There’s a good blog at Slate about one of Jackson’s strangest and most uncompromising novels: HANGSAMAN. It is about a lonely college girl on the edge of madness. The plot tips this way and that, and there is a song woven through the book.
The author, Dan Kois, ends with this words:
Fifty years from now Hangsaman will be over 100 years old, and this little object that once sold for 50 cents may well still survive—in my daughter’s house, or in a thrift shop somewhere, or on the shelves of some other mass-market fetishist like me, carefully tending the last remaining treasures in his collection. That $9 Kindle version will be long evaporated into the ether, just another obsolete file format, more orphaned data lost in the dark where no one will ever find it.
Some good news: there may be a new biography of Shirley Jackson in the future.