“A Pillar of Salt” by Shirley Jackson
I don’t get it. I’m reading a collection of NYC-centric stories published by Everyman’s Library, and the past three stories have seen naïve, excited outsiders harried and broken down by the city. Don’t get me wrong: as far as I can tell from having lived in New York City for the past five years, e’rybody loves a good grousing about the city. But New York City is like my mom—only my siblings and I can complain about it. Ms. Jackson, you’re not related to me so shuuuuuuut it and go write about some disturbing rural ritual involving stones.
