Shirley and the Familial Prospect.

When I first discovered Shirley Jackson’s writing a year or two ago, I read all her novels except the first one (because the synopsis didn’t appeal to me) and an anthology of her short stories. And because I’m impatient to discover a hitherto unknown talent, I probably read them too quickly and missed a lot of the depth. But now that I’m reading Hangsaman again I’m taking more time over the process and discovering that depth.

Much of it has to do with her keen – and, it might be said, largely sarcastic – observation of the human condition, which suits me to a tee and helps to rein back some of my own sense of outrage. But what most appeals is her dry, laconic sense of humour, especially in the stream of consciousness asides which she often uses to describe her quirky main characters. I use the term ‘laconic’ because they’re mostly very brief and easily missed if you’re not reading with an appropriate degree of concentration.

(And I do so love quiet, quirky characters. I do. It always surprises me when I discover that most academics and reviewers seem to regard her as first and foremost a writer in the horror genre. There is an element of horror in much of her writing, but it’s always understated and readily subsumed in a highly developed awareness of oddness in a few special people.)

And so dear Shirley has become one of those people with whom I would like to become acquainted when I perambulate my wanderings through the undiscovered country. I should like to make her an offer: I’ll give of my odd thoughts freely if she’ll agree to be my favourite aunt in our next lives.