Do you like your sailor stories booze-soaked, murderous, and whittled to a sharp, graceful point? Do you like novellas so compelling you stay up late despite yourself, knowing that you're riding a beautiful train bound for certain doom? Do you like writers who have published in The Paris Review? I like all of those things, and this brutal, gorgeous tome made me feel empathy, anxiety, resilience, and despair in equal measure. For such a dastardly dude, McGlue stole my wary heart within a few short pages, and Moshfegh's prose had me sending out the literary bat-signal to all of my reader friends. Treat yourself, finish it in a day, then pass it on.