Everything I read by Ottessa Moshfegh makes me want to lose myself in her prose. McGlue was no different. It's a short read, but the snippets, like flashes of faulty memory after a long-drinking binge, make you feel like you've lived a life with the man. It's subtle and ever-deepening in its sorrow and strangeness and maddening darkness. The final section of the book almost brought me to tears and has stayed with me across the months since I last read it. Buy it. Now.