Reading: Redundant & Repetitive

Full disclosure: I didn’t exactly pick this book. I’ve recently joined a book club (for the first time ever) and this was next on their list. I’ll also admit to initially not recognizing Shirley Jackson’s name. She is, of course, the mind behind one of the most famous short stories of all time—“The Lottery”, a tale that is a masterpiece of gothic horror and social commentary. After realizing who the author was, my expectations definitely changed. This might be unfair to Jackson, but such is our reality, if one produces exceptional work all consequent pieces are measured against it. And for me, “We Have Always Lived in the Castle” did not measure up.

This is an unpopular opinion; most readers enjoy the novel, exalting the haunting prose and chilling plot. While I agree that the plot successfully resurrects the twin pillars of social commentary and horrifying climax, this could have been better achieved if this was a short story rather than a novel.

The premise revolves around the wealthy sisters Constance Blackwood (28) and Mary Katherine Blackwood (18), who after the murder of their entire family (with the exception of the now crippled Uncle Julian) have led secluded, fearful lives in their empty mansion. Constance stood trial for the murders but was acquitted. Thus, an already acrimonious relationship between the “strangers” in the nearby village and the Blackwoods increase in hostility. The sisters’ lives of routine and isolation are interrupted when Cousin Charles (32) shows up to charm Constance and drain the family’s considerable fortune.

“She was not at all awkward or uncomfortable; it was as though she had been expecting all her life that Cousin Charles would come, as though she had planned exactly what to do and say, almost as though in the house of her life there had always been a room kept for Cousin Charles.”

As expected, the younger sister does not respond well to this new arrival and precipitates an event that changes all their lives forever.

Jackson’s writing can be poetically effective, but the proverbial forest becomes increasingly blurry with every added tree.

The narrator, Mary Katherine (Merricat for short, fitting for the character), has the voice of a 12-year-old as if her psyche stopped developing six years prior when the family was poisoned. This is an immediate indication that she is an unreliable narrator. Merricat’s naiveté crosses into myopic, self-congratulatory territory. This is particularly evident in her propensity toward destruction, even to her own detriment.

I found myself bouncing between various emotions throughout her storytelling, from empathy to anger, frustration to amusement. This inconsistency made it hard to connect with her as the vessel through which I experienced the narrative. I’m all for anti-heroes and unlikable main characters, however, my resentment of her choices and behavior made it impossible to relate. Perhaps if more clues were offered regarding the genesis of her unique personality I would be more accepting.

Jackson spends 55 pages out of a 146-page book on set up alone. The reader is trapped—much like the two sisters—in a cycle of repetition. Multiple phrases (“Silly Merricat”), concepts (moving to the moon), and actions (preserving) are repeated not only in the same chapter but on the same page. Such a heavy-handed display of theme and characterization is completely unnecessary when the author is capable of delivering beautifully nuanced prose like:

“All the Blackwood women had taken the food that came from the ground and preserved it, and the deeply colored rows of jellies and pickles and bottled vegetables and fruit, maroon and amber and dark rich green, stood side by side in our cellar and would stand there forever, a poem by the Blackwood women.”

Jackson has made her point, but she continues to bring it up ad nauseam as if saying, Do you get it now? How about now? Is it obvious yet? And of course, the answer is an exasperated yes. Jackson’s writing can be poetically effective, but the proverbial forest becomes increasingly blurry with every added tree.

Somewhere inside “We Have Always Lived in the Castle” is a magnificent gothic short story with the same impact and punch as “The Lottery.” However, it is buried underneath a mountain of superfluous words. I would recommend this novel only as a case study in good writing gone bad. Reader beware.