We Have Always Lived in the Castle

What a curiously strange book! Written in beautiful prose with incredible literary skill.

There is a distinct sense of isolation and paranoia in a wonderfully mournful and beautiful way.

The main character, Mary Katherine, better known as Merricat, is an odd creature to say the least.

There's also her sister, Constance, and her cat, Jonas, plus various less important characters such as uncle Julian and cousin Charles.

Apparently, elder sister Constance murdered most of the Blackwood family years ago by poisoning them with arsenic, which is why the family is so despised by the outside world. But there are so many unanswered questions come the final chapter.

Why do the Blackwood family remain so aloof, distant and afraid of the outside world and the normality of it? Why do the villagers continue to dislike them so much? Is this a metaphor for the disparity between rich and poor?

Even though proven innocent of murder, the family are openly despised. Everyone knows the truth but no-one can prove it. This book touches on how the masses gang up on the few because they don't understand them. The Blackwood family are on the defence but also comfortable in their stately surroundings. The masses are on a witch hunt, but also feel guilty about it.

Importantly, nothing much happens in terms of action, rather like a Jane Austen novel where the internal dialogue is enough to keep you satisfied. Once the initial village shopping scene is over, the entire book takes place in the grounds of the family house. That's it.

Characters interact in a cloud of weird unknown and you could be forgiven for thinking the Blackwood family are ghosts? They're not, but the true relationship between the Blackwood family is never explained.

Later in the book, Cousin Charles appears on the scene to try and weedle out hidden wealth and get some closure himself.

Merricat herself doesn't like anyone and won't even eat at table. Probably from years of weird looks and from being treated as an outcast while constantly being whispered at. You gradually accept that she's messed up with very strange habits because of the perceptions of other people. This distant perspective is what gives the book its ethereal feel, as though you're seeing through her eyes into a ghost world, hiding from the hunters who wish to eradicate her. How much of it is paranoia, it's difficult to tell.

Shirley Jackson's characters are as nutty as a fruitcake, detached and surreal. You've got to love her for it.

The book is well written, fluid and seamless and impossible to slate and I found myself questioning the level of madness in comparison to justified public persecution. I also enjoyed the sarcasm and humour at people contradicting themselves, getting on each other's nerves and trying to second guess what's going on.

This books also helps you understand where many modern authors get their ideas from. Although not quite horror, it's the basis of psychological terror and the sense that tiny little actions can cause ripples of side effects for generations to come.

At the end of the book you'll be asking yourself who is crazy? Is it the house, the people in it or the public masses for failing to care or understand?