Death in Her Hands by Ottessa Moshfegh review – meandering murder mystery
A dynamic and wonderfully mercurial writer, Ottessa Moshfegh has defied ideas of genre, appropriate subject matter and character “likability” to create sui generis award-winning work. From the filthy restlessness of her debut McGlue through the Booker-shortlisted Eileen to the witty and pointed social commentary of My Year of Rest and Relaxation, Moshfegh’s prose, voice and execution have been remarkable. It’s for this reason that her latest, Death in Her Hands, seems a disappointment, unable to reach those prior heights. Some signature Moshfegh moments remain, but in general the book simmers for a while and then fizzles out.
“Her name is Magda. Nobody will ever know who killed her. It wasn’t me. Here is her dead body.” This is the note our narrator finds on a walk in the forest with her dog, Charlie. But there is no body, “just the note on the ground”. The seventy-something narrator, who refers to herself as “Vesta”, has moved from the west coast to a house in the woods in New England. Her sole companion after the death of her husband Walter, who resides in an urn at her bedside, is Charlie. The dog has significantly more charm than Walter, who we learn wasn’t a very nice man.
The murder note leads the narrator down a rabbit hole of circular and obsessional thoughts
Has there been an actual murder? Who left the note? Is the note even real? We are meant to be plunged into an ambiguous space between thriller, mystery and psychological drama. We may also be intended to regard the narrative as dark humour, as the note leads the narrator down a rabbit hole of circular and obsessional thoughts.
Vesta in her solitude soon conjures up a note writer she calls Blake, whom she thinks of as “the shaggy blond boy on the skateboard”, the kind a mother must chide. “Blake, clean your room. Blake, don’t be late for dinner.” She veers between conjuring complex lives for Blake and Magda and going on rambles with Charlie in the woods, dancing with Charlie in the kitchen, and wondering if she shares a mind with Charlie. Which leads her to deep thoughts such as: “I wondered what the mind was, actually.”
The answer seems to be that a mind is a thing that wanders where it will, even if a novel should only approximate this state. Unfortunately, Vesta’s storytelling style means that the reader must hear in the abstract about “how my garden might grow”, then get a somewhat repetitive description of the “seeds ready to plant”, the pay-off for which is a scene in which a garden we would easily have taken the existence of on faith appears to have been destroyed by unknown forces.
This may seem a small point, but it exists in a context in which the reader must endure not only the minutiae of Vesta’s days, but the point-blank sadism of Vesta listing the particulars: “WALK. BREAKFAST. GARDEN. LUNCH. BOAT. HAMMOCK. WINE. PUZZLE. BATH. DINNER. READ. BED.” If there is a satirical point being made here it is difficult to absorb amid so much narrative drift, such a fine portrayal of a splendidly vacant nothing. We don’t need to like a character to find them interesting, but we do need to find them interesting … to find them interesting. In contrast, Moshfegh’s prior My Year of Rest and Relaxation played with ideas of why we bother to get up in the morning as part of a probing inquiry into the dominant social contract.
Related: Ottessa Moshfegh: 'Americans are really good storytellers and really good liars'
Imaginary conversations with Christian call-in radio show hosts and the continued exploration of a mystery that may only be in Vesta’s mind serve to emphasise how isolated and isolating the novel feels and evoke a certain amount of tension through atmosphere. But neither these interludes nor any amount of interaction between Vesta and Charlie, who feels more like a prop as the novel progresses, can provide an illusion of momentum.
Other encounters, for example with a woman Vesta dubs “Shirley”, seem to be trying too hard to make Vesta unlikable as well as meandering. When Charlie goes missing, Vesta has an extended encounter with neighbours, one of whom says she’s dying of cancer and clearly would like to be left alone. But Vesta, newly energised to wonder if the couple has something to do with Magda’s possible murder, does not oblige. This episode is intriguing, but has less impact coming so late in the novel.
All characters are made up, but some are more made up than others. Characters who are made up by other characters, in laborious and lengthy fashion, must pass the same or more rigorous test regarding reader interest, whether in a humorous or serious novel. “I hadn’t been bored at all that winter,” Vesta claims. “Boredom hadn’t even occurred to me.” These are the funniest lines in the novel and perhaps a key to how to read Death in Her Hands. But, unfortunately, you can be too good at portraying boredom.
• Jeff VanderMeer’s latest book is Dead Astronauts (4th Estate). Death in Her Hands is published by Vintage (£14.99) . To order a copy go to guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
