i was looking for something to read the other day,
mostly because i miss reading for my own enjoyment,
and i came across a book of short stories by shirley jackson
many of you may know her for the story 'the lottery',
which is a wonderful and intriguing story in its own right,
but i love her for a different reason:
she is the author of hands–down my favorite short story ever
and because i am in a generous mood, i'm sharing it with you
"Colloquy", Shirley Jackson, ©1944, The New Yorker
The doctor was competent-looking and respectable. Mrs Arnold felt vaguely comforted by his appearance, and her agitation lessened a little. She knew that he noticed her hand shaking when she leaned forward for him to light her cigarette, and she smiled apologetically, but he looked back at her seriously.
“You seem to be upset,” he said gravely.
“I’m very upset,” Mrs Arnold said. She tried to talk slowly and intelligently. “That’s one reason I came to you instead of going to Doctor Murphy—our regular doctor, that is.”
The doctor frowned slightly. “My husband,” Mrs Arnold went on. “I don’t want him to know that I’m worried, and Doctor Murphy would probably feel it was necessary to tell him.” The doctor nodded, not committing himself, Mrs Arnold noted.
“What seems to be the trouble?”
Mrs Arnold took a deep breath. “Doctor,” she said, “how do people tell if they’re going crazy?”
The doctor looked up.
“Isn’t that silly,” Mrs Arnold said, “I hadn’t meant to say it like that. It’s hard enough to explain anyway, without making it so dramatic.”
“Insanity is more complicated than you think,” the doctor said.
“I know it’s complicated,” Mrs Arnold said. “That’s the only think I’m really sure of. Insanity is one of those things I mean.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s my trouble, Doctor.” Mrs Arnold sat back and took her gloves out from under her pocketbook and put them carefully on top. Then she took them and put them underneath the pocketbook again.
“Suppose you just tell me all about it,” the doctor said.
Mrs Arnold sighed. “Everyone else seems to understand,” she said, “and I don’t. Look.” She leaned forward and gestured with one hand while she spoke. “I don’t understand the way people live. It all used to be so simple. When I was a little girl I used to live in a world where a lot of other people lived too and they all lived together and things went along like that with no fuss.” She looked at the doctor. He was frowning again, and Mrs Arnold went on, her voice rising slightly. “Look. Yesterday morning my husband stopped on his way to his office to buy a paper. He always buys the Times and he always buys it from the same dealer, and yesterday the dealer didn’t have a Times for my husband and last night when he came home for dinner he said the fish was burned and the dessert was too sweet and he sat around all evening talking to himself.”
“He could have tried to get it at another dealer,” the doctor said. “Very often dealers downtown have papers later than local dealers.”
“No,” Mrs Arnold said, slowly and distinctly, “I guess I’d better start over. When I was a little girl—” she said. Then she stopped. “Look,” she said, “did there use to be words like psychosomatic medicine? Or international cartels? Or bureaucratic centralization?”
“Well,” the doctor began.
“What do they mean?” Mrs Arnold insisted.
“In a period of international crisis,” the doctor said gently, “when you find, for instance, cultural patterns rapidly disintegrating…”
“International crisis,” Mrs Arnold said. “Patterns.” She began to cry quietly. “He said the man had no right not to save him a Times,” she said hysterically, fumbling in her pocket for a handkerchief, “and he started talking about social planning on the local level and surtax net income and geopolitical concepts and deflationary inflation.” Mrs Arnold’s voice rose to a wail. “He really said deflationary inflation.”
“Mrs Arnold,” the doctor said, coming around the desk, “we’re not going to help things any this way.”
“What is going to help?” Mrs Arnold said. “Is everyone really crazy but me?”
“Mrs Arnold,” the doctor said severely, “I want you to get a hold of yourself. In a disoriented world like ours today, alienation from reality frequently—”
“Disoriented,” Mrs Arnold said. She stood up. “Alienation,” she said. “Reality.” Before the doctor could stop her she walked to the door and opened it. “Reality,” she said, and went out.
mostly because i miss reading for my own enjoyment,
and i came across a book of short stories by shirley jackson
many of you may know her for the story 'the lottery',
which is a wonderful and intriguing story in its own right,
but i love her for a different reason:
she is the author of hands–down my favorite short story ever
and because i am in a generous mood, i'm sharing it with you
"Colloquy", Shirley Jackson, ©1944, The New Yorker
The doctor was competent-looking and respectable. Mrs Arnold felt vaguely comforted by his appearance, and her agitation lessened a little. She knew that he noticed her hand shaking when she leaned forward for him to light her cigarette, and she smiled apologetically, but he looked back at her seriously.
“You seem to be upset,” he said gravely.
“I’m very upset,” Mrs Arnold said. She tried to talk slowly and intelligently. “That’s one reason I came to you instead of going to Doctor Murphy—our regular doctor, that is.”
The doctor frowned slightly. “My husband,” Mrs Arnold went on. “I don’t want him to know that I’m worried, and Doctor Murphy would probably feel it was necessary to tell him.” The doctor nodded, not committing himself, Mrs Arnold noted.
“What seems to be the trouble?”
Mrs Arnold took a deep breath. “Doctor,” she said, “how do people tell if they’re going crazy?”
The doctor looked up.
“Isn’t that silly,” Mrs Arnold said, “I hadn’t meant to say it like that. It’s hard enough to explain anyway, without making it so dramatic.”
“Insanity is more complicated than you think,” the doctor said.
“I know it’s complicated,” Mrs Arnold said. “That’s the only think I’m really sure of. Insanity is one of those things I mean.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s my trouble, Doctor.” Mrs Arnold sat back and took her gloves out from under her pocketbook and put them carefully on top. Then she took them and put them underneath the pocketbook again.
“Suppose you just tell me all about it,” the doctor said.
Mrs Arnold sighed. “Everyone else seems to understand,” she said, “and I don’t. Look.” She leaned forward and gestured with one hand while she spoke. “I don’t understand the way people live. It all used to be so simple. When I was a little girl I used to live in a world where a lot of other people lived too and they all lived together and things went along like that with no fuss.” She looked at the doctor. He was frowning again, and Mrs Arnold went on, her voice rising slightly. “Look. Yesterday morning my husband stopped on his way to his office to buy a paper. He always buys the Times and he always buys it from the same dealer, and yesterday the dealer didn’t have a Times for my husband and last night when he came home for dinner he said the fish was burned and the dessert was too sweet and he sat around all evening talking to himself.”
“He could have tried to get it at another dealer,” the doctor said. “Very often dealers downtown have papers later than local dealers.”
“No,” Mrs Arnold said, slowly and distinctly, “I guess I’d better start over. When I was a little girl—” she said. Then she stopped. “Look,” she said, “did there use to be words like psychosomatic medicine? Or international cartels? Or bureaucratic centralization?”
“Well,” the doctor began.
“What do they mean?” Mrs Arnold insisted.
“In a period of international crisis,” the doctor said gently, “when you find, for instance, cultural patterns rapidly disintegrating…”
“International crisis,” Mrs Arnold said. “Patterns.” She began to cry quietly. “He said the man had no right not to save him a Times,” she said hysterically, fumbling in her pocket for a handkerchief, “and he started talking about social planning on the local level and surtax net income and geopolitical concepts and deflationary inflation.” Mrs Arnold’s voice rose to a wail. “He really said deflationary inflation.”
“Mrs Arnold,” the doctor said, coming around the desk, “we’re not going to help things any this way.”
“What is going to help?” Mrs Arnold said. “Is everyone really crazy but me?”
“Mrs Arnold,” the doctor said severely, “I want you to get a hold of yourself. In a disoriented world like ours today, alienation from reality frequently—”
“Disoriented,” Mrs Arnold said. She stood up. “Alienation,” she said. “Reality.” Before the doctor could stop her she walked to the door and opened it. “Reality,” she said, and went out.
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