![]() ![]() ![]() The dog has significantly more charm than Walter, who we learn wasn’t a very nice man. Her sole companion after the death of her husband Walter, who resides in an urn at her bedside, is Charlie. The seventy-something narrator, who refers to herself as “Vesta”, has moved from the west coast to a house in the woods in New England. But there is no body, “just the note on the ground”. ![]() Here is her dead body.” This is the note our narrator finds on a walk in the forest with her dog, Charlie. Some signature Moshfegh moments remain, but in general the book simmers for a while and then fizzles out. It’s for this reason that her latest, Death in Her Hands, seems a disappointment, unable to reach those prior heights. From the filthy restlessness of her debut McGlue through the Booker-shortlisted Eileento the witty and pointed social commentary of My Year of Rest and Relaxation, Moshfegh’s prose, voice and execution have been remarkable. A dynamic and wonderfully mercurial writer, Ottessa Moshfegh has defied ideas of genre, appropriate subject matter and character “likability” to create sui generis award-winning work. ![]()
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