As far as I know her work, Shirley Jackson is always deeply terrifying. Not because of the haunted houses, demonic persons, and ominous-magical practices that often appear in her novels and stories, but because of the casual and inexplicable brutality that seems to be ever-present in her world.
This novel is no exception. It’s set in and around the house of the Blackwood family (two sisters and a disabled uncle), who live in half-voluntary seclusion. The Blackwoods are either shunned or actively hated by the people of the nearby village, and the few people who don’t shun and don’t hate them only gets in touch with them because they hope to learn some juicy details about that exciting and gruesome event when a couple of years earlier one of the sisters went ahead and murdered half of the family (but which sister? And did it really happen?)
Looking for (and finding) a scapegoat is a recurring theme in Jackson’s work, and it’s one of the main themes here, too. Of course, a crime was committed (the family massacre really happened – allegedly), but this is only an excuse for the villagers to freely stare at, despise and bully the remaining members of the Blackwood family, and the real reason why the Blackwoods became pariahs never becomes clear.
In any case, the Blackwood sisters – Constance, who is forever pottering around in the kitchen and never ventures farther from the house than the edge of the garden, and Merricat, who lives in an invulnerable, childlike state of eternal superstition and magic but who’s also extremely pragmatic and practical, and takes a pilgrimage to the village twice a week – live in a world that’s impenetrable to outsiders. Their private world is full of simple, eternal routine, innocence and magic; this is a world without moral categories; this is a world that must be protected from the attacks of the outside world, no matter what it takes.
It seems to me that the world the Blackwood girls (and the disabled, consequently non-threatening uncle) inhabit is some kind of a female world – I was often reminded of Péter Esterházy’s novel, The Transporters, because something similar happens here: the masculine brutality of the outside world wants to invade the idyllic-neurotic world of the sisters, and it almost succeeds.
Still, what remains in the end is again a kind of innocence. An ever narrower, even more feminine, even more restricted world that’s forbidding and unapproachable to everyone else. A ruined, yet warm and homely castle where Constance and Merricat have always lived and will always live.