McGlue

Salem, Massachusetts, 1851: McGlue lies in the ship’s hold, too drunk to know his own name, his bearings, or his fate—only that he may have killed a man. That man might have been his closest friend. Sobriety brings no clarity, only the crush of memory. Setting sail across the rough waters of literary tradition, Ottessa Moshfegh delivers a vicious, unrepentant rogue on a razor-edged voyage through the murk of recollection.

They say I’ve done something wrong? … And they’ve left me here to starve for it. Let them see me wasted to nothing—they’ll be so ashamed they’ll drop to their knees, pressing hot cross buns thick with butter into my hands, begging forgiveness. Every last one of them … the whole world, one by one. I’ll bless them like a kindly priest, nodding solemnly. Then I’ll plunge my head into a barrel of gin.