DNF: The Third Floor

The Third Floor
by C. Dennis Moore


Not-a-Blurb: 
It's a scary book about a man, woman, and little boy who move into a haunted house in a creepy Missouri town.  (They don't know it's haunted until after they've moved in, btw.  In case you were wondering. ;oP)


My Reaction:
My second DNF in as many days!  Maybe I'm too picky...

I don't want to be mean, but it's just not very well written.  It has a distinctly amateurish feeling.  (Even with its irritants, Cocaine Blues at least had a fairly professional, finished style.)  It might have some interesting moments, later on, but the beginning didn't bode well-- and at this point, I'm done slogging through books just because I've started reading them.

DNF: Cocaine Blues

Cocaine Blues
by Kerry Greenwood

Publisher's Blurb:

The London season is in full fling at the end of the 1920s, but the Honorable Phryne Fisher—she of the gray-green eyes and diamant garters—is tiring of polite conversations with retired colonels and dances with weak-chinned men. When the opportunity presents itself, Phryne decides it might be amusing to try her hand at becoming a lady detective in Australia.

Immediately upon settling into Melbourne's Hotel Windsor, Phryne finds herself embroiled in mystery. From poisoned wives and cocaine smuggling, to police corruption and rampant communism—not to mention erotic encounters with the beautiful Russian dancer, Sasha de Lisse—Cocaine Blues charts a crescendo of steamy intrigue, culminating in the Turkish baths of Little Lonsdale Street.

My Reaction:
(Hm. That blurb doesn't strike my fancy.  If I'd read that before starting, I might never have started!)  I wanted to like it-- and it wasn't terrible-- but there were enough irritants to convince me that it was okay to leave the rest unread.  (An easier decision since I downloaded the book back when it was a freebie on Amazon.)


Irritants:
--  I've seen a review in which someone writes that the heroine, Phryne Fisher, suffers from Mary Poppins ("Practically Perfect") Syndrome-- which is a concise expression of my chief annoyance.  Yes, Phryne is too perfect.  She seems to excel at everything she tries, painfully stretching the poor reader's suspension of disbelief.  A little of that is only to be expected in a heroine, but after a point, it's boring (if not grating).

-- The clothes seem to be almost as important as the characters.  Good grief, historical writers!  Why the obsession with clothes?!  Maybe I'm an anomaly, but I don't like it when every wardrobe change is meticulously detailed.  Tell me a little every now and then, so I get a feel for the period, but reading about Phryne's latest ensemble every few pages is deadly dull. (If I'm hungry for pretty costumes, I'll watch a period drama.)

--  This book is too modern and political for me.  (!)  The setting may be the 1920s, but Phryne doesn't behave like a typical woman of the 1920s.  (A certain amount of that I can forgive, since she's not supposed to be a typical woman, but...)  She has purely physical relationships, for instance.  A little hint here and there is fine, but I can't really admire her when I learn that she has repeatedly slept with someone she describes as an "appalling lounge-lizard".  Apparently there was no emotional connection whatsoever-- and (surprise!) I'm not impressed.  Then there's the sympathetic treatment of Communist-leaning characters... Just, yuck.  No thanks.  Not interested. Oh, and all the junk about abortions... Meh. Not what I was expecting.

Well, that last bit is the problem in a nutshell.  It was not what I was expecting.  Not what I wanted, either.  So, I'm stopping 35% of the way through the book, and I'll find something else to read, instead.

P.S.  All the uneducated / working class characters say "yair" for "yes".  I've heard Australian accents on TV and in movies, but I don't remember anyone saying "yair"...

"The Lottery"

"The Lottery" 
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

It's her most famous work, and I've read it before, of course.  I'm not sure when was the first time... Sometime in school, I'd say.  It had been a while since the last time I read it, but obviously I knew what was coming, so there seems to be less to say about it.


Things that struck me on this reading:

-- The date.  June 27th.  I wondered if there was any significance in that, but nothing comes to mind except that it's near summer solstice.  Midsummer would make sense for a ritual sacrifice linked to agriculture-- as seems to be the case in this story.  ("Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon", for example.)  But why make it a few days later?  

--  "In some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 26th..."   I'd forgotten that part of the story.  So it's not just this town that has a lottery (though it's mentioned in passing that some towns are dropping the practice).

--  The boys stuffing their pockets with stones-- and making and guarding piles of rocks.  I hadn't remembered that little nugget of foreshadowing!

--  How awful that Tessie Hutchinson wants her married daughter (and son-in-law) to risk drawing "the mark" just to increase her own chance of survival!  Talk about harsh!  Of course, if you've lived your whole life in a community that sacrifices one of its members every year (and acts like its a perfectly normal thing to do)... I guess you're bound to turn out a little skewed. (g)

--  "'It's not the way it used to be,' Old Man Warner said clearly. 'People ain't the way they used to be.'" 


And with that, I've finished reading this book! 
If you start this collection of short stories expecting a series of tales just like "The Lottery", you're liable to be disappointed.  Most of the stories lack that shocking twist-end moment, but by and large, they're still good reading. 

"Got a Letter from Jimmy"

"Got a Letter from Jimmy"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

Uh... wha...?
I think I'm missing something, here.

The only thing I'm pretty sure of is that Jimmy is James Harris.

Otherwise, I don't know what to tell ya. 

"The Tooth"

"The Tooth"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

This was another of the more disturbing tales, quickly morphing from a mundane story about a normal woman traveling overnight to have a painful tooth removed into something much more frightening.  It's up for debate, what's real and what's not-- but there is no happy, cheerful explanation for these events.


Creep-Factors:

--  Jim (James Harris again) mysteriously popping into the story and even more mysteriously, effortlessly following Clara through the city (like the spirit creature he is).

-- All the weird snippets of things he says to her... Wooing her away from this life.

--  Clara's palpable exhaustion and her resultant helplessness.  She's so tired and drugged up-- can barely keep herself conscious.  She's at the mercy of the world-- and of course that's when James Harris comes along and takes charge.  That woozy description of the little string of faint lights in the ceiling of the bus being all that's connecting her to the bus driver and the other passengers up front... Shivery.

--  Clara's odd idea that her tooth she's about to have removed is the only part of her that is important to the dentist, oral surgeon, and nurses-- the only part with an identity.  She's a mere vehicle for the tooth.

--  "'Why did you pull me back?' she said, and her mouth was full of blood. 'I wanted to go on.'"  Yeah, that's a creepy thing to say when you're emerging from anesthesia.

-- And then she tops herself and says this to the nurse:  "God has given me blood to drink."  Um, oh-kay... ~shudder shudder shudder~

--  Perhaps most shuddery of all... When she stands in a public restroom with a small group of other women, looks into the mirror (where they're all reflected) and can't tell which reflection is her own.  WOW, that's creepy.  It's like those times when you've looked in the mirror too long... or just at an odd moment... and suddenly wondered... What if that's not really my reflection?  What if that's not me?  What if she/it starts moving of her/its own accord, out of sync with my own motions?  Only about a hundred times worse, because even at those times, you know that it's really you.  You're just playing an eerie game with yourself.  But to look in the mirror and legitimately not know yourself-- how awful!

--  When she starts throwing away her belongings-- the barrette engraved with her name (which she doesn't recognize) and the plastic pin with her initial ("C").  She's throwing away her old life-- her old identity-- her marriage and her children and everything she might have been or done. 

--  And of course, this list wouldn't be complete without Clara's delusion at the end, as she walks along a busy city sidewalk, that she's running barefoot through hot sand, holding hands with good ol' Jim. 

"Men with Their Big Shoes"

"Men with Their Big Shoes"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

I don't particularly like Mrs. Hart-- smug, self-satisfied, "congratulating herself" over her success in life-- but I'd side with practically anyone against Mrs. Anderson.  Ugh.  Someone-- a very disagreeable, bossy someone-- coming into my house, trying to run my life?  No, thank you.

As much as I dislike Mrs. Anderson, I find her funny... in an infuriating way.  When Mrs. Hart wants a second cup of tea, she grudgingly hands her a cup:  "'I just washed this,' she said, 'but it's your cup.  And your house.  I guess you can do what you want to.'"  Gee, thanks.  And then taking away the teapot, "'I'll just wash this,' she said, 'before you decide to drink any more.' She dropped her voice. 'Too much liquid spoils the kidneys.'"

Mrs. Anderson is a confirmed man-hater, which is obnoxious, but I'm also annoyed when Mrs. Hart expresses the belief that "a successful marriage is the woman's responsibility".  How about it's the responsibility of both husband and wife?

Ah, and don't we all just love the Mrs. Martin style of cashier, with her "keen-eyed" observation of what we're buying-- and commentary on those purchases?!

Back to Mrs. Anderson, who is contemplating what would happen to her if her husband threw her out of the house: "'Mrs. Martin was thinking if you wanted me to I could come right into your spare room. Do all the cooking.' 'You could,' Mrs. Hart said amiably, 'except that I'm going to put the baby in there.' 'We'd put the baby in your room, 'Mrs. Anderson said. She laughed and gave Mrs. Hart's hand a push. 'Don't worry,' she said, 'I'd keep out of your way. Well, and if you wanted to put the baby in with me then I could get up at night to feed it for you. Guess I could take care of a baby all right.'"

Let's all shudder together, shall we, over the last line of the story:
"Looking up at Mrs. Anderson's knowing smile across the table, Mrs. Hart realized with a sudden unalterable conviction that she was lost."

So!  Doing your own housecleaning doesn't sound so bad now, does it, Mrs. Hart?  I shall remind myself of this the next time I'm doing disagreeable chores.  (Of course, I'm that type of person who would feel compelled to clean before the cleaning lady came, so I wouldn't be embarrassed by the mess... so a housemaid really wouldn't be ideal, anyway.  Even if she wasn't a Mrs. Bossypants.)

"Pillar of Salt"

"Pillar of Salt"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

I'm not sure why Jackson titled this story "Pillar of Salt"... I get the reference to the Bible, of course, but how it relates to the events and characters in this story... I think I'm missing something, there.  Unless... the main character (can't recall if we were given her name) is turned to a pillar of salt (loses her hold on sanity) because she longs for home, turning back to look at it, metaphorically...?  But... she doesn't really long for home, does she?  Not at first, at least.  Oh well.  The title just doesn't make much sense to me. 

I found this to be one of the more unsettling of the stories in this collection.  There are the big, obvious moments (like their finding a human leg on the beach), but there are also all these tiny little disturbing or odd bits and bobs that gradually add up to a shuddering whole. 


Snippets of Interest:
--  "She had a picture of small children in the city dressed like their parents, following along with a miniature mechanical civilization, toy cash registers in larger and larger sizes that eased them into the real thing, millions of clattering jerking small imitations that prepared them nicely for taking over the large useless toys their parents lived by."


--  "They go to the police for everything, Margaret [ah, that's her name] thought, these people, these New York people, it's as though they had selected a section of the population to act as problem-solvers, and so no matter what they want they look for a policeman."


--  "'I suppose it starts to happen first in the suburbs... People starting to come apart.'"

Hm... I don't know that I agree.  Seems to me things start going to pieces in urban areas, first... Things can change faster in cities, with so many people and so few meaningful connections among them.  It takes longer for things to happen in more traditional, sedate, secluded areas... and suburbs are closer to that end of the scale.


--  "It seemed to Margaret that the marble in the house lobby had begun to age a little; even in two days there were new perceptible cracks.  The elevator seemed a little rusty, and there was a fine film of dust over everything in the apartment."

Margaret's obsession with things deteriorating, crumbling into dust, does remind me of Lot's wife-- a solid, living figure rendered into mere pillar of salt, slowly eroding.  It also makes me think of entropy-- a frightening, inevitable collapse into disorder and confusion.


--  "Suddenly as she was drinking it the panic caught her again and she thought of the people who had been with her when she first started to cross the street, blocks away by now, having tried and made perhaps a dozen lights while she had hesitated at the first; people by now a mile or so downtown, because they had been going steadily while she had been trying to gather her courage."

That gives me a shiver. 
Have we all had that kind of thought?  Not so much about actual physical progress down a city street, but about progress through life?  That fear that we're being left behind.  "He who hesitates is lost"-- and we did hesitate.  Are we now lost, forever?  How will we ever catch up to where we're "supposed" to be, by now?  --That kind of thing.  It's creepy to find yourself confronted with personal fears in some random short story-- especially when they're attributed to mentally unbalanced characters!  (g)


Classic Shirley Jackson, this story.

"Of Course"

"Of Course"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

Oh, hey, look!  It's James Harris, again! (Or rather, it's Mrs. Harris, telling us about her husband.)

Item #1:
"'Mr. Harris,' Mrs. Harris said carefully, 'feels that movies are intellectually retarding.  We do not go to movies.'"

Item #2:
"'Mr. Harris cannot bear the radio,' Mrs. Harris said. 'We do not own one, of course.'  'Of course,' Mrs. Tylor said. 'No radio.'"

Item #3:
"'Mr. Harris just feels that the newspapers are a mass degradation of taste.  You really never need to read a newspaper, you know.'"  --and--  "'Three times they deliberately left their New York Times on our doorstep.  Once James [their son] nearly go into it.'"  (Ha ha ha!  Well... These days, I mightn't want my innocent young child sullied by contact with the New York Times, either!)

Well...
There's not much to say.  I found it amusing, and I didn't blame Mrs. Tylor for planning to sneak out to the movies so she wouldn't be around when Mrs. Harris came back in the afternoon-- but she's going to have to deal with the Harris family, eventually.  Clearly, a confrontation will be inevitable, once Mr. Harris moves in.  (Such a coincidence that all their previous neighbors have been so awful, isn't it?)

"Come Dance with Me in Ireland"

"Come Dance with Me in Ireland"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson


Um... I'm not sure what I was supposed to get out of this, to tell the truth.  I can't honestly blame Mrs. Archer for steering the man away from the "good" chair... thinking of giving him leftover figs that she had no plans to use... or giving him a lesser sherry (assuming she even had something nicer to offer).  I wouldn't want some random, not-very-clean, possibly homeless, possibly drunk stranger coming into my home, either.  Shame on me, I guess. 

"Seven Types of Ambiguity"

"Seven Types of Ambiguity"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

It turns out there actually is a book by that name (Seven Types of Ambiguity).  Interesting to note, but as I've never read it, I'm sure any significance in the fact goes right over my head.

-- This is maybe the first time that I really noticed (for myself) that Mr. Harris had popped into yet another story.  I knew early on, after reading a mention of it in a review of an earlier story, that James Harris (the Daemon Lover) would be making repeated appearances, throughout the book.  As I've mentioned before, I tend not to pay much attention to names in short stories.  (I guess it seems pointless, when I'm not going to be spending more than a few pages with them.)  Well, this time I did take note, because it seemed almost humorously appropriate that he spends his days working in a dark basement.  (Check out this essay about James Harris in The Lottery and Other Stories, if you're familiar with the book.  I've only read parts of it, because I didn't want to risk spoiling the stories I haven't read yet, but it's interesting.)

--  For one strange moment, I wondered if this story might be set in some dystopian future-- or just after a revolution, emerging from a dystopian future.  The way the "big man" spoke about reading and books: "'Never saw so many books in my life,' the big man said. 'I never thought I'd see the day when I'd just walk into a bookstore and buy up all the books I always wanted to read.'"  I know books (particularly "the classics") haven't always been so affordable and easily accessible as they are today, but... the tone of reverence surprised me. 

--  No good deed goes unpunished.  The college student goes out of his way to help Mr. Big Man make a list of authors that he and his wife will enjoy-- a simple gesture of goodwill.  In return for that kindness, Mr. Big Man buys the one (rare) book that he knows the student has been longing to buy for who-knows-how-long.  Furthermore, this is a book that Mr. Big Man and his wife will never be able to understand or even care to read.  He buys it out of spite, just to keep the student from owning it. 

You read along, hoping that Mr. Big Man will buy the rare book for the student-- but never really expecting it to happen, because this is Shirley Jackson we're dealing with, and people don't just go around doing nice things for each other (in most of her work).  Of course he buys the book out from underneath the kid.  What else would he do?


...I'm going to need some soft, sweet fluff, when I'm done with this book!

"The Dummy"

"The Dummy"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

I kind of expected it to be revealed at the end that the dummy could move and speak on its own.  What really happened surprised me into laughter-- and then I wondered if I'd seen it done before. 

Ventriloquists' dummies are such common fodder for horror and creepy tales.  I wonder how long that's been the case.  Was there ever a time when it was unusual to see a story about a creepy dummy?   Like clowns.  Evidently they were popular in the 50s and 60s, but at some point it became more usual for people to admit to a dislike or even fear of them.  These days, I'd suppose that clowns are used much less often for children's toys, room decor, party entertainment, etc.  (For the record, I'm not particularly fond of clowns or dummies-- and would never ever dream of using either to decorate a child's room.  As a girl, I did have porcelain dolls, though, which some people find creepy.  Any inanimate object with eyes can take on a certain creepiness, if you stare at it long enough.) 

One last note:
Too bad that the girl with the ventriloquist seems to be willing to put up with that kind of treatment.  Another powerless character refusing to make necessary changes.

"A Fine Old Firm"

"A Fine Old Firm"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

Apparently it's about antisemitism.  I don't know.  It's very vague, if so.  The awkwardness between the women of the two families was palpable-- but that kind of awkwardness between strangers (especially when someone drops in unannounced) seems... well, almost normal to me.  (Of course, I'm more of a shy and "private" person than average.  In person, that is.  I have no trouble expressing myself to the world at large on the Internet-- but if someone so much as leaves a comment...)  A degree of formality and stiffness shouldn't necessarily (and certainly not automatically) indicate racial/ethnic/cultural tensions, imho.

"Elizabeth"

"Elizabeth"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

I don't feel I have much to say about it.  I want to sympathize with Elizabeth-- want her to do something, make positive changes in her life-- but she's not very likeable, as the story goes on. She's done her best to cut herself off from her family... Has no real friends except for her lover/boyfriend/workplace partner-- who is clearly looking to replace her with a younger woman... Lives in a tiny, dingy, inhospitable apartment that she's never bothered to improve or keep tidy... Eats all her meals at bad restaurants... And unless I misread something, she seems to be plagiarizing bits and pieces of the work sent to her by prospective clients (at her job as a literary agent).  Her whole life is poor, ugly, cheap, and not about to get any better.  It is a terrible downer, basically.

...I'm a horrible person, because just about the only part of the story I kinda-sorta enjoyed was when Elizabeth was manipulating Robbie out of the office and giving Daphne the heave-ho.

Example:
"'Sit down, Daphne.' Daphne sat down gingerly on the edge of the chair. 'Sit back,' Elizabeth said.  'That's the only chair I've got and I don't want you breaking it.' Daphne sat back and opened her eyes wide."

...Yeah, I know.  I ought to be ashamed.

"Colloquy"

"Colloquy"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

An odd (very, very brief) one. 

I wasn't sure if the doctor was supposed to be a psychologist/psychiatrist or a GP.  My first impression was that he was a medical doctor, and it was shocking that she was smoking in his office.  I wonder if patients did smoke in doctors' offices in those days... Today, I imagine it might be difficult to find even a psychologist who would allow you to smoke in his/her office-- and I'm positive that GPs wouldn't.   (Incidentally-- because being "shocked" by smoking in a story makes me sound disgustingly... something-- I'm not one of those people who think it is almost immoral to smoke-- so long as you aren't inflicting it on someone who can't get away from it-- but I'm glad the days of "smoking sections" in restaurants, etc. are over.  Sorry, smokers, but it stinks.  Oh, and makes people sick.  That too...)


--"'My husband,' Mrs. Arnold went on. 'I don't want him to know that I'm worried, and Doctor Murphy would probably feel it was necessary to tell him.' The doctor nodded, not committing himself, Mrs. Arnold noted."

Hmph!  I wonder if  the doctor would've felt obligated to notify her if Mr. Arnold had gone to him and asked for a private opinion...


--  "'I don't understand the way people live.  It all used to be so simple.  When I was a little girl I used to live in a world where a lot of other people lived too and they all lived together and things went along like that with no fuss.'"


...Is it bad that I can relate?  Mostly about the "it all used to be so simple" part.  No, I'm sure most of us feel that way.  Of course life was simple when we were little!

"Dorothy and My Grandmother and the Sailors"

"Dorothy and My Grandmother and the Sailors"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

Weird... Of course we've all heard about sailors who have a girl in every port-- and being a bit randy, in general-- but this took it to another level entirely!  Incidentally, were/are sailors supposed to have a worse reputation than members of other branches of the military?  And if so, why?  Simply because they're at sea, away from women, for so long?  (Eh, well, back in those days, at least.)  ...Anyway...

-- "My mother told us about the kind of girls who followed sailors, and my grandmother told us about the kind of sailors who followed girls."

Sheesh!  And the grandmother's son was a former sailor!  I wonder how "mother" and "grandmother" reconciled that with their apparent fear of predatory sailors...

--  It's interesting that they (and lots of other people) were allowed to wander all over ships that were still "on duty" (as opposed to decommissioned ships).  Maybe they still allow that at times, but I've never heard of it. 

--  "When it came time for us to leave the launch and go up a stairway on to the battleship, my mother whispered to Dot and me, 'Keep your skirts down,' and Dot and I climbed the ladder, holding on with one hand and with the other wrapping our skirts tight around us into a bunch in front which we held on to." 

Hm... Reminds me of the "dress code" when I was in elementary school.  If a girl wanted to wear a skirt or dress to school, she had to wear a pair of shorts underneath... I don't recall if that was the rule for everyone, or if it was reserved for the older students.  (The school was K-6.)  I guess maybe someone thought it was necessary for the older girls-- and easier to explain and enforce than rules about skirt length-- but it seems like it could encourage young kids to think about "those things" earlier than they might have, otherwise.  ~shrug~

"Flower Garden"

"Flower Garden"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

A thoroughly unsatisfying (not-so-)short story.  ...I just don't even want to bother writing a reaction to it.  It's dismal. 

The first however-much of the story, I felt sorry for "Young" Mrs. Winning.  She seems worked to the bone (doing the most boring household chores and not much else), is not particularly valued (except as a thoroughly respectable member of a thoroughly respectable family in the small community), and lives under the constant supervision of her mother-in-law.  In short, she's stuck in a drab life with no prospects for improvement.  She doesn't want for food or shelter-- she has a husband and children-- but her life lacks the richness of stimulation and joy. 

Then Mrs. MacLane moves into Mrs. Winning's old dream home-- just down the road-- and becomes a friend.  Mrs. Winning lives vicariously through Mrs. MacLane as the latter enjoys the freedoms and pleasures of a charming little cottage where she can do things up just as she likes.  Soft, pretty colors everywhere.  Fresh curtains.  A new garden with flowers on all four sides of the house.  Mrs. MacLane generously shares the beauty of her life, and Mrs. Winning seems to blossom and brighten a little under her friend's influence.

And then all the unpleasantness happens, and Mrs. Winning is stuck with (what seems to be) an impossible decision.  If she maintains her friendship with Mrs. MacLane, her respectability and standing in the community will be permanently damaged-- and one can only imagine how miserable her mother-in-law (and husband, probably, assuming he ever speaks to her) will make life for her... But if she cuts Mrs. MacLane out of her life, she'll be back where she started and she'll have hurt her new friend.  In the end, when she realizes that she sounds like her mother-in-law and (worse still) is taking a perverse enjoyment from Mrs. MacLane's confusion and pain-- when she turns her back on a friend in need of comfort-- you realize that it's simply too late for her.  She's already turned into her mother-in-law. 

It's a miserable ending, all 'round.  Mrs. Winning has revealed her true colors and is doomed to spend the rest of her life in a house that will never really be hers-- in a life that will never be what she once wanted for herself.  Mrs. MacLane will move back to the city, wounded... possibly embittered.  No more flower gardens for her.  And the family she'd wanted to help will be right back where they were before-- maybe even worse off after this added scandal.  (And nothing remotely scandalous even happened.)

Not a mood-booster, in other words.  ;o)

"Afternoon in Linen"

"Afternoon in Linen"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

I can sympathize with Harriet's not wanting to be forced to put herself-- her piano-playing, her poetry, her private, creative self-- on display.  Especially when her grandmother is just trying to "show her off" in comparison with a friend's child.  Especially with a taunting male peer looking on, clearly plotting to tell everyone at school the humiliating secret that she writes poetry.  Some things are so much better kept to yourself, until you decide to share them.  (But how humiliating for her grandmother!  And I'm sure she didn't mean any harm...)

I wonder if Jackson was drawing on her own experiences (as a child? even as an adult?) of being asked/forced to share private things when she'd rather not.  It seems likely.

"Charles"

"Charles"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

The surprise ending of this felt predictable-- but that may be because I accidentally saw a line or two of a review before reading the story.  (I can't remember exactly what the review said, but it must've been enough...)

-- I can't help but wonder why the teacher never sent a note home with "Charles"/Laurie.  Maybe she did, but Laurie "lost" it on the way home.  In that case, after receiving no response, you'd think she'd have telephoned or even dropped by in person, after Laurie's continued misbehavior.  At least, I'm pretty sure that when I was in elementary school, the teachers would contact a parent under those circumstances.  Possibly things were different when this story was written, and a teacher wouldn't want to involve the parents until all other avenues had been exhausted.  Still, it struck me as odd.  (Necessary for the twist ending, though, which is probably all the explanation we need! (g))

-- That name... Laurie.  Several of the other short stories by this author that I've read have revolved around a little boy named Laurie.  Since Jackson had a son named Laurence, I've wondered if any of these stories are based on kernels of truth.  If so, Laurie seems to have been a particularly naughty-- one might even say bratty-- kid.  (Clearly, I do not agree with Anne that we love the mischievous Davies of the world more than the mild-mannered Doras.  You want a person of any age to have a personality, of course, but Davy and Laurie have a few dashes too much.)

"After You, My Dear Alphonse"

"After You, My Dear Alphonse"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

An extremely short snippet about prejudice, racial stereotypes, and the innocence of children.  ...Anything I can think of to write about this story is so obvious that it feels silly to bother!  But since I'm already here:  It's "funny" (in a cringe-inducing way) that the mother in the story probably thinks she's being very kind and sympathetic toward her son's new friend.  I'm sure she'd be shocked and deeply offended if she knew that anyone thought otherwise. 

"The Renegade"

"The Renegade"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

It has its ghastly moments...  I think even those of us who have lived in the same place all our years have had occasions when we look around us and wonder to ourselves, "What in the heck is going on here?  What's wrong with these people?!"  But what the story really inspired in me was a sense of irritation.  Look, Mrs. Walpole, there are some harsh people in the country, certainly, but don't try to tell me that city folk are much different.  They can be just as callous and cruel, in their own ways. 


Messages to Mrs. Walpole:
#1:  Put up a fence.  Keep the dog in the fenced yard/enclosure, except when she's on a leash.  Problem solved!  (Well... unless the dog digs out or can jump the fence... It may take some persistence.)

#2: You don't have to be the perfect home-maker, wife, and mother.  It's not all up to you.  Get Mr. Walpole involved in this issue with the dog, for goodness' sake!

#3:  If you don't want your kids to turn into hard-hearted country people (who think it's hilarious to contemplate abusing their own pet dog, because apparently all country people find that so diverting), step into their lives and do something about it.  Perhaps talk to them about it?  (No, now I'm just being ridiculous...)


Message to myself:
It's just a short story; these aren't real people.  Calm down!   


I thought this bit was funny:
"Mrs. Walpole decided suddenly to put her wash off until tomorrow.  They had not lived in the country town long enough for Mrs. Walpole to feel the disgrace of washing on Tuesday as mortal." 

I always (except on long weekends) do our laundry on Monday, incidentally.  I'm not sure when I started... For a while, I don't think I was even conscious that I had fallen into that routine, but it is now a definite "thing" in our home.  If nothing else, it's a good use of that increased Monday-level cleaning stamina (the result of watching the house fall into disarray over a lazy weekend).  Now if I could only find a way to make the urge to clean last further into the week...

"The Witch"

"The Witch"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

Good grief!  What an unsettling little tidbit of a story...

"My Life with R. H. Macy"

"My Life with R. H. Macy"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

Hm.  Reminds me of a story(/reminiscence) in that other Jackson collection I read (Just an Ordinary Day, I think), in which she recounts an aggravating series of interactions with a large store after purchasing a tape recorder.  Ah, found it!  "My Recollections of S.B. Fairchild", in case you're interested.  (And in looking up that one, I'm reminded of another story set in a department store-- "Mrs. Melville Makes a Purchase".)  ...All this to say, it seems that Jackson had some issues with department stores.  (I don't particularly like shopping, myself, because of all the other people-- though I suppose I shouldn't admit it publicly.  I want to get in, find what I want, and get out again-- unless I'm shopping for something "fun".)

We're supposed to sympathize with the narrator, correct?  She's put through the wringer during "training" and is basically stripped of her identity (including her name) by the Evil Corporate Culture of Macy's.  Honestly, though, I didn't like the girl.  She seemed entirely incompetent and sneaky (taking extra lunch breaks, copying work instead of learning to do it herself, pocketing a customer's cash and then throwing out the order).

And... that's all I have to say about that. ;o)

"The Villager"

"The Villager"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

Conk-pew... conk-pew...

That is a rough approximation of the "fake sleep"/"zzzzz" sound we used to make as kids when we were pretending to be asleep in such a way as to make it obvious that we were pretending-- or possibly to indicate a truly dire level of boredom, as in this instance. 

I'm sorry, but it was a real snoozer. 
I get it-- I can even identify and sympathize with the woman, though I'd never take it so far as pretending to be another person-- but still... snoozer. 

...I don't know...  I'm being harsh.  But... conk-pew!

"Like Mother Used to Make"

"Like Mother Used to Make"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

Ok, Jackson, is your whole point just to make the reader angry?  If so, you succeeded.  I'm mad at... Marcia (had to look up the names because names in short stories seem so inconsequential that I rarely remember them)... because she's taking advantage of David.  Yet I'm mad at David for letting her take advantage of him.  Stand up for yourself, man!  Grr.  People!


Random Thoughts:
-- I am not a "pie person".  Maybe because my mother's not, so we practically never had pies, when I was growing up.  When we had desserts, they were usually ice cream, cookies, brownies/blondies, cakes, cobblers, donuts or danish-type things... oh, or salty snacks.  Of course, we all know, deep down, that pie is fundamentally inferior to cake:

-- David is clearly both a better housekeeper and cook than I am (though in my defense, maintaining a whole house and large outdoor space is different from a very small apartment).  I'm tempted to (nastily) say that David will make someone a very nice little housewife, someday.  But seriously, while I sympathize with his pride in his home and his wish to keep things nice, it does seem that he could've done with a little less domesticity and a little more force in his nature.  (Poor guy.)

-- This is the second of these stories, so far, to mention a "studio couch".  The concept's not foreign, but the term is... or was.

"The Daemon Lover"

"The Daemon Lover"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

Interesting, but so unsatisfying... I don't usually like open-ended tales, and this one was particularly depressing. 

...You know, maybe Shirley Jackson wasn't such a great idea, right now, after all.  (g)  If nothing else, the real world (or at least my corner of it) seems much brighter by comparison, after a trip through her shadows. 

"The Intoxicated"

"The Intoxicated"
from The Lottery and Other Stories, by Shirley Jackson

I've been waffling between reading material, lately, ending up by picking up in the middle of Jane Eyre (right before she leaves Lowood).  Then, this morning, in the mood for something new (something that I hadn't read so many times before), Shirley Jackson caught my eye.  I guess I'll be reading some of her short stories and "reviewing" them one at a time. 


(SPOILERy) Reaction:
It's very short.  (I'll give it that.)  It's also creepily unsettling.  But I find myself impatient with Eileen...  Calmly daydreaming about the end of the world, little girl?  Pah!  And you think that's unique to "your generation"?  Yeah, right.  People have been talking about the end of the world since there have been people to talk!  (Ugh, the children of the Cold War.  Think they're so special!  ...And, you know what?  I'm only half-joking, here!)

Eileen tells the unnamed party-goer (Mr. Intoxicated himself) that "if people had been really, honestly scared when you were young we wouldn't be so badly off today".  Hm.  Nice try, sweetie, but I'm From The Future™, and I'm here to tell you that your generation hasn't done much better.  (So lay off the old drunk, whydontcha?)

Then there's this:  "'Things will be different afterward. ... Everything that makes the world like it is now will be gone.  We'll have new rules and new ways of living.  Maybe there'll be a law not to live in houses, so then no one can hide from anyone else, you see.'"  UGH.  What kind of loopy-doopy, hippie-dippie, pretentious, falsely-deep nonsense is that?  So houses are the problem?  Yeah, people've only been sheltering in structures for ever.  It's just a wonder it took so long for our wicked penchant for living in houses to destroy life as we know it.  It's clearly linked to everything that is wrong with the world today... er, whenever this was written. 

...So, Eileen.  I'm curious.  What's the alternative to houses?  Everyone living out on the open plains like a herd of buffalo?  Are we allowed to seek shelter under a tree, if we should find one?  Or would we all live together, commune-style, in a large building?  Because I guess privacy is the real enemy here.  Everyone has to share everything.  No personal property.  No personal thought.  ...Yeah, no thanks.

This Eileen character just really irked me, in case you couldn't tell.  Her whole attitude irks-- and it's nothing new.  Newsflash: You're not that special.  Everyone's afraid of the end of the world-- even if it's only the end of their own, personal world.  Everyone thinks "it's an interesting time to be alive" (though to be fair, that platitude was courtesy of Mr. Intoxicated).  We all have moments of quiet (or noisy) desperation-- but then we go on about our lives as usual, because what else can you do?  If you run around like a chicken with your head cut off-- or morbidly mope your way through every day-- you might as well cease to exist right away.  What's the point?

I'm probably not supposed to admit it, but I sympathize most with the father character who makes a brief appearance at the end... Kids nowadays!