On the surface, the narrator of MY YEAR OF REST AND RELAXATION has everything - looks, money, a boyfriend, a best friend. But none of it is as good as it looks from the outside, and unable to cope, she decides to spend a year under the influence of heavy narcotics, sleeping her way through the pain.

I wasn’t sure if I’d like this book. Satire usually misses the mark for me, and I didn’t see how a book about sleeping could be interesting. I’m glad I went for though, because this is maybe one of the best books I’ve ever read.

The skewering of the art world is perfect. The depiction of what it feels like to be depressed is perfect. The suburban ennui moved to the city is perfect. I loved our narrator, even when she was a bad friend and a bad person.

As someone who has had bad bouts of depression, the talk of seeking oblivion and hating everyone for their crime of being alive was exactly right. I might even say avoid this book if you feel you’re on the edge of it - it’s that intense.

The endless rounds of suicide and rebirth could be heavy handed from a lesser writer, but Moshfegh lays all the groundwork seamlessly, all while keeping it darkly funny.