07/06/2026
Next in our series of succinct book reviews: Shirley Jackson, ‘Life Among the Savages’ (Penguin Classics, first published 1953). Inspired by an article in the Guardian, 23 May 2026, “I laughed out loud dozens of times: authors choose books to make you fall back in love with reading”, I mail ordered a copy of Shirley Jackson’s memoir of being a writer and housewife raising 4 children in 1950s America, which was described as recording with sharp wit the unfairness and banality of her situation while at the same time making space for laughter and delight.
Jackson observes the essentials of her family life raising toddlers: coffee pot, typewriter, little wheels off things, and endless lists of things to do popping up in forgotten pockets. As I begin this review, the little wheels on my desk chair crack the plastic mat protecting my carpet; I add replacing the mat to my to-do list. The book’s amusing anecdotes about children, pets and housekeeping feature a husband at the periphery of the narrative, for example, helping the author into a taxi as she sets off to hospital for the birth of their third child. At this point my attention is distracted by my wife searching for her house keys, announcing that she must drive back to Quarry Beach to look for them. Like the husband in the book, I stand by, trying to retrace our steps, confusion dawning as to how she managed to unlock our front door on returning from the beach, then I check the bowl where we keep our keys, pulling out her house keys, taking a moment to consider whether I should admit removing them from the front door. Nothing further needs to be said as I return to writing this review.
The book, I think, might be called a stream of consciousness narrative, full of musings on conversations with other mothers ironing out little conflicts between children at school, bathing and dressing children, playing bridge while discussing the price of children’s clothing and footwear, a conversation with a girl friend who likes coffee in little demitasse cups whereas the author likes double sized coffee cups, but perhaps more people might come to call if she had more gracious demitasse cups, with tiny spoons. And I recall that in the 1950s my mother had a set of demitasse cups with tiny spoons kept in a cupboard ready to serve coffee graciously from the chrome plated coffee percolator, none of which in my recollection ever saw the light of day. My thoughts wander off, wondering where they might be now, do I still have them?
I begin to realise there are no chapter endings, which I need for rest and recuperation outside the narrative. Drowsily I place my bookmark, put the book aside, and wonder about my mother bathing and feeding a toddler in the 1950s, my wife looking after ours in… which decade was it? My phone dings with a text from our son with photos of his toddlers happily playing in the bath. Next day I look around the house, where did I put that book?
