SELF-LOATHING AS A FORM OF ART 
 In the past few years quite by chance I have come across a rich seam of female self-loathing in fiction. You might think that women writers would be all about positive tales of overcoming the bleakness, and I'm sure many are, but not in these books: 
 Grotesque by Natsuo Kirino - the unnamed un-beautiful older sister spends her whole life hates everybody especially herself 
 A Day Off by Storm Jameson - the unnamed middle-aged alcoholic frump spends a day hating everybody especially herself 
 Dept of Speculation by Jenny Offill - the unnamed (am I seeing a pattern here) wife spends a solid year or so hating mostly herself 
 Dietland by Sarai Walker - Plum Kettle (hey, unroll your eyes, that's her name) spends her entire life self-loathing her own plus size body 
 All of Jean Rhys' novels except Wide Sargasso Sea - the variously names alcoholic heroines, all of whom are Jean, spend their allotted few months in each book totally hating themselves and pretty much everything else (the curtains, the breakfast egg, etc) 
 The Piano Teacher by Elfriede Jelinek - the gold standard of female self-loathing against which all other self-loathers are to be judged - Erica Kohut spends her entire waking moments hating herself and everything else to such a level of frenzy that the women in the above-mentioned books would only look on in envy, and loathe themselves a little bit more because they couldn't quite get to the level of loathingness Erica Kohut achieves with seeming ease. 
 *** 
 Enter Eileen Dunlop, 24 years old, living in a filthy house with her crazed alcoholic father who let's her know just how plain and dim she is every day. She works as a secretary at a private boy's prison. She has put all her father's shoes in the boot of her car to stop him roaming around their cold New England town terrorising the citizens by peeing in their gardens, sleeping in their porches and so forth. He's an ex-cop so all the current cops are very sympathetic. She dutifully buys his drink and she hates herself and her life, in great detail. Here is here relationship with her father: 
 I was an adult. I knew that. I had no curfew. There were no official house rules. There were only my father's arbitrary rages, and when he was in one he would only relax if I agreed to whatever odd, humiliating punishment he came up with. He'd bar me from the kitchen, order me to walk to Lardner's and back in the rain. The worst crime I could commit in his eyes was to do anything for my own pleasure, anything outside my daughterly duties. 
 Ugh - I mean, it's not Stalag 15 (I've heard of worse things than walking to the liquor store in the rain) but the unremittingness of Eileen's life gets you. She is has no friends, she's introverted, obsessed with her own body (wait till you get to the pages about her toilet regime, I would tell you about it but you wouldn't want me to) and really she's a hopeless case. 
 The blurb lets you know that SOMETHING WILL HAPPEN to this poor wretch, and the novel is divided into days - MONDAY, followed by TUESDAY, the big dramatic buildup, and this works to keep you reading furiously, and yes something DOES happen, but you have to wait for it. (Hint : CHRISTMAS EVE). 
 Here's some advice from Eileen which I have made a note of : 
 When I was very upset, hot and shaking, I had a particular way of controlling myself. I found an empty room and grit my teeth and pinched my nipples while kicking the air like a cancan dancer until I felt foolish and ashamed. That always did the trick. 
 I am totally going to try that next time I am very upset.