In Their Own World

In many weird ways, Shirley Jackson's works, especially "The Lottery", have imbued a silly fear of small towns where a different, scarier world exists. Where people see pastoral beauty, I see danger and psychosis. In many ways, this probably contributed in some obscure way to my adult preference of apartments over houses.

When I first read "The Haunting of Hill House", it thrilled me for an afternoon alone at home when it was conveniently dark and stormy. I was hoping for real monsters, but clearly, it was inelegant (then) to write of the horror tangibly. So it was alot of suspense and in the end, I concluded that the house itself was the demon. So it was left to me to decide why Eleanor died in the way she did. A slightly more cheerful and optimistic piece of work is her children's book "Nine Magic Wishes" that's illustrated by her son, and speak of sunflowers, wishes, and wizards.

I've watched the theatre adaptation of Shirley Jackson's final piece of published work before her death in 1965. On stage, it's chilling. I'm not fond of the version as a musical or its 2 adaptations on film. They don't quite give out the right vibe. Then, I'm not fond of musicals generally. However, I've never read the original work in earnest. I made quick flips then, under 20 minutes; not quite enough to suss out deeper nuances between the lines.

"We Have Always Lived In The Castle" is an almost intriguing little story, not of who killed them, and why, but it leaves you wondering 'what for'. Then you're pulled into the world of Merricat and Constance, and towards the end, it will be your choice to either stay with them, or condemn their actions like all the other villagers.

It draws on the agoraphobia of Shirley Jackson, and her perception of small towns and how the inhabitants dictate social norms. I suppose one could also lump it as Gothic fiction in the archetypes, although this one is missing the clowns, the stupid servant and the clergy.

"These things were always left on the front doorstep, always silently and in the evenings. We thought that the men came home from work and the women had the baskets ready for them to carry over; perhaps they came in darkness not to be recognized, as though each of them wanted to hide from the others, and bringing us food was somehow a shameful thing to do in public. There were many women cooking, Constance said. "Here is one," she explained to me once, tasting a bean, "who uses ketchup, and too much of it; and the last one used more molasses." Once or twice there was a note in the basket: "This is for the dishes," or "We apologize about the curtains," or "Sorry for your harp." We always set the baskets back where we had found them, and never opened the front door until it was completely dark and we were sure that no one was near. I always checked carefully afterwards to make certain that the front door was locked."