A rotten showcase of the inner and outer turmoil of a sad, sad man, Moshfegh continues to be the best at writing the worst humanity has to offer. Set in the 1850s, McGlue is a “sailor” invited to work on his current vessel by what seems to be a man he met by chance and his only friend, Johnson, who he is accused of killing. The narrative shifts back and forth between the events leading up to the murder and the present day as McGlue is being apprehended and tried for the crime. Being told from the perspective of McGlue and with McGlue being a vicious alcoholic with severe brain damage, the narrative is hard to follow most of the time, but as the story progresses you learn more about the latent emotions that perhaps led to these unfortunate events.

Wrought with homophobia, homoeroticism, and blatant racism, this is a difficult book to recommend. Definitely look up trigger warnings. But with that being said, and please don’t hate me for this, in many ways I felt like this was a horrifying version of Giovanni’s Room given the complex relationship between the two main characters and their inability to confront their feelings. It was in those ways that I really enjoyed this. But the graphic, gory moments that Moshfegh is known for quickly pull you out of any introspective moment you might fall into. Did I like this book? Yes, I really did. Did I find it enjoyable? No, not at all. Falling somewhere between Lapvona and Eileen, if you enjoy Moshfegh’s darker works, you’ll find something to like here.