Shirley Jackson: A Rather Haunted Life

“well, i like the title,” said stanley. “what’s the plot?” “what plot?” i asked. “the plot of the novel,” said stanley, wide-eyed. “don’t be silly,” i said. “i let the characters make the plot as they go along.” “you mean you don’t have any idea what’s going to happen?” “not the slightest,” i said proudly. “but,” said stanley rather breathlessly, “people don’t write novels like that.” "i do,” i told him very smugly indeed.

"I’ve just buried my husband,” I said. “I’ve just buried mine,” she said. "Isn’t it a relief?” I said. "What?” she said. “It was a very sad occasion,” I said. "You’re right,” she said, “it’s a relief.”

—Come Along with Me

In some respects, having a baby is roughly like being in the path of a major hurricane. Or like having all your relatives come at once for a two-week visit. . . . Or like discovering suddenly that you have only one hand when you thought you had two. Or like discovering suddenly, as a matter of fact, that you have only two hands when you hoped you had four.