At the gates of the pandemic, many of those who had read My Year of Rest and Relaxation could only turn their eyes to the author, Ottessa Moshfegh, with even more curiosity than that already aroused by the release of what was immediately an international bestseller. (And soon to be film directed by Yorgos Lanthimos, surely the perfect pick for the task of bringing out a certainly dark and in some places uncomfortable story.) In fact, the novel tells of an unnamed protagonist who decides to lock herself up at home for a year, limiting her outings almost exclusively to the pharmacy to buy the drugs that allow her to stay asleep most of the time. This claustrophobia “predicted” only a couple of years earlier, does not, however, make Moshfegh feel like a Cassandra, as many have called her. Indeed, the similarities with the fear of the virus and the health of loved ones have little to do with the meandering nihilism palpable in My Year of Rest and Relaxation. Instead she tells us that while this last year has certainly been distressing for her, it has also been profitable and not too dissimilar from her normal life pattern. Made up, as it is, of rhythms linked to writing and a sense of a sort of peace with everything that happens… out there. Seemingly, of itself, not as interesting as the experience of writing fiction.