It’s not so odd a stance for someone like Moshfegh to adopt. And then I’ll switch to NPR, like, classical, until I’m disgusted with myself again.” Living in New York in her 20s? “A sex game with no content.” Dating? “An animal game like putting on a mask to go out and attract a mate.” Even listening to the radio turns into “a game of listening to, like, really bad hip-hop until I feel disgusted with myself. “Yeah, although it’s really faded now.” She smiles without teeth. That she’d taped a piece of paper that said VANITY IS THE ENEMY to her window. I had read that Helen of Troy was her least favorite fictional character. She told me she doesn’t give a shit about what she wears now, which made me feel gauche for wearing a white blazer in the desert, though it was linen.
People were so dishonest with their clothes and personalities.” The protagonist in her first Paris Review story, published when she was 31, mused, “Makeup made a girl look so desperate.
Jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers in midtown. Black flip-flops and a cotton sundress in Palm Springs. The clothes Ottessa Moshfegh wore to meet me - to drink water in shitty hotel lobbies in California and New York - were practical and cheap, the kind of miscellaneous cotton garments you find discarded on stoops in Park Slope.
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