Discover Caroline Blackwood’s darkly brilliant debut – a perfect rediscovered classic for fans of Shirley Jackson and Ottessa Moshfegh
A lavish Upper West Side apartment is the site of a familial cold war about to enter a phase of dangerous escalation.
J is a lonely woman without even the luxury of being alone. Her husband has fled to Paris with his latest flame, but he’s left J not only with their own four-year-old daughter, Sally Ann, but with the sulky cake-mix addicted, thirteen-year-old Renata, a leftover from his previous marriage. The presence of a pert au pair, Monique, serves only to make J feel more isolated and self-conscious. What she’d like is someone to blame.
Writing letters in her head to imaginary friends, J delights in dwelling on the hapless Renata, who ‘invites a kind of cruelty’. This is an invitation J fully intends to take up – and like so many stepmothers before her, she will find that wickedness, once indulged, is a difficult habit to kick. A mordant black splinter of a book, Caroline Blackwood’s first novel stands as proof positive of her eternal mastery – and mockery – of the darkest depths of human feeling.
A lavish Upper West Side apartment is the site of a familial cold war about to enter a phase of dangerous escalation.
J is a lonely woman without even the luxury of being alone. Her husband has fled to Paris with his latest flame, but he’s left J not only with their own four-year-old daughter, Sally Ann, but with the sulky cake-mix addicted, thirteen-year-old Renata, a leftover from his previous marriage. The presence of a pert au pair, Monique, serves only to make J feel more isolated and self-conscious. What she’d like is someone to blame.
Writing letters in her head to imaginary friends, J delights in dwelling on the hapless Renata, who ‘invites a kind of cruelty’. This is an invitation J fully intends to take up – and like so many stepmothers before her, she will find that wickedness, once indulged, is a difficult habit to kick. A mordant black splinter of a book, Caroline Blackwood’s first novel stands as proof positive of her eternal mastery – and mockery – of the darkest depths of human feeling.
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