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We were going to the long field which today looked like an ocean, although I had never seen an ocean the grass was moving in the breeze and the cloud shadows passed back and forth and the trees in the distance moved.
Shirley Jackson
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Shirley Jackson
Age: 48 †
Born: 1916
Born: December 14
Died: 1965
Died: September 8
Author
Journalist
Non-Fiction Writer
Novelist
Writer
San Francisco County
California
Shirley Hardie Jackson
Like
Tree
Although
Breeze
Seen
Field
Cloud
Moving
Distance
Shadows
Today
Shadow
Passed
Back
Ocean
Grass
Going
Moved
Trees
Long
Looked
Forth
Never
Fields
Clouds
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The number of people who expected Mrs. Hutchinson to win a Bendix washer would amaze you.
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The sight of one's own heart is degrading people are not meant to look inward - that's why they've been given bodies, to hide their souls.
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Hill House, she thought, You're as hard to get into as heaven.
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Wear your boots if you wander today
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I would have to find something else to bury here and I wished it could be Charles.
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Fear, the doctor said, is the relinquishment of logic, the willing relinquishing of reasonable patterns. We yield to it or we fight it, but we cannot meet it halfway.
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I am like a small creature swallowed whole by a monster, she thought, and the monster feels my tiny little movements inside.
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All I could think of when I got a look at the place from the outside was what fun it would be to stand out there and watch it burn down.
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It watches, he added suddenly. The house. It watches every move you make.
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in all the world there is not someone who does not believe something.
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I really think I shall commence chapter forty-four, he said, patting his hands together. I shall commence, I think, with a slight exaggeration and go on from there into an outright lie. Constance, my dear? Yes, Uncle Julian? I am going to say that my wife was a beautiful woman.
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I very much dislike writing about myself or my work, and when pressed for autobiographical material can only give a bare chronological outline which contains no pertinent facts.
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February, when the days of winter seem endless and no amount of wistful recollecting can bring back any air of summer.
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It was one of those winter days that suddenly dream of spring, when the sky is blue and soft and clear, and the wind has dropped its voice and whispers instead of screaming, and the sun is out and the trees look surprised, and over everything there is the faintest, palest tint of green.
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You will be wondering about that sugar bowl, I imagine, is it still in use? You are wondering, has it been cleaned? You may very well ask, was it thoroughly washed?
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In ten years I will be a beautiful charming lovely lady writer without any husband or children but lots of lovers and everyone will read the books I write and want to marry me but I will never marry any of them. I will have lots of money and jewels too.
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Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.
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I shall weave a suit of leaves. At once. With acorns for buttons.
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I delight in what I fear.
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For plain and fancy worrying, give me a new mother every time.
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