![]() ![]() He was the only one on Earth who loved me, and even he had left. Maybe Charlie would pass by later and follow the trail. I let tears drip from my eyes, my head bent toward the gravel, and as they splatted they made a little trail behind me. I cried and cried, thinking of the love I could have had, had I never met that awful, deleterious, pompous man. Always wanting something, some permission to be boastful, some permission to have power. Even your suspiciousness, your rigidity, your graying, thinning, hair, your wrinkled thighs?" I'd been young and beautiful once, and even then nobody had kissed me and said, "How young and beautiful you are”, not unless they wanted something from me. My Year of Rest and Relaxation and Death in Her Hands, her second and third novels, were New York Times bestsellers. ![]() Eileen, her first novel, was shortlisted for the National Book Critics Circle Award and the Man Booker Prize, and won the PEN/Hemingway Award for debut fiction. Nobody had ever said, "You are wonderful, even your bitterness and neurotic energy are wonderful. Ottessa Moshfegh is a fiction writer from New England. Even when he meant to be tender, he was condescending and controlling. I thought of Walter, of his nauseatingly gentle caresses. I thought of my parents, long dead, and how little love they'd given me. “And then I thought of my loneliness, my approaching death, how nobody knew me, how nobody cared. ![]()
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