9/4/2023 0 Comments My year of rest and relaxationIf this were the case, though, the novel would just be a ‘90s throwback, another retrospection. She turns to stronger meds, cleans her apartment of mostly everything but a mattress, and, after successfully sleeping for several months, “came to in a cross-legged seated position on the living room floor I was alive.” Informed by this new philosophy of absolute detachment, she records the Twin Towers attack as it happens, to be watched whenever she feels bored or sad.Īt first, you’d think that it would be impossible to read this tar-thick postmodern irony as anything other than an incisive, cynical commentary on the capitalist alienation of the pre-9/11 era. Armed with a barrage of drugs-all happily prescribed by possibly the worst therapist in literature-she sleeps the year away, hoping that by the time she wakes up, she’ll be renewed from the inside out. As the poster child of consumer desire, a walking advertisement, the girl’s supposed to have it all-but what do you know, she feels empty inside, hates the world. An orphan, she enjoys fabulous wealth and doesn’t feel the need to work. The plot goes something like this: a twenty-something WASP who, in her own words, is “hot shit,” lives in her own apartment on the Upper East Side in the year 2000. Sign up for our newsletter to get submission announcements and stay on top of our best work.
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