Thursday, May 29, 2008

The Haunting of Hill House (by Shirley Jackson)

Scaaaaaaary. Loved the (unreliable, of course) narrator, loved the details, loved everything. God, Jackson is such an amazing writer... what else is there to say? I mean, here, just read the first two sentences.

No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. 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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