to read more, the response I always go was ‘well what do you enjoy reading?’ The answer? I have absolutely no clue.
Despite me having a Bachelor in Literature, despite the plethora of (mainly unread, mainly classical) books on my shelves, despite me referring to myself as a ‘bookworm’… I just don’t read. I haven’t lost myself in a book in a long time — save for when Midnight Sun came out last year and the familiarity of plot, characters and easy reading allowed me to swallow the 750 words in just under a week.
And I felt like such a boss doing so.
However, I now would like to take a moment to thank God that there were no other literature classes for me to take and that I couldn’t refund my book order because I think I’m finding my love for reading once more.
Otessa Moshfegh’s novel My Year of Rest and Relaxation apparently had a lot of hype before I started reading it. It was briefly mentioned in another class of mine and if you Google it, you’ll find review and review praising the book’s satirical dark humour and the way you can truly escape into it. Two things I agree with.
The plot is essentially a girl from Gossip Girl level of privilege (and the familiar problems that come with it — distant parents with substance abuse issues, etc) who tries to sleep for a year. Yet for such a simple plot, Moshfegh writes in such a way that even during my short fifteen minute break, I could still pull out the novel and find myself immersed. And this is coming from the girl who would sit for half an hour with Bronte (either one, take your pick) and not be able to recount whatever words I had read on the page.
Never did I think I could once again be that person walking as they read because they didn’t want to stop reading. Yet here we are.
The visceral rawness of way Moshfegh writes literally had me having to stop because it was too much to handle. One time I literally had to stop eating because, even without my sandwich and soup, it was too much to stomach.
For example, her discussion of the art world. The character of Ping Xi especially. Reading about how someone bought puppies, froze them to death and then defrosted them to sculpture them in a certain way would really make you put down your lunch.
I, however, was so stumped by this and had to search this up. Why? Because I started reading this book thinking it was an autobiography. I thought this was a recount of a chick called Moshfegh literally taking a year off to “rest” and have some “relaxation.” Looking back, now, I see that was stupid. However, I will defend my line of thinking by saying that this book was mentioned during a discussion of personal essays one time. So sue me.
But I think that’s also credit to Moshfegh crafting a character that seems so real. For a long while, my reading had been been purely fanfiction; something that tends to feature flawless Mary-Sue OCs that are so perfect it’s annoying. More annoying than reading about a very honest character who is shameless in them being a privileged upper class New York art student who is, by all intents and purposes, a lazy bitch.
I only realised that said lazy bitch was indeed not Moshfegh herself when I Googled Ping Xi to understand why I had never heard of such a horrible person and found that it was because he was fictional. That this book was fictional. What’s more, I found that this fictional book actually speaks about 9/11.
Thus, my reading of Moshfegh suddenly took on a very different take. I was no longer in shocked awe at the audacity of Moshfegh treating her friend Reva like this. Instead, now I’m thinking about this nameless narrator and wondering how they will react to what’s coming. There on in, this book suddenly took on the edge of ‘when’s it going to happen?’ ‘how will she react?’ ‘will she snap and the numbness go away?’ ‘will she mourn Reva and regret how she treated her?’ ‘what about Trevor?’
I became frantic. There was less than 70 pages left and the story was still in May. I read with such a speed that I would’ve once before done anything to achieve. I ignored my other responsibilities — the essay I had to do, the speech I had to prepare, the emails I had to respond to. All the other problems I had in life — that passive aggressive message I got from a friend, the fact that my ex was reaching out, the seemingly no-end to the current lockdown — all of that seemed meaningless. Forgotten. I had by all intents and purposes unknowingly ‘escaped’ into this book and all that I wanted to was sit and read for as long as I could to find out what happened.
And when it was over, when I finally read the last page, I closed the book and just sat there. I sat there and thought about this book and how amazing it was and how I had gotten so lost in it and that I really wanted to read more of Moshfegh. I sat there and savoured the feeling of finishing a book; something I don’t too often feel. I sat there and thought about how I wanted to grab the next person I saw and scream-rant about how amazing it was, demand that they read it as I ran off to read more books that could further make me feel what I was feeling at that moment.
But no. I could only sit and try to digest everything. Digest not only a book such as this, but the fact that the whole experience has reignited something in.
As I sat in my armchair, book cover closed, I thought about the fact that my life aspiration of producing something that would make someone sit in their own armchair, unable to voice everything they were feeling from having finished something I composed… that dream didn’t seem too far off. I thought that if someone out there, a woman like me — and not some old classical dude with rep — had created this, then it was possible for me to do also.
So I owe you one Ottessa. Not only did you make me see that there is a bookworm hidden deep inside me, you also made me feel the wonderful amazement of literature — that I can participate in it more than just by being a student of it.
