Book Review: McGlue is both a punch in the gut and as odd a literary debut as we may find. Along with Haruki Murakami, Ottessa Moshfegh is the most troublesome writer I've ever read. Both deliberately try to frustrate, anger, disappoint, and confound their readers. Who does that? I mean, whose 2014 debut novel is the confession of a lifelong-alcoholic sailor in 1851 with an oozing, open-head injury who hates the world and has a single friendship -- who does that? Other than being completely different, this novella is the rough draft for 2018's My Year of Rest and Relaxation, prophesying the same underlying issues, the same frustrations, the same attitudes. Instead of trying to sleep for most of 24/7 for a year, our sailor tries to stay drunk for a lifetime by consuming enough rum to give King Kong alcohol poisoning. Which leads to an examination of friendship that lives only on the edges. Moshfegh is as self-conscious a writer as I've read. She can never wholly let the story go into the reader's hands -- she's always hovering nearby, aware of what she's writing and worrying about the reader's reception. Since McGlue is too out-there for a mass audience, Moshfegh had to go back and write My Year. McGlue has been described as gritty, dark, and repellant; while it's unorthodox, anyone too squeamish for this kind of writing may want to consider giving up literature. Moshfegh's writing has flaws, yes, but that's like saying the Mona Lisa is too small. Despite any defects, I'm loyal to Moshfegh because of her ability to write. The strength of her writing almost eclipses her story, bizarre as it is. McGlue is a book that transcends the concept of imperfections, is too intelligent, is too tough and powerful, to be judged by conventional criteria. Moshfegh writes like Elena Ferrante on methamphetamine. This is love. [4½★]
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