Here is her dead body.” This isn’t dialogue, but a note, found in the woods by the novel’s narrator, who concedes: “If not a prank, the note could have been the beginning of a story tossed out as a false start, a bad opening.” Moshfegh gives and she takes away: dangling the promise of a propulsive murder mystery, then suggesting it might be nothing. Life is gross ain’t that divine?ĭeath in Her Hands leaps into action immediately: “Her name was Magda. It’s less a form of Stoicism than an inversion of the old saw that puts cleanliness next to Godliness. So it’s hard to know what to make of her newest novel, which posits rejection as the path to the holy. Rejection is her belief you might call it nihilism. Moshfegh’s novels, uninterested in the dominant modes of contemporary fiction-the genteel tale of middle-class concerns, the politically engaged social novel, the self-aware meta-text-represent a riposte to her near-peers (Jonathan Franzen, Ben Lerner, Rachel Kushner, et al.).
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