I heard and read great things about this novel and the word that got me most was that it was "profound." I bought it, started reading it, and waited for the profundity. And waited. And waited. I never found it. Instead I found it to be workmanlike writing that any decent writer willing to put in the work could have written. I didn't come across a single new idea or observation in this book. I found it humorless and unconvincing—it's in the first person and the author describes herself as physically beautiful but not in a way that someone like that would ever do. At times, Moshfegh chokes her prose with lists of physical items to portray a subject's character. Good writers don't resort to this or let their narrators do so. They get tedious after awhile.
 If you read it, you'll find that it goes quickly. That's more because of the book's generous leading than due to writing style.
 You know what helps a writer get published? Having an exotic name. I wonder if this book would have been published and as widely reviewed if the author's name was something like Janet Miller.