Midway through the book this sentence shows the writer’s technique “I deduced that I’d been crushing Xanax with the handle of a butcher knife and snorting it with a rolled-up flyer for an open mic night at a club on Hester Street called Portnoy’s Porthole”. Ottessa Moshfegh can pull off that long sentence with genius flare. Unfortunately, this depressing plotless novel is perplexing. I slogged through to the bitter end just for curiosity sake. How this got to be number one on the Los Angeles Times bestseller list would make a great mystery novel.