Eileen

by Ottessa Moshfegh

I remember selecting one of the thickest books from the public library, a chronicle of ancient Egyptian medicine, to study the gruesome practice of pulling the brains of the dead out through the nose like skeins of yarn. I liked to think of my brain like that, tangled up in my skull. The idea that my brains could be untangled, straightened out, and thus refashioned into a state of peace and sanity was a comforting fantasy.

I preferred to read about ancient times, distant lands. Knowledge of anything current or faddish made me feel I was just a victim of isolation.

I imagined what relief I might feel if I could lie on Dr. Frye’s couch just once and confess like some sort of fallen hero that my life was simply intolerable. But, in fact, it was tolerable. I’d been tolerating it, after all.

We’d grown up side by side, but I barely knew her. And she certainly didn’t know me.

A grown woman is like a coyote—she can get by on very little. Men are more like house cats. Leave them alone for too long and they’ll die of sadness.

I sincerely believed that if there were less of me, I would have fewer problems.

When poor people hear a loud noise, they whip their heads around. Wealthy people finish their sentences, then just glance back.