My second run-in with Moshfegh doesn't hurt my enthusiasm. Compared to the brilliant My Year of Rest and Relaxation it feels a bit more like a form experiment, like an unwritten Shirley Jackson novel set in a sleepy mid-60s New England town, but it's no less effective for that. Moshfegh drops hints throughout, piecing together her plot from apparent meaningless details until it all comes together in the end, not giving a shit about things like likability and morality; Eileen is trapped in a world only partly of her own making, and at some point, her reaction makes perfect sense. The ride there isn't necessarily fun, but it's consistently both sharp, sad, and funny.