The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
-Lord Byron
I first encountered this story in the 90s after the release of the movie with Liam Neeson and Catherine Zeta Jones, which is rather loosely based on the book. There was another movie adaptation released in the 60s, which was probably more faithful to the original psychological horror tale. I personally became acquainted with Shirley Jackson's work my freshman year in college, during freshman composition, when we were required to read and critique "The Lottery," perhaps her most famous story, reportedly modeled on a small town in Vermont where she resided for a time. I recall being in the library and speaking to one of the only ill-tempered librarians I've ever come across (not unlike the character in the story, Mr. Dudley!) about how to find literary criticism about the story; I recall him grumbling something about "well, I can tell you about why she wrote and published the story... MONEY, of course... why else?!"
There are just so many elements to this story, far outside the norm for a horror story. Jackson almost juxtaposes life with the seeming vacuum of the house, which consumes all that enters it. What I like most about reading really good stories are the details which just herald life in general, in all its imperfect yet precious glory, and this rich tale has them in abundance. The mental image of a little girl who refuses to drink milk from an ordinary glass rather than her own "cup of stars" is something to hearken to memory at random occurrences in other places. These vignettes reach across time to speak to readers when they encounter something reminiscent, creating a bridge between fact and fiction, leaving lasting portraits that stay with you all your life, in some cases.
Similarly, the daydreams and fantasies included throughout are really lovely, and familiar: lonely Eleanor's desire to live in a small cottage in the garden, where she would plant oleanders to further hide from the world, and there light a fire in the evening, and raise white cats, and have a robin, and toast apples, and sew white curtains for the windows, and only come out to go to the store to buy cinnamon and tea and thread... my ambitions and aspirations, similar though they are, are only slightly more ambitious.
On to the story itself: unlike many other stories, where the location just serves as a setting or backdrop, in this tale, the house is definitely a major character, in addition to the persons inhabiting it. It has a certain predilection for suffocation, even consumption, it seems: the heavy brush guarding the front drive, doors and windows refuse to open and swing shut again every time someone lets go of them, enveloping its victims within, rooms intentionally encased within other rooms, seemingly nonsensically, and even the beds are so soft that guests sink inescapably into them. The general sense is that the house subtly and not-so subtly imbibes all who attempt to inhabit it, which is what occurs with impressionable Eleanor, which, in a Shining-esque sense, seemingly has always belonged to the house; inescapably, it is, or becomes, her forever place, one she cannot be forced to leave. The house, it seems, continues to collect souls.
In the words of the series editor, "I was overtaken by the Miltonian sense of abandonment, the absolute horror of a life without a reason. The tragedy of the tale was not dependent on evil. That's the supreme pain of the novel-tragedy requires no villain." (Guillermo del Toro) It's certainly a psychological tale: nothing of form appears to terrify the inhabitants of the house, unless it's the doctor's wife, along with her "driver," who is perhaps the manifestation of the ills of the house, in the flesh. The villain is seemingly the house, with its collection of utterly disturbing and unsettling "things that go BUMP in the night," literally, in this case: formless, shapeless fears that invade the consciousness of their victims until they are consumed totally. This is definitely a capable horror masterpiece, reminiscent of the Gothic tales which certainly inspired it.
-Lord Byron
I first encountered this story in the 90s after the release of the movie with Liam Neeson and Catherine Zeta Jones, which is rather loosely based on the book. There was another movie adaptation released in the 60s, which was probably more faithful to the original psychological horror tale. I personally became acquainted with Shirley Jackson's work my freshman year in college, during freshman composition, when we were required to read and critique "The Lottery," perhaps her most famous story, reportedly modeled on a small town in Vermont where she resided for a time. I recall being in the library and speaking to one of the only ill-tempered librarians I've ever come across (not unlike the character in the story, Mr. Dudley!) about how to find literary criticism about the story; I recall him grumbling something about "well, I can tell you about why she wrote and published the story... MONEY, of course... why else?!"
There are just so many elements to this story, far outside the norm for a horror story. Jackson almost juxtaposes life with the seeming vacuum of the house, which consumes all that enters it. What I like most about reading really good stories are the details which just herald life in general, in all its imperfect yet precious glory, and this rich tale has them in abundance. The mental image of a little girl who refuses to drink milk from an ordinary glass rather than her own "cup of stars" is something to hearken to memory at random occurrences in other places. These vignettes reach across time to speak to readers when they encounter something reminiscent, creating a bridge between fact and fiction, leaving lasting portraits that stay with you all your life, in some cases.
Similarly, the daydreams and fantasies included throughout are really lovely, and familiar: lonely Eleanor's desire to live in a small cottage in the garden, where she would plant oleanders to further hide from the world, and there light a fire in the evening, and raise white cats, and have a robin, and toast apples, and sew white curtains for the windows, and only come out to go to the store to buy cinnamon and tea and thread... my ambitions and aspirations, similar though they are, are only slightly more ambitious.
On to the story itself: unlike many other stories, where the location just serves as a setting or backdrop, in this tale, the house is definitely a major character, in addition to the persons inhabiting it. It has a certain predilection for suffocation, even consumption, it seems: the heavy brush guarding the front drive, doors and windows refuse to open and swing shut again every time someone lets go of them, enveloping its victims within, rooms intentionally encased within other rooms, seemingly nonsensically, and even the beds are so soft that guests sink inescapably into them. The general sense is that the house subtly and not-so subtly imbibes all who attempt to inhabit it, which is what occurs with impressionable Eleanor, which, in a Shining-esque sense, seemingly has always belonged to the house; inescapably, it is, or becomes, her forever place, one she cannot be forced to leave. The house, it seems, continues to collect souls.
In the words of the series editor, "I was overtaken by the Miltonian sense of abandonment, the absolute horror of a life without a reason. The tragedy of the tale was not dependent on evil. That's the supreme pain of the novel-tragedy requires no villain." (Guillermo del Toro) It's certainly a psychological tale: nothing of form appears to terrify the inhabitants of the house, unless it's the doctor's wife, along with her "driver," who is perhaps the manifestation of the ills of the house, in the flesh. The villain is seemingly the house, with its collection of utterly disturbing and unsettling "things that go BUMP in the night," literally, in this case: formless, shapeless fears that invade the consciousness of their victims until they are consumed totally. This is definitely a capable horror masterpiece, reminiscent of the Gothic tales which certainly inspired it.
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