"How do you treat others decently when you want to become someone else? How do you live well when you yearn to burn with all your spirit in moments of wildness or freedom or excess?"
“Nightshift” is a brave, risky novel about obsession and desire - the desire to escape, create, begin anew. And tied into that is the desire to disappear, to annihilate oneself. It almost read as a thriller to me - I read it in nearly one sitting, filled with dread and fearful anticipation about what might happen next.
"Why was it such a great thing to respect yourself? If you let go of vapid ideas like that, of that kind of preciousness, you could explore so much else. If you just swept your precious self out of the way a bit."
The story follows twenty-three-year-old Meggie, at the turn of the century, Meggie’s life is fairly humdrum and unremarkable, but lurking within her is a secret wish. "There were times,” she whispers, “when a small, unexpressed part of me yearned for another kind of life, to be another person, even." This wish has the chance to manifest itself via her growing obsession with her co-worker (and eventual friend) Sabine.
"The moment I gave in to my craving for her, everything changed... Tired of the rooms in my own dreary house, done with measly alterations, I let go, the house burned down, and it felt good."
Everything about Sabine is appealing to to Meggie. Studying literature after a failed law degree, with a nice cozy boyfriend who gives her a sheep pendant from Wales as a present, Meggie sees (or projects…) a path towards liberation in Sabine. "Trapped in a life I hadn’t quite intended," she fears, "I’d never be able to change, to know myself beyond the stencil of what my upbringing had created." So we have a friendship dynamic similar to the one set up in Ferrante - one outgoing friend, one more subdued - but with a much darker twist. Her behaviour grows more and more Tom Ripley-ish, most memorably in her treatment of a photograph of Sabine. To her, Sabrine is free, fanciful, "a brave heroine in a dark fairytale" (fairytales are mentioned often throughout the book). "I was awed by her ability to be herself," Meggie says, "- unconventional, uninhibited - where I’d never had the courage to do the same."
Slowly but surely, she gets to know Sabine better - Sabine goes by different names with different peoples, is unreliable and spontaneous. "She was the naughty little girl I’d always wanted to know. The girl I’d been discouraged from inviting home. A sexualised child." The atmosphere is heightened by the nightshifts they work together, days that blur into each other, thirty hours without sleeping, evenings full of eccentric and off-beat characters, more people for Meggie to envy. "I wished I’d been a gang leader or a goth," she sighs, "But how would my mother have coped?” Their nightshifts are full pot noodles, “see you laters” instead of see you tomorrow, and eventually, the darker, more excessive side of a nighttime existence. Meggie begins imitating Sabine more than ever. And then, she comes to a decision. "What I needed," she declares, "was to push against myself."
That’s when the novel enters Andrés Caicedo-Cat Marnell-Mary Gaitskill territory, and I was DOWN with it. I’m not going to go into specifics here, because one of the dark pleasures (“pleasure” is not exactly the right word, but anyway...) of the novel is seeing where Meggie goes, what she does. And what is done to her. As Meggie puts it: "As an outsider, I’d always found refuge in reading. But as Sabine and I grew closer, I didn’t need it. My outsider’s life began to feel extraordinary. I didn’t want to read about characters, I wanted to be them. I didn’t want to read about adventures, I wanted to have them.”
But will there be consequences to Meggie’s decisions? Who IS Sabine, really? One of the more fascinating tropes of the novel to me is the idea of Sabine/Meggie as writers, fiction teller, creators of fantasies. Who is the better writer/creator, Meggie or Sabine? What are the risks/consequences of being someone is really GOOD at inventing/living in fantasies?
Another one of the key images in the novel for me was the description of a beautiful shell found on a beach, that eventually stinks up the bedroom, due to the creature rotting inside it. Is the narrator a psychosexual obsessive? Is Sabine just “fucked up” (as one character puts it)? These simple psychological terms feel like a failure in language; this isn’t a simple, straightforward psycho thriller. Instead (especially in the last 25% of the book, which was the strongest part for me), the book becomes more about the theme of obliteration - how to disappear, getting lost. How do you change? How do you escape? And what are the consequences of doing so?
A strikingly memorable and provocative read.