Merricat, Constance and Uncle Julian Blackwood live in a grand, eccentric house which they call the Castle. The rambling mansion itself forms a powerful character within the novel and sits on the edge of an unnamed American village. Within the Blackwood wire fence, eighteen-year-old Merricat roves the estate, burying magical charms to conjure an illusion of safety. Twice a week however, she must venture out into a world of petty, spiteful villagers. They stare and whisper, whilst local children hound Merricat, chanting a mocking rhyme about her older sister.
When Jackson introduces us to the Castle any ordinary writer would buckle under the weight of laboured tropes about mayhem, magic and madness. Yet from the start, Jackson’s spare, taut prose signals this is no mere work of folkloric, gothic froth. Her narrative is pierced by acute observations about the kinds of small-town prejudices which leave the Blackwoods marginalised and marooned at the edge of their community. She weaves a sardonic thread of social commentary throughout the story, but her genius lies in one skill above all others: the way she touches, oh so lightly, on the fact that one of the sisters is a poisoner.
Constance was once tried and acquitted for poisoning her family, but years later she remains imprisoned by choice, never leaving the grounds of the Blackwood home. Defined by a world which prizes a clean house and well-cooked food as the paradigm of feminine virtue, Constance produces a stream of jewel-like preserves with an almost magical ease. As readers, we are left to wonder why nearly everyone in the Blackwood family died after sharing the meal which she cooked. Merricat, our narrator seems to neither know nor care, but when Cousin Charles arrives hoping to charm Constance and her fortune away with him, the question gains new urgency.
Jackson’s book is rich with astute perceptions about the murky depths below our paper-thin layers of civilisation. Her novella defies classification, fitting none of the conventional murder-mystery, feminist polemic, or teenage ‘coming of age’ categories. Whilst Castle has resonances with Jackson’s short-story The Lottery, here Jackson fleshes out the end results of community-enforced rules of ‘normality’ and their effects on social order. Set in 1950s America, the novella provides a savage commentary on the Cold War paranoia, as well as rigidly enforced, gender-specific expectations of the times. It is a tale of many kinds of poisoning and yet the book is also strangely funny. Were Jackson alive today, one has to wonder whether her intelligent, incisive humour would be published. Could it be that our contemporary ‘norms of civilisation’ are now too poisonous to be funny?
You can join Nikki Fraunhofer to read We Have Always Lived in the Castle over three two hour meetings on Zoom, Thursday 29 August, 5 & 12 September, 5.00-7.00pm UK time.
