First published in 2014 (when it won the Fence Modern Prize in Prose), McGlue was Ottessa Moshfegh's first release; and on the heels of her recent successes, this short novella is about to be re-released in 2019. All of the grit and debauch of Moshfegh's later novels are prefigured here, and as I tend to like transgressive fiction, for the most part, this worked for me. (I know I shouldn't quote from an ARC, but the language is the best part of this book, and since it's a re-release, I'll assume these bits are in their final forms.)
I call out, and my voice makes me ill to hear it. Get back down to the cot, McGlue. Yes, thank you. The stars come out. I look for the moon, but it eludes me. I can’t find or measure my way. Drift, drift. If I just close my eyes I’ll get there.
I sleep some more.Set mainly in 1851, McGlue – a boozy ship's hand – wakes up imprisoned in the hold of his ship, accused of murdering his only friend and benefactor, the slumming rich man, Johnson. As a chronic alcoholic, McGlue is more desperate to get himself a drink than to clear up the misunderstanding (what he assumes is a prank), and his condition is spelled out in short, muddled phrases that pull the reader into McGlue's confused immediacy. As he dries out and grasps for memories, we learn that McGlue has also suffered head injuries that not only make remembering difficult, but make him act like a bit of a madman:
The floor and ceiling switch places and the earth quakes. A moment later the guard comes down across my face fist-first: “Shut it!” he shouts into my ear. I quit screaming. I've been screaming.McGlue is rich in historical detail – with stories from several exotic ports-of-call that McGlue and Johnson visited on the ship, to newspaper accounts of the anti-slavery movement, to a look at the 19th century American justice system – and for such a short work, it does a good job of filling in the background that led McGlue to become such a degraded character (raised in Salem, Massachusetts by an overworked single mother – a childhood steeped in poverty and tragedy – McGlue was six the first time he got drunk). McGlue was near freezing in a snowbank the first time the aristocratic Johnson spied the homeless teenager, and for reasons never quite adequately explained (but since we're always in the brain-damaged McGlue's head, maybe he doesn't know either), Johnson decides to become the boy's guardian and liquor supplier; eventually arranging for the two of them to set sail on a trading ship; Johnson always at the ready with a bottle in his pocket to bring McGlue back to life:
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 that first drink, I remember how to line up my feet and walk, loosen my jaw, tell someone to get out of my way.The format of following along as McGlue sobers out in solitary confinement – first in the ship's hold and then in a Salem prison cell – allows for very organic character development; made more interesting by McGlue's brain damage that keeps vital information back from both the reader and himself. There are a few surprisingly tender moments that got to me, but more often, McGlue is recalling fleabitten flophouses, downmarket whorehouses, or trying to jam his fingers into the crack in his skull in order to pry out the memories. Having enjoyed her later novels, it was interesting to me to see where Moshfegh started, and I would imagine that McGlue would have the most interest to others familiar with her work. Four stars is a rounding up.
Also by Ottessa Moshfegh:
Eileen
My Year of Rest and Relaxation
