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McGlue
The debut novella from one of contemporary fiction's most exciting young voices, now in a new edition.
Salem, Massachusetts, 1851: McGlue is in the hold, still too drunk to be sure of name or situation or orientation--he may have killed a man. That man may have been his best friend. Intolerable memory accompanies sobriety. A-sail on the high seas of literary tradition, Ottessa Moshfegh gives us a nasty heartless blackguard on a knife-sharp voyage through the fogs of recollection.
They said I've done something wrong? . . . And they've just left me down here to starve. They'll see this inanition and be so damned they'll fall to my feet and pass up hot cross buns slathered in fresh butter and beg I forgive them. All of them . . .: the entire world one by one. Like a good priest I'll pat their heads and nod. I'll dunk my skull into a barrel of gin.
Salem, Massachusetts, 1851: McGlue is in the hold, still too drunk to be sure of name or situation or orientation--he may have killed a man. That man may have been his best friend. Intolerable memory accompanies sobriety. A-sail on the high seas of literary tradition, Ottessa Moshfegh gives us a nasty heartless blackguard on a knife-sharp voyage through the fogs of recollection.
They said I've done something wrong? . . . And they've just left me down here to starve. They'll see this inanition and be so damned they'll fall to my feet and pass up hot cross buns slathered in fresh butter and beg I forgive them. All of them . . .: the entire world one by one. Like a good priest I'll pat their heads and nod. I'll dunk my skull into a barrel of gin.
145 pages, Paperback
First published September 22, 2014
683 people are currently reading
24739 people want to read
About the author
Ottessa Moshfegh
41 books24.1k followersOttessa Moshfegh is a fiction writer from New England. Eileen, her first novel, was shortlisted for the National Book Critics Circle Award and the Man Booker Prize, and won the PEN/Hemingway Award for debut fiction. My Year of Rest and Relaxation and Death in Her Hands, her second and third novels, were New York Times bestsellers. She is also the author of the short story collection Homesick for Another World and a novella, McGlue. She lives in Southern California.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 2,897 reviews
May 14, 2024
As Jia Tolentino once said, "Ottessa Moshfegh is easily the most interesting contemporary American writer on the subject of being alive when being alive feels terrible."
Anyway. This book is so goddamn disgusting.
I won't lie to you - historic times in general are gross to me. The idea of living in a time where I am walking in a gross street on a daily basis and have literally never taken a shower in my life? It sucks. I feel icky just abstractly considering it.
But this book...it's so gross.
It's not bad. It's confusing and yucky but those are intended.
Is it for me? No. Is it my least favorite Ottessa Moshfegh book even as it is only equally gross objectively to every other one, just because it hit me harder? Yes.
That's all I have to say.
Bottom line: YUCK!
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currently-reading updates
this is set 200 years too late to be about the salem witch trials.
i would like to formally apologize for being a dumbass.
-------------
tbr review
SALEM WITCH TRIALS!!!!!!
Anyway. This book is so goddamn disgusting.
I won't lie to you - historic times in general are gross to me. The idea of living in a time where I am walking in a gross street on a daily basis and have literally never taken a shower in my life? It sucks. I feel icky just abstractly considering it.
But this book...it's so gross.
It's not bad. It's confusing and yucky but those are intended.
Is it for me? No. Is it my least favorite Ottessa Moshfegh book even as it is only equally gross objectively to every other one, just because it hit me harder? Yes.
That's all I have to say.
Bottom line: YUCK!
-------------
currently-reading updates
this is set 200 years too late to be about the salem witch trials.
i would like to formally apologize for being a dumbass.
-------------
tbr review
SALEM WITCH TRIALS!!!!!!
May 11, 2019
How would I describe this little devil of a debut? This nasty novella?
Dark?
If I do, the problem is that Ottessa Moshfegh has ruined, nay, massacred, the concept of "dark", redefining it into something far more foul, pulling it down into something that exceeds that weak little word, into the most vile, hopeless scum-hole... and then she laughs. No one can write "dark" anymore, now that she's around. She's lowered the bar, in the best way of course, lowered it closer to hell.
Reading this story is like awakening to the most vicious hangover you've ever had. McGlue is a 19th century sailor who's been drinking heavily since the age of 6. Think about that, if you will. One day in a drunken blear, he is told that he has killed his best friend, benefactor and maybe something more, Johnson, a young man from a wealthy family, who saved McGlue from freezing to death some time before.
McGlue thinks it's all a joke - Johnson must be in on it - because he has zero recollection of committing such an act. He's locked up as they make their way back to his home in Salem, Massachusetts, where he will stand trial. Memories are as finicky and evasive as a puff of smoke. They come and go as McGlue sobers up in the ship's hold, deprived of his bottle o' rum. But he's also got a crack in his skull from a fall off a train that keeps his thinking murky and polluted. Does this crack open a window into the truth of what happened with McGlue and Johnson that night? Or does it prevent us from ever knowing, or caring, what a brain damaged drunk could be capable of?
Stylish, powerful prose drags you into McGlue's filthy cot, into his addled "snake brains", into a world and time belonging to legends and books about whaling captains. Moshfegh, wicked literary sorceress that she is, evokes much in few pages, never allowing sentimentality to so much as dip in a gangrened toe.
Dark?
If I do, the problem is that Ottessa Moshfegh has ruined, nay, massacred, the concept of "dark", redefining it into something far more foul, pulling it down into something that exceeds that weak little word, into the most vile, hopeless scum-hole... and then she laughs. No one can write "dark" anymore, now that she's around. She's lowered the bar, in the best way of course, lowered it closer to hell.
Reading this story is like awakening to the most vicious hangover you've ever had. McGlue is a 19th century sailor who's been drinking heavily since the age of 6. Think about that, if you will. One day in a drunken blear, he is told that he has killed his best friend, benefactor and maybe something more, Johnson, a young man from a wealthy family, who saved McGlue from freezing to death some time before.
McGlue thinks it's all a joke - Johnson must be in on it - because he has zero recollection of committing such an act. He's locked up as they make their way back to his home in Salem, Massachusetts, where he will stand trial. Memories are as finicky and evasive as a puff of smoke. They come and go as McGlue sobers up in the ship's hold, deprived of his bottle o' rum. But he's also got a crack in his skull from a fall off a train that keeps his thinking murky and polluted. Does this crack open a window into the truth of what happened with McGlue and Johnson that night? Or does it prevent us from ever knowing, or caring, what a brain damaged drunk could be capable of?
Stylish, powerful prose drags you into McGlue's filthy cot, into his addled "snake brains", into a world and time belonging to legends and books about whaling captains. Moshfegh, wicked literary sorceress that she is, evokes much in few pages, never allowing sentimentality to so much as dip in a gangrened toe.
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June 2, 2025
‘Fuck the world and get on…’
When I was in elementary school, we had this amazing music teacher who had us sing songs from people like Pete Seeger and The Beatles, though the two that stuck with me most were The Rainbow Connection (Kermit the Frog style of course) and that Drunken Sailor sea shanty. You know, the one that asks “What will we do with a drunken sailor?” Well, if McGlue, the title character of Ottessa Moshfegh’s debut novella McGlue, was here to answer he’d tell us ‘The only solution is to drink again. That makes me almost jolly.’ And so it goes in this gritty novella as Moshfegh has us tossed about sailing the seas of the ocean and alcoholism inside the titular character’s consciousness. It is more gross than dark, building a grimy tone that reads like waking up with a hangover covered in your own vomit and sweat—a frequent occurrence in the novella. McGlue is a bit intentionally gratuitous, with a constant barrage of grime, violence, misogyny and far more slurs than needed to make the point, so reader beware if these are an issue especially as homophobia is central to McGlue’s own blistering self-hatred. Much of this reads like a joyless version of Our Flag Means Death with the humor replaced with spite, though it is also subversively akin to Azareen Van der Vliet Oloomi's Fra Keeler. Yet, amidst the filth and squalor of the plot, the prose shines like a lighthouse guiding us through it all. With tinges of mystery and riding the waves of shock value, McGlue is a portrait of an alcoholic down on his luck and fighting with his own mind as he struggles to put together the truth behind the night he may have murdered his only friend.
‘ I wanted to change my name and forget my face and I wanted to drink and get my head ruined but I certainly hadn’t thought about making it. That wasn’t anything I’d ever sought out to do.’
The novella opens with McGlue in a ship’s hold, fighting waves of nausea to learn he will be facing trial for the murder of his only friend when they reach home in Salem, Massachusetts. Set in 1851, this is long after the witch trials, however evoking Salem probes the idea that accusations might not be the whole truth of the matter. The problem is, McGlue can’t remember a thing. He tells us his ‘memory has suffered a long time from my love for grog’ and a head-injury that left an large crack in his skull also scatters his thoughts, sending the reader through a tumultuous narrative that blends past and present without warning with the ghosts of the past occasionally intruding. It is expertly done and if there was one take-away from this book it is that Moshfegh is a fantastic writer. Here we have imagery like the ‘night sky sparkling like wet, broken glass,’ and a control over the pacing and seamless transitions that are enviable from any writer, much less a debut. The scene setting and characters come alive quite well, even if the characters aren’t always the most dynamic.
McGlue essentially chronicles the companionship between McGlue and Johnson, a rich kid who was ‘just a student of misery’ and rescues a runaway McGlue from freezing to death. The pair make a dynamic duo of debauchery and self-destruction. Johnson is interesting, having abandoned a wealthy family for the sake of destruction.
It comes across a bit like a rich boy trying to be all 1850s Fight Club fetishizing self-destruction, though to be fair it’s not like they had therapy back then and as will be discussed later, feeling like an aberration in society can be really harmful. McGlue, on the other hand, never had an avenue towards success and is content to continue to sink into drink and destitution. Having the story told from his perspective allows us to witness his dark passengers of alcoholism and self-hatred, as well as his damaged ‘snake brain’ that fuel his self-destructive tendencies. ‘Had I liquor to spill I’d pour it directly into the crack, to cool the snakes,’ he explains about his constant drinking to quiet his mind, ‘get them to settle down, quit hissing. If I drink enough down my throat they lie still for a while and I can ride out a moment of my life.’ To him, alcohol comes before all else, even—in a scene that seems a parody of Molly Bloom from Ulysses—tying a woman who is interested in him to a railing and leaving her all night in order to drink undisturbed. The need to drink overrides all:
Something Moshfegh does well is present completely horrible characters and manage to humanize them, and by the end you do feel for McGlue. In a way this gave me shades of McCarthy’s Child of God where the disturbed focal character was no more disgusting than the society that demonized them.
‘I am livewired, hungry-eyed like a scorned wolf, but give the appearance of a nervous boy, tittering along in search of something, namely, another drink.’
This does go a bit much however, particularly using racial and homophobic slurs to such an extent that it isn’t even shocking or edgy and seems more like a teenager without much creativity to use anything else. Which, to be fair, is the character, but using the N-word to be punchy isn’t my favorite and while sure maybe it is historically accurate the constant use of Fag isn’t as it wasn’t a slur being used in 1851 Not to say authors can’t do this but it was to such an extent that it was eye rolling. As a friend put it, that sort of writing works if you use it as seasoning but here it feels so over seasoned that the actual flavor of the dish is lost beneath it. Which is a shame because it is a good dish that didn’t need so much seasoning. I do like how this is a woman writing the sort of novel full of problematic issues that men have long gotten away with though, and I think there is something to be said about it being subversive in that regard. In this way it reminds me a lot of Azareen Van der Vliet Oloomi, another Iranian American author who did this technique more successfully in Fra Keeler and (to a lesser extent) Call Me Zebra. However, Oloomi manages to creep into the reader's mind more effectively through atmosphere and nuance whereas McGlue, unsubtle, relentlessly bashes at the door. Which might be your thing and that's cool too. It just never amounted to all that much beyond the effect for me and felt more like trying to be dark than actually being dark.
There is, however, an element where the braze. homophobia is meant to signal something deeper ‘in that idea in the air between [McGlue and Johnson.]’ It demonstrates how in a society that doesn’t give space and understanding for people to be themselves and grow, the anger is often directed inward and stifles them. It is a rather tragic tale with a bit of a twist ending that is rather emotional but also a bit trite.
Still, McGlue is still an impressive debut, and despite a few criticisms it does make me want to explore more of Moshfegh’s work. There are some really wonderfully constructed scenes here, and while shock value doesn’t do much for me some of the more alarming moments are pretty great. Overall though it is like a good steak, a really good one, but it’s obscenely over seasoned and there are no sides or a drink to go with it. It’s just missing any zest, it’s missing anything to complement it and make it work beyond merely swallowing it all down. This is a grimy and bleak tale and one I can see why it would really work for others but at the end of it all it felt more like a well-embodied passing hangover that I don’t see much need to dwell in.
3/5
'I stand praying, just to see what happens. All I know to do is put my hand on my heart. There's no real evil there, I'm sure. But it is empty.'
When I was in elementary school, we had this amazing music teacher who had us sing songs from people like Pete Seeger and The Beatles, though the two that stuck with me most were The Rainbow Connection (Kermit the Frog style of course) and that Drunken Sailor sea shanty. You know, the one that asks “What will we do with a drunken sailor?” Well, if McGlue, the title character of Ottessa Moshfegh’s debut novella McGlue, was here to answer he’d tell us ‘The only solution is to drink again. That makes me almost jolly.’ And so it goes in this gritty novella as Moshfegh has us tossed about sailing the seas of the ocean and alcoholism inside the titular character’s consciousness. It is more gross than dark, building a grimy tone that reads like waking up with a hangover covered in your own vomit and sweat—a frequent occurrence in the novella. McGlue is a bit intentionally gratuitous, with a constant barrage of grime, violence, misogyny and far more slurs than needed to make the point, so reader beware if these are an issue especially as homophobia is central to McGlue’s own blistering self-hatred. Much of this reads like a joyless version of Our Flag Means Death with the humor replaced with spite, though it is also subversively akin to Azareen Van der Vliet Oloomi's Fra Keeler. Yet, amidst the filth and squalor of the plot, the prose shines like a lighthouse guiding us through it all. With tinges of mystery and riding the waves of shock value, McGlue is a portrait of an alcoholic down on his luck and fighting with his own mind as he struggles to put together the truth behind the night he may have murdered his only friend.
‘ I wanted to change my name and forget my face and I wanted to drink and get my head ruined but I certainly hadn’t thought about making it. That wasn’t anything I’d ever sought out to do.’
The novella opens with McGlue in a ship’s hold, fighting waves of nausea to learn he will be facing trial for the murder of his only friend when they reach home in Salem, Massachusetts. Set in 1851, this is long after the witch trials, however evoking Salem probes the idea that accusations might not be the whole truth of the matter. The problem is, McGlue can’t remember a thing. He tells us his ‘memory has suffered a long time from my love for grog’ and a head-injury that left an large crack in his skull also scatters his thoughts, sending the reader through a tumultuous narrative that blends past and present without warning with the ghosts of the past occasionally intruding. It is expertly done and if there was one take-away from this book it is that Moshfegh is a fantastic writer. Here we have imagery like the ‘night sky sparkling like wet, broken glass,’ and a control over the pacing and seamless transitions that are enviable from any writer, much less a debut. The scene setting and characters come alive quite well, even if the characters aren’t always the most dynamic.
McGlue essentially chronicles the companionship between McGlue and Johnson, a rich kid who was ‘just a student of misery’ and rescues a runaway McGlue from freezing to death. The pair make a dynamic duo of debauchery and self-destruction. Johnson is interesting, having abandoned a wealthy family for the sake of destruction.
‘He had this idea that there was something like grace and victory to be found in smiting your good fortune, choosing the worst. In answering what he would do with his life say to follow the most putrid path, to ruin his life.’
It comes across a bit like a rich boy trying to be all 1850s Fight Club fetishizing self-destruction, though to be fair it’s not like they had therapy back then and as will be discussed later, feeling like an aberration in society can be really harmful. McGlue, on the other hand, never had an avenue towards success and is content to continue to sink into drink and destitution. Having the story told from his perspective allows us to witness his dark passengers of alcoholism and self-hatred, as well as his damaged ‘snake brain’ that fuel his self-destructive tendencies. ‘Had I liquor to spill I’d pour it directly into the crack, to cool the snakes,’ he explains about his constant drinking to quiet his mind, ‘get them to settle down, quit hissing. If I drink enough down my throat they lie still for a while and I can ride out a moment of my life.’ To him, alcohol comes before all else, even—in a scene that seems a parody of Molly Bloom from Ulysses—tying a woman who is interested in him to a railing and leaving her all night in order to drink undisturbed. The need to drink overrides all:
’I am a drunk.
It took me some time to know this.
Here is how I know. How it’s always been is I don’t know how to talk or move or sleep or shit. I wake up mornings with my head in a vice. The only solution is to drink again. That makes me almost jolly. It does wonders in the morning to take my mind off the pain and pressure. I can use my eyes after the first drink, I remember how to line up my feet and walk, loosen my jaw, tell someone to get out of my way. Then I get tired. I whine and need to lie down. I lie down, I want a drink. I cannot sleep without having already forgotten my name, my face, my life. If I were to sit still or lie down in a room with some memory of myself – the time I have left to live out, that nasty sentence, that hell – I would go mad.’
Something Moshfegh does well is present completely horrible characters and manage to humanize them, and by the end you do feel for McGlue. In a way this gave me shades of McCarthy’s Child of God where the disturbed focal character was no more disgusting than the society that demonized them.
‘I am livewired, hungry-eyed like a scorned wolf, but give the appearance of a nervous boy, tittering along in search of something, namely, another drink.’
This does go a bit much however, particularly using racial and homophobic slurs to such an extent that it isn’t even shocking or edgy and seems more like a teenager without much creativity to use anything else. Which, to be fair, is the character, but using the N-word to be punchy isn’t my favorite and while sure maybe it is historically accurate the constant use of Fag isn’t as it wasn’t a slur being used in 1851 Not to say authors can’t do this but it was to such an extent that it was eye rolling. As a friend put it, that sort of writing works if you use it as seasoning but here it feels so over seasoned that the actual flavor of the dish is lost beneath it. Which is a shame because it is a good dish that didn’t need so much seasoning. I do like how this is a woman writing the sort of novel full of problematic issues that men have long gotten away with though, and I think there is something to be said about it being subversive in that regard. In this way it reminds me a lot of Azareen Van der Vliet Oloomi, another Iranian American author who did this technique more successfully in Fra Keeler and (to a lesser extent) Call Me Zebra. However, Oloomi manages to creep into the reader's mind more effectively through atmosphere and nuance whereas McGlue, unsubtle, relentlessly bashes at the door. Which might be your thing and that's cool too. It just never amounted to all that much beyond the effect for me and felt more like trying to be dark than actually being dark.
There is, however, an element where the braze. homophobia is meant to signal something deeper ‘in that idea in the air between [McGlue and Johnson.]’ It demonstrates how in a society that doesn’t give space and understanding for people to be themselves and grow, the anger is often directed inward and stifles them. It is a rather tragic tale with a bit of a twist ending that is rather emotional but also a bit trite.
Still, McGlue is still an impressive debut, and despite a few criticisms it does make me want to explore more of Moshfegh’s work. There are some really wonderfully constructed scenes here, and while shock value doesn’t do much for me some of the more alarming moments are pretty great. Overall though it is like a good steak, a really good one, but it’s obscenely over seasoned and there are no sides or a drink to go with it. It’s just missing any zest, it’s missing anything to complement it and make it work beyond merely swallowing it all down. This is a grimy and bleak tale and one I can see why it would really work for others but at the end of it all it felt more like a well-embodied passing hangover that I don’t see much need to dwell in.
3/5
'I stand praying, just to see what happens. All I know to do is put my hand on my heart. There's no real evil there, I'm sure. But it is empty.'
May 17, 2020
it's a gross gay evil pirate tale what more can you ask
January 1, 2015
This book has salt on its fists and iron on its dancing feet.
What a piece of vicious brilliance.
What a piece of vicious brilliance.
March 5, 2024
Moshfegh's first literary publication tells the story of McGlue, a sailor who's a severe alcoholic, living with a permanent head injury and accused of killing his only friend, Johnson. Set in 1851, the novella is propelled forward by the mystery of whether he actually committed the crime: As McGlue is our narrator and the book starts with him being held in custody for the crime, we are caught in the haze of his perceptions and questionable, shaky memories, his hallucinations and flashbacks, as he desperately tries to come to terms with what happened during that fateful night and, ultimately, the life that led him there.
The author does a great job depicting McGlue's condition, his disorientation and, most haunting of all, his utter lack of hope and ambition. At the same time, is transpires that the truly enigmatic figure here is Johnson, a man who ran from his comfortable lifestyle in order to experience a gritty adventure - was he saving or exploiting McGlue? What about the homoerotic vibe between the two? Who was the victim?
McGlue displays a strange connection to Vesta, the protagonist of Death in Her Hands - while the 72-year-old widow is not an alcoholic, she also descends into madness and is haunted by the voice of someone else, unable to overcome her trauma and thus living in her own kind of prison. I love Moshfegh's trademark ability to write difficult, often unsympathetic women, but I'd also love to read another text starring a man as complex and, well, problematic (an adjective the author certainly would't use to describe him) as McGlue.
The author does a great job depicting McGlue's condition, his disorientation and, most haunting of all, his utter lack of hope and ambition. At the same time, is transpires that the truly enigmatic figure here is Johnson, a man who ran from his comfortable lifestyle in order to experience a gritty adventure - was he saving or exploiting McGlue? What about the homoerotic vibe between the two? Who was the victim?
McGlue displays a strange connection to Vesta, the protagonist of Death in Her Hands - while the 72-year-old widow is not an alcoholic, she also descends into madness and is haunted by the voice of someone else, unable to overcome her trauma and thus living in her own kind of prison. I love Moshfegh's trademark ability to write difficult, often unsympathetic women, but I'd also love to read another text starring a man as complex and, well, problematic (an adjective the author certainly would't use to describe him) as McGlue.
October 8, 2023
historically inaccurate faggot usage
June 1, 2020
How utterly joyless. I liked it!
July 22, 2021
Tessie is one of my favorite authors right now.
After reading Eileen, and Homesick for Another World, I was dying to get my hands on her first novel (more a novella), which she says is her favorite thing that she's written. I can understand why! She has an uncanny, almost preternatural ability to take a character and wrangle every single nuance out of them. She is meticulously, overwhelmingly detailed in her descriptions of mostly despicable, filthy people looking for some meta version of redemption.
McGlue is no exception; in 100ish pages, she does something with a character that a great many authors can't do in 400 pages. And that is why she's so great.
The plot is exactly what it says in the description, minus the fact that it is brilliantly executed. But I expected no less.
After reading Eileen, and Homesick for Another World, I was dying to get my hands on her first novel (more a novella), which she says is her favorite thing that she's written. I can understand why! She has an uncanny, almost preternatural ability to take a character and wrangle every single nuance out of them. She is meticulously, overwhelmingly detailed in her descriptions of mostly despicable, filthy people looking for some meta version of redemption.
McGlue is no exception; in 100ish pages, she does something with a character that a great many authors can't do in 400 pages. And that is why she's so great.
The plot is exactly what it says in the description, minus the fact that it is brilliantly executed. But I expected no less.
February 11, 2018
Like cracking your skull, prying your head open with your fingers and pouring whiskey inside it.
July 29, 2021
Ok, I wanted to get this review out of the way because I really didn’t enjoy this book. My reasons are twofold. One, it is Moshfegh’s first book and her voice is still in progress. It has that characteristic nerdy overly ambitious debut novel vibe, but it is mostly just a mess. (In my humble opinion.) Second, I could not care less for the protagonist (19th-century sailor/drunk obviously suffering from the consequences of brain trauma caused by years of excessive drinking and numerous physical fights) and his story (He killed his best friend, just doesn’t remember). If you can call his dreams and visions caused by alcohol withdrawal and said brain injury a story at all. It kind of reminded me of The Blind Owl.
Although I had to read 90% of the book to get there, for me the following quote was worth it all. How this woman knows the soul of the miserable, mentally unstable, unfortunate so well is beyond me.
“I am a drunk.
It took me some time to know this.
Here is how I know. How it’s always been is I don’t know how to talk or move or sleep or shit. I wake up mornings with my head in a vice. The only solution is to drink again. That makes me almost jolly. It does wonders in the morning to take my mind off the pain and pressure. I can use my eyes after the first drink, I remember how to line up my feet and walk, loosen my jaw, tell someone to get out of my way. Then I get tired. I whine and need to lie down. I lie down, I want a drink. I cannot sleep without having already forgotten my name, my face, my life. If I were to sit still or lie down in a room with some memory of myself – the time I have left to live out, that nasty sentence, that hell – I would go mad.”
Although I had to read 90% of the book to get there, for me the following quote was worth it all. How this woman knows the soul of the miserable, mentally unstable, unfortunate so well is beyond me.
“I am a drunk.
It took me some time to know this.
Here is how I know. How it’s always been is I don’t know how to talk or move or sleep or shit. I wake up mornings with my head in a vice. The only solution is to drink again. That makes me almost jolly. It does wonders in the morning to take my mind off the pain and pressure. I can use my eyes after the first drink, I remember how to line up my feet and walk, loosen my jaw, tell someone to get out of my way. Then I get tired. I whine and need to lie down. I lie down, I want a drink. I cannot sleep without having already forgotten my name, my face, my life. If I were to sit still or lie down in a room with some memory of myself – the time I have left to live out, that nasty sentence, that hell – I would go mad.”
January 20, 2022
19th century sailor hates women, hates Black people, hates gays, and hates himself! gritty and gross and full of grief; dreamlike in confusion
January 21, 2020
Otessa Moshfegh’s debut is a dark, filthy, nasty and violent tale about the dangers of self delusion.
McGlue has been sailing around the world. He has seen a lot of dark alleys. He knows hunger and cold and he never looks back. He lives in a constant vicious circle of drunkenness and hangovers. Rum is his blood. Then one day he finds himself wounded and arrested for the murder of his best friend.
Did he do it?
He doesn’t know.
And neither do we.
But we will... Oh yes, we will...
As always with Moshfegh we learn more about the characters from what’s between the lines than from what’s explicitly exposed. She’s a real master on the “show, don’t tell” technique.
I love Otessa Moshfegh’s writing. Most of all I admire her courage to stay outside the box, and can’t wait now to experience Death in Her Hands.
Four stars instead of five only because I found the jumpy start a bit confusing and distracting at first (I clearly have a “problem” with background stories and flashbacks).
McGlue has been sailing around the world. He has seen a lot of dark alleys. He knows hunger and cold and he never looks back. He lives in a constant vicious circle of drunkenness and hangovers. Rum is his blood. Then one day he finds himself wounded and arrested for the murder of his best friend.
Did he do it?
He doesn’t know.
And neither do we.
But we will... Oh yes, we will...
As always with Moshfegh we learn more about the characters from what’s between the lines than from what’s explicitly exposed. She’s a real master on the “show, don’t tell” technique.
I love Otessa Moshfegh’s writing. Most of all I admire her courage to stay outside the box, and can’t wait now to experience Death in Her Hands.
Four stars instead of five only because I found the jumpy start a bit confusing and distracting at first (I clearly have a “problem” with background stories and flashbacks).
January 29, 2022
fellas is it gay to be so in love with your best friend that you kill him when he asks you to?
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
October 24, 2021
I’m sorry Ms. Moshfegh.... but this was a miss for me. It’s the 4th book I’ve read of hers after My Year of Rest and Relaxation, Homesick for Another World, and Death in Her Hands, all of which I loved. This was just unsettling and not in the good, typical Moshfegh way.
Story about a pirate named McGlue that forgot he committed a murder of one of his crewmates. There are so many slurs it’s unbearable, and like yeah McGlue is (basically) closeted but still. I commend our author for making me feel absolutely disgusting with word choice and storytelling because that’s something that she excels at in every single one of her pieces. This may have gone too far for me.
And I just didn’t get the story. I feel stupid for not understanding whatever deeper meaning was there because it won all these prizes, but ??? What do you have to say here, Moshfegh?? Like what? I don’t like it.
Story about a pirate named McGlue that forgot he committed a murder of one of his crewmates. There are so many slurs it’s unbearable, and like yeah McGlue is (basically) closeted but still. I commend our author for making me feel absolutely disgusting with word choice and storytelling because that’s something that she excels at in every single one of her pieces. This may have gone too far for me.
And I just didn’t get the story. I feel stupid for not understanding whatever deeper meaning was there because it won all these prizes, but ??? What do you have to say here, Moshfegh?? Like what? I don’t like it.
November 26, 2025
La lectura conjunta de este mes de noviembre, la penúltima del año y sintiéndolo mucho, me ha parecido un horror.
Hacía tiempo que no ponía tan baja nota a una novela, algo que suelo reservarme a libros mal escritos, pero es que tengo que ser sincera con lo que me ha transmitido; y ha sido puro hastío porque toda la narración se basa en un relato ambiguo de un alcohólico que tiene una brecha en la cabeza y que trata de recordar su pasado y esclarecer si cometió o no un asesinato.
Pero llegas al final y te quedas igual porque es uno de esos finales ambiguos en el que prácticamente tienes que adivinar lo que ha ocurrido.
Mal, muy mal.
A modo de curiosidad: parece ser que esta historia corta o relato largo nació a partir de una noticia antigua que leyó Ottessa, donde un hombre había sido asesinado en alta mar, en Zanzíbar, a manos de otro compañero el cual no recuerda nada y que unos meses antes se había abierto la cabeza al caer de un vagón de tren. A partir de ahí, la autora sintió que tenía una anécdota de la que tirar para dar forma a la presente y desastrosa, bajo mi punto de vista, novela que les traigo hoy.
Sosteniendo un argumento con una gran carga psicológica que se apoya plenamente por el monólogo interno de un hombre alcohólico y amnésico que nos regala momentos tan perturbadores como los relacionados con esa brecha supurante que tiene en el cráneo, entre otros muchos donde su conducta moralmente cuestionable desde luego que indiferente no te dejará.
Puede ser que ese ser detestable, sucio y malhablado que es McGlue sea de tu agrado y logres conectar con el estilo de Ottessa pero en esta ocasión no ha sido para mi.
La repulsión que me produjo desde las primeras páginas fue el mayor lastre que me encontré junto con una forma de narrar muy confusa.
"Lapvona" me gustó mucho, también es una historia muy rocambolesca, pero en esta ocasión, su primera novela, la he leído rápido para terminar lo que me estaba pareciendo un suplicio de lectura y llegar a un desenlace que quería que fuera la luz al final de un tortuoso camino pero ha sido como darme de bruces contra un muro.
https://www.facebook.com/LaLocadelosL... 🖤📚
Hacía tiempo que no ponía tan baja nota a una novela, algo que suelo reservarme a libros mal escritos, pero es que tengo que ser sincera con lo que me ha transmitido; y ha sido puro hastío porque toda la narración se basa en un relato ambiguo de un alcohólico que tiene una brecha en la cabeza y que trata de recordar su pasado y esclarecer si cometió o no un asesinato.
Pero llegas al final y te quedas igual porque es uno de esos finales ambiguos en el que prácticamente tienes que adivinar lo que ha ocurrido.
Mal, muy mal.
A modo de curiosidad: parece ser que esta historia corta o relato largo nació a partir de una noticia antigua que leyó Ottessa, donde un hombre había sido asesinado en alta mar, en Zanzíbar, a manos de otro compañero el cual no recuerda nada y que unos meses antes se había abierto la cabeza al caer de un vagón de tren. A partir de ahí, la autora sintió que tenía una anécdota de la que tirar para dar forma a la presente y desastrosa, bajo mi punto de vista, novela que les traigo hoy.
Sosteniendo un argumento con una gran carga psicológica que se apoya plenamente por el monólogo interno de un hombre alcohólico y amnésico que nos regala momentos tan perturbadores como los relacionados con esa brecha supurante que tiene en el cráneo, entre otros muchos donde su conducta moralmente cuestionable desde luego que indiferente no te dejará.
Puede ser que ese ser detestable, sucio y malhablado que es McGlue sea de tu agrado y logres conectar con el estilo de Ottessa pero en esta ocasión no ha sido para mi.
La repulsión que me produjo desde las primeras páginas fue el mayor lastre que me encontré junto con una forma de narrar muy confusa.
"Lapvona" me gustó mucho, también es una historia muy rocambolesca, pero en esta ocasión, su primera novela, la he leído rápido para terminar lo que me estaba pareciendo un suplicio de lectura y llegar a un desenlace que quería que fuera la luz al final de un tortuoso camino pero ha sido como darme de bruces contra un muro.
https://www.facebook.com/LaLocadelosL... 🖤📚
December 7, 2024
"But we're limited, aren't we. We've all got some limitations. And we bump up against them, and it hurts, sure, but it's the only way to find them out." Pg 74
This was such a unique and mind-twisting read! I have been wanting to pick up another Ottessa Moshfegh book since reading (and loving) My Year of Rest and Relaxation a few years ago. I love Moshfegh's writing style, and really think that is where her strength lies in her books. I will admit, I was fairly confused for the first half, however with an unreliable, alcoholic narrator, that is understandable, and I am glad I pushed through because I really enjoyed this book overall. I highly recommend McGlue to any fans of Carmen Maria Machado!
January 5, 2023
I never thought I would give Moshfegh 0.5 ⭐️ and yet here we are. I was torn reviewing this. I love this woman’s work. I really do but I have to be honest. If I had stumbled across this book and the front cover and author’s name was removed, i would despise it. There is nothing redeeming about this book—writing wise, plot wise, and even subject matter wise.
Let’s start with McGlue himself. He’s a typical Moshfegh character—except he’s not. He’s a poorly fleshed out character. I definitely think that Moshfegh (back when she wrote this) could not write a male character effectively.
I understand that McGlue is supposed to be an unreliable drunkard. I get it. But his internal monologue sounds godawful. There is absolutely no sense in his thoughts, words or actions. None of the characters were fleshed out either, but I guess they wouldn’t be if McGlue was drunk 98% of the time. That also made it difficult to know what was going on. There were a lot of time jumps, lots of shifting around out of the blue. I don’t think that’s effective story telling. I find this weird, sparse, jarring writing to be lazy. I’m frankly confused by all the 5 ⭐️ reviews and high literary praise.
And then there’s the homophobia. I can’t even begin to describe how many slurs there were. Oh wait, I can: 24 in just 19 pages. There were even more after this. Now it’s easy to say that it’s understandable. McGlue was struggling with homophobia. But Moshfegh could have clearly shown his struggles WITHOUT dropping a slur every other page. And that’s the crazy thing. I know that if Moshfegh had written McGlue today, we would get a completely different story, one that isn’t filled with slurs, subpar characterizations, and ineffective storytelling.
Let’s start with McGlue himself. He’s a typical Moshfegh character—except he’s not. He’s a poorly fleshed out character. I definitely think that Moshfegh (back when she wrote this) could not write a male character effectively.
I understand that McGlue is supposed to be an unreliable drunkard. I get it. But his internal monologue sounds godawful. There is absolutely no sense in his thoughts, words or actions. None of the characters were fleshed out either, but I guess they wouldn’t be if McGlue was drunk 98% of the time. That also made it difficult to know what was going on. There were a lot of time jumps, lots of shifting around out of the blue. I don’t think that’s effective story telling. I find this weird, sparse, jarring writing to be lazy. I’m frankly confused by all the 5 ⭐️ reviews and high literary praise.
And then there’s the homophobia. I can’t even begin to describe how many slurs there were. Oh wait, I can: 24 in just 19 pages. There were even more after this. Now it’s easy to say that it’s understandable. McGlue was struggling with homophobia. But Moshfegh could have clearly shown his struggles WITHOUT dropping a slur every other page. And that’s the crazy thing. I know that if Moshfegh had written McGlue today, we would get a completely different story, one that isn’t filled with slurs, subpar characterizations, and ineffective storytelling.
March 30, 2024
Questo è un romanzo di esordio? In equilibrio precario tra presente e passato, in bilico tra realtà e allucinazione, la storia di McGlue fluisce senza sosta per concludersi in un perfetto epilogo circolare, al molo di Zanzibar per l’esattezza. Una volta finita l’ultima pagina, provate a rileggere la prima. Bellissimo!
June 29, 2019
Moshfegh excels crafting characters’ voices. She revels in the grotesque, never so much perhaps as with this one, her first foray into fiction. McGlue is a story that unravels along with its narrator, though where it leads may not be as satisfying to readers as how it gets them there.
May 18, 2021
After reading My Year of Rest and Relaxation experiencing first hand her strong prose, unique style and bleakness (and nastiness!), Moshfegh became a favorite author of mine. My journey of reading her shorter stories start with McGlue, her first and favorite short story.
McGlue is a dark, abstract story of a drunk sailor, who is accused of murdering his friend on board. His consciousness comes and goes, he has no memory whatsoever as to the murder in question, he has a huge crack in the skull and most probably bleeding to death without knowing what’s going on. With flashbacks into his past, we get little or no knowledge as to what may have happened as Moshfegh leaves it open for us interpret.
This is a love or hate kind of story and its value is highly debatable. I can understand why some people did not like it or find it special. I enjoyed this raw tale even though it has room for improvement. It definitely heralds the coming of spring and better works and I can easily say her writing has improved profoundly over the years judging from her latest works. A must-read for the lovers of the author.
McGlue is a dark, abstract story of a drunk sailor, who is accused of murdering his friend on board. His consciousness comes and goes, he has no memory whatsoever as to the murder in question, he has a huge crack in the skull and most probably bleeding to death without knowing what’s going on. With flashbacks into his past, we get little or no knowledge as to what may have happened as Moshfegh leaves it open for us interpret.
This is a love or hate kind of story and its value is highly debatable. I can understand why some people did not like it or find it special. I enjoyed this raw tale even though it has room for improvement. It definitely heralds the coming of spring and better works and I can easily say her writing has improved profoundly over the years judging from her latest works. A must-read for the lovers of the author.
November 21, 2022
We have yet to see the next-level Ottessa Moshfegh book that I firmly believe she's capable of delivering. So I'm holding out on the five that my effusive review might otherwise point to. This, of course, is the way of things; she's only now coming up on book three, and I'd rather someone begin a little short of their potential than release a knockout debut and stagnate afterward. For its part, McGlue is a novel of a few small problems. There isn't a whole ton of character development, the hazy plot is light on causality. Yet what Moshfegh always succeeds in, why I believe she's got a masterpiece or two or three in her, is because her writing is so full of vitality. This short novel is a crude howl, a short brawling work, drenched in drink and unease, almost elemental in its force. There's life on every page, emotions that teeter on the edge of too much and only fail to slip over because Moshfegh seems to so understand McGlue, an ever-intoxicated murderer wrapped in memories of a relationship at once abusive, freeing, and (at least in my view) homoerotic, so she knows when to tilt from the despair she's famous for to anger and even, in places, humor and strange joy. Comes at you like a dream you can't quite remember but want to tell everyone about.
December 25, 2024
sobre el dolor de dejar ir lo amado por voluntad propia y en contra de todo deseo racional.
sobre ser incapaz de concebir la idea de ser algo socialmente impropio.
sobre enterrar todo recuerdo de felicidad remota.
sobre la fe como arma de auto-desprecio, como ancla en la locura.
sobre ser destrozada por la literatura por milésima vez.
Este libro me ha enseñado tanto que no se siente correcto ponerle toda la puntuación y poco más. Este libro fue un viaje de impresión, adoración, dolor, odio, represión y escape. Desde hace meses que siento todos los libros que he leído me despojan de cualquier pensamiento coherente. Este libro se siente como entenderlo todo mientras no entiendes en absoluto nada. Dejar la mente como un desastre porque descubriste algo y no puedes dejar de verlo ahora.
Tienen que leerlo ya.
sobre ser incapaz de concebir la idea de ser algo socialmente impropio.
sobre enterrar todo recuerdo de felicidad remota.
sobre la fe como arma de auto-desprecio, como ancla en la locura.
sobre ser destrozada por la literatura por milésima vez.
Este libro me ha enseñado tanto que no se siente correcto ponerle toda la puntuación y poco más. Este libro fue un viaje de impresión, adoración, dolor, odio, represión y escape. Desde hace meses que siento todos los libros que he leído me despojan de cualquier pensamiento coherente. Este libro se siente como entenderlo todo mientras no entiendes en absoluto nada. Dejar la mente como un desastre porque descubriste algo y no puedes dejar de verlo ahora.
Tienen que leerlo ya.
April 1, 2022
easily the worst moshfegh novel i've read. she does capture the disgusting ambiance of 1850s sailor life, but when the main character wonders where his friend is for 80% of the book and you already know he killed him from reading the back cover, the twist doesn't work.
September 1, 2023
McGlue in a fugue - Ah, that wonderful drink that keeps the monsters at bay, but hey, it does create some terrible monsters of its own. It's such a terrible deceiver.
McGlue unglued - because that is what he is without Johnson. Johnson was the glue that kept him mostly together.
Moshfegh gives us an unvarnished McGlue, the whys, the bad choices. McGlue was an escape artist, and in drink, he had the greatest of assistants. What did he find in Johnson? The friend? The lover? The enabler? I have to part and peak between her sentences to try and find answers and clues. And through these cracks in the sentences, I glimpse his monsters, the lost brother, missing father, an exhausted mother, the attraction to men. But quick quick, just get another bottle, keep the monsters away.
McGlue unglued - because that is what he is without Johnson. Johnson was the glue that kept him mostly together.
Moshfegh gives us an unvarnished McGlue, the whys, the bad choices. McGlue was an escape artist, and in drink, he had the greatest of assistants. What did he find in Johnson? The friend? The lover? The enabler? I have to part and peak between her sentences to try and find answers and clues. And through these cracks in the sentences, I glimpse his monsters, the lost brother, missing father, an exhausted mother, the attraction to men. But quick quick, just get another bottle, keep the monsters away.
Creator: Dina Belenko Photography |
Credit: Getty Images
Copyright: Dina Belenko
March 7, 2025
damn mcglue, you abhorrent gay alcoholic sailor - i don't know what to make of you.
the 1850s setting is interesting, taking place first in the cabin of a ship and then in a salem jail cell. i cannot fault any readers for being put off by mcglue, his abject racism and misogyny, and his plentiful use of the f slur. it's filthy and joyless, not a pleasant read.
ultimately it feels like a picture of addiction, of turning to the substance that can quiet the self-annihilating voice in your head, of overindulging without fear of consequences because there is so little to lose. also, falling in love with your enabler, repressed gay longing, and the classic amnesiac anxiety of knowing something horrible has happened, and it may be your own doing.
this is my first foray into moshfegh's work (fucking finally, right?), and i didn't enjoy it, but it holds promise that makes me excited to read more of her books.
favorite line: They are dressed in parched black dresses and have faces like the drippings of a candle.
the 1850s setting is interesting, taking place first in the cabin of a ship and then in a salem jail cell. i cannot fault any readers for being put off by mcglue, his abject racism and misogyny, and his plentiful use of the f slur. it's filthy and joyless, not a pleasant read.
ultimately it feels like a picture of addiction, of turning to the substance that can quiet the self-annihilating voice in your head, of overindulging without fear of consequences because there is so little to lose. also, falling in love with your enabler, repressed gay longing, and the classic amnesiac anxiety of knowing something horrible has happened, and it may be your own doing.
this is my first foray into moshfegh's work (fucking finally, right?), and i didn't enjoy it, but it holds promise that makes me excited to read more of her books.
favorite line: They are dressed in parched black dresses and have faces like the drippings of a candle.
April 6, 2015
MCGLUE, the title and main character of the novel by Ottessa Moshfegh, is unmoored in a rummy ocean of memories and over the 100-odd pages of his narrative tries to grab hold of some buoy of truth to anchor himself to the possibility that he murdered his friend and companion named Johnson. There’s a literal crack in his skull from which flow the metaphoric salty language he uses to tell his tale of woe. He sounds fully wedded to his time in history and contemporary in his concerns about love and friendship, ideas that have set men to sea from time immemorial. For such a short book, the story is rich in detail, character and incident, but what most struck me were the words that Moshfegh sets in place on the page, words that snap together as if they could never stand apart. She has an artists ability to turn craft into inevitability. There’s a fate to the story and a fate to the talent of the writer whose prose is prophetic in that its destination is in the road it paves in the making.
September 14, 2025
"Ya sabes, verdad, que en los tiempos antiguos si pensabas por ti mismo lo mínimo de lo que te tildaban era de demonio y te quemaban como a un cerdo, te asaban."
Me ha gustado la manera en la que nos expone la historia, con un aura gótica y muy psicológica que nos sumerge en la historia de un marinero acusado de matar a su amigo, la vida que le da a McGlue y la oscuridad que acarrea nos lleva por la crudeza de la vida, abordando varios temas.
Moshfegh es una autora que no me canso de leer, y es que sus historias me envuelven por completo, y esta no ha Sido la excepción.
Me ha gustado la manera en la que nos expone la historia, con un aura gótica y muy psicológica que nos sumerge en la historia de un marinero acusado de matar a su amigo, la vida que le da a McGlue y la oscuridad que acarrea nos lleva por la crudeza de la vida, abordando varios temas.
Moshfegh es una autora que no me canso de leer, y es que sus historias me envuelven por completo, y esta no ha Sido la excepción.
December 1, 2025
Penúltina lectura conjunta del año acompañada de mi querida Loca y en esta ocasión nuestras impresiones han sido completamente opuestas. Fue mi propuesta, a ambas nos apetecía...a mi me ha encantado y ella la ha detestado 🤣🤣
Mi primera toma de contacto con la autora fue con Lapvona, lectura que me encantó y fascinó a partes iguales. Su estilo y forma de contarnos la historia hace que me meta de lleno y sea casi que un personaje más y en esta ocasión ha sido así también.
Conoceremos a McGlue un marinero alcohólico que se encuentra recluido en un camarote porque parece que ha matado a su mejor amigo.
También entra en escena una herida que tiene en la cabeza y que parece que no termina de curarse, un encierro forzoso dentro de una habitación sin salir, y sin salir significa que ni para ir al baño, como única solución un cubo....imaginemos esa habitación...la estás oliendo igual que yo 😷
Junto a este desagradable ambiente, nuestro marinero empieza a sufrir los síntomas de la abstinencia...entra y sale de la realidad (su realidad) de manera caótica. Te llegará a costar dilucidar que puede ser real y que no...
Notarás la desesperación de McGlue, notarás su olor y su podredumbre, te revolverá las tripas, verás como se infecta la herida y como se da de golpes para recordar...
Ese ambiente opresivo y que me he imaginado en penumbra y con tonos azulados me ha conquistado por completo y por ende leer a esta autora es un acierto seguro.
Mi primera toma de contacto con la autora fue con Lapvona, lectura que me encantó y fascinó a partes iguales. Su estilo y forma de contarnos la historia hace que me meta de lleno y sea casi que un personaje más y en esta ocasión ha sido así también.
Conoceremos a McGlue un marinero alcohólico que se encuentra recluido en un camarote porque parece que ha matado a su mejor amigo.
También entra en escena una herida que tiene en la cabeza y que parece que no termina de curarse, un encierro forzoso dentro de una habitación sin salir, y sin salir significa que ni para ir al baño, como única solución un cubo....imaginemos esa habitación...la estás oliendo igual que yo 😷
Junto a este desagradable ambiente, nuestro marinero empieza a sufrir los síntomas de la abstinencia...entra y sale de la realidad (su realidad) de manera caótica. Te llegará a costar dilucidar que puede ser real y que no...
Notarás la desesperación de McGlue, notarás su olor y su podredumbre, te revolverá las tripas, verás como se infecta la herida y como se da de golpes para recordar...
Ese ambiente opresivo y que me he imaginado en penumbra y con tonos azulados me ha conquistado por completo y por ende leer a esta autora es un acierto seguro.
June 7, 2023
Our Flag Means Death (if it were tonally The Lighthouse) meets The Power of the Dog meets Nightmare Alley meets The VVitch meets Euphoria meets literary fiction
For the first half of McGlue, I couldn’t decide where I landed with whether I was enjoying myself or not, but about a third/halfway through, it just sort of dawned on me that I was completely obsessed with this story and the skillful way it was being told. It’s masterful? The chokehold Ottessa Moshfegh has on me. Moshfegh is just so talented because I was so deeply invested in a story that is v grotesque and yet scintillating and thrilling all at the same time I am just shook at her mastery of her craft at her debut level! Like—I am in complete awe of Moshfegh. How she is not already on the level of Gillian Flynn in the cultural zeitgeist is beyond me, truly.
Also, listening to the audiobook edition of McGlue I really appreciated the commitment of the production for sourcing a narrator with the correct regional dialectical accent. Random, but through the course of listening to the audiobook, I didn’t realize how much I missed my late father’s Massachusetts accent. It only came out when he would talk to family or spend time in Massachusetts for a significant amount so I only rarely ever got to hear it, and listening to McGlue on audiobook, even though the narrator’s voice isn’t my fathers, the voice affectations are just—so perfect. (Can you tell that I love that production hired someone with the authentic accent of the setting or what?) The performance was strong and compelling, and I v much enjoyed the audiobook. Quick exquisite read!
All in all, definitely one of those if you love you’ll love but if you hate it you’re really going to hate it kind of books. If the IPs at the top of this review interest you, in addition to films like A Ghost Story, The Green Knight, Ex-Machina, The Lighthouse, then this might be up your alley!!! Oh, and don’t forget to check out the trigger warnings for the book before heading into the read, because there are a LOT of slurs used and intense violent events happen, in addition to heavy alcohol abuse and addictive behavior, detailed descriptions of withdrawal, etc.
For the first half of McGlue, I couldn’t decide where I landed with whether I was enjoying myself or not, but about a third/halfway through, it just sort of dawned on me that I was completely obsessed with this story and the skillful way it was being told. It’s masterful? The chokehold Ottessa Moshfegh has on me. Moshfegh is just so talented because I was so deeply invested in a story that is v grotesque and yet scintillating and thrilling all at the same time I am just shook at her mastery of her craft at her debut level! Like—I am in complete awe of Moshfegh. How she is not already on the level of Gillian Flynn in the cultural zeitgeist is beyond me, truly.
Also, listening to the audiobook edition of McGlue I really appreciated the commitment of the production for sourcing a narrator with the correct regional dialectical accent. Random, but through the course of listening to the audiobook, I didn’t realize how much I missed my late father’s Massachusetts accent. It only came out when he would talk to family or spend time in Massachusetts for a significant amount so I only rarely ever got to hear it, and listening to McGlue on audiobook, even though the narrator’s voice isn’t my fathers, the voice affectations are just—so perfect. (Can you tell that I love that production hired someone with the authentic accent of the setting or what?) The performance was strong and compelling, and I v much enjoyed the audiobook. Quick exquisite read!
All in all, definitely one of those if you love you’ll love but if you hate it you’re really going to hate it kind of books. If the IPs at the top of this review interest you, in addition to films like A Ghost Story, The Green Knight, Ex-Machina, The Lighthouse, then this might be up your alley!!! Oh, and don’t forget to check out the trigger warnings for the book before heading into the read, because there are a LOT of slurs used and intense violent events happen, in addition to heavy alcohol abuse and addictive behavior, detailed descriptions of withdrawal, etc.
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