Abstract: As Shirley Jackson’s “The Daemon Lover” exemplifies, things are not always as they seem. As one who lives within the realm of her anxious mind, my perception of the world around me is often unrealistic. In this little insignificant afternoon of my life, I run around the city looking for the perfect study spot. A quest far from from the disappearance of my (possibly daemonic) fiance, though equally perplexing.
Chaos
A deceitful veil masks our reality. A voice barks remarks into the back of our ear, steering our perception of the world. Most know this voice— this wretched voice— to be their internal monologue. What they may not know is that some are spared from this hidden passenger. For those living without an internal monologue, thoughts may manifest visually through abstract images or words. In the case of Shirley Jackson’s, “The Daemon Lover,” we are guided by the protagonist’s inner voice. The unnamed woman spends her morning in a state of nervous hesitancy. “Looking carefully over the clothes she planned to wear,” she worries “unnecessarily at the window, over whether it would be a fine day.” The monologue materializes: “she ought not to wear the blue silk dress; it was too plain, almost severe, and she wanted to be soft, feminine.” On what she believes will be her wedding day, she “anxiously” pulls “through the dresses in (her) closet,” and hesitates “over a print dress she had worn the summer before.” She considers the dress “too young for her… it was very early in the year for a print dress, but still…”¹ it was her wedding day after all.
* * *
I slip the faded navy and red striped top over my head: the first long sleeve of the season. A flame softly glows in my dim heart as I read the forecast: cool weather. It’s my first Northeastern fall and a perfect day for the park. I pull my sister’s old beige corduroys over my hips and cinch them at the waist with a plain black belt.
In the hallway, I hesitate in front of the shoe rack. I slip my royal blue Adidas Gazelles over my ankle-high red socks, choosing red and blue carefully to coordinate with my top. “Everything must be correct.”² Color coordination rules my life: from my bookshelf to my closet, to the pens collecting dust on the windowsill. I resist the latent nagging pointing out the clashing shades of red and blue. “It isn’t what you’re wearing that matters,”³ I tell myself firmly.
I glance down at my shoes as I walk towards the floor-length mirror. My brain rattles on, “too bulky, they must be at least three-sizes-too-large.” I’d rather wear my once-blue, slip-on converse, yet after two years of daily use, they tear at the seams of a diminishing sole. In the mirror now, I see my shoes are a perfect fit.
I place my belongings in a bright yellow Totoro backpack, convinced it “looked irresistibly made for a girl.”³ I see “a quick picture of” myself walking along the city blocks, a child’s bag upon my shoulders, and tell myself, “What a fool I’d look like.”⁴ “No,” I forcefully rebuttal. I cherish this bag; “I can dress as I please.”³ I throw on the straps, grab my earbuds from the desk, and collect my mask hanging from the window.
With my music queued and a mask upon my lips, I grab my keys and walk out the door. I step gently into the street, utterly in awe of the sun shining upon my lashes and the crisp air tickling the gap between my hem and my socks. “What a beautiful day.” At the train I recall the steps in my head, “take the A to 168th, transfer to the 1, exit at 72nd.” After living in the city barely more than a month, these repetitions are an unconscious necessity.
* * *
As a muffled voice announces, “This is 72nd street,” I collect my things and exit the station. On the street now, with a terrible sense of direction, I pick a point I believe is east and walk onward. To my surprise, I appear by the walls of Central Park. I make my way from west side to east, glancing from field to field, unsure of where to set up camp. As the eastern border draws near I decide to retrace my steps. Along the way, I find a suitable tree in a suitable setting to sit down. A root stabs my lower back; a rock digs into my upper thigh. I utter to myself, “This won’t work.” Oh, how everyone will think, “it’s so funny.”⁴ I feel their judgmental gaze burn into my spine as I avoid making an identical path towards the next field. This process repeats. Four times it repeats. “What on earth is wrong with me?” My movements mirror themselves: I enter; I sit; I stand; I exit. My cheeks flush as I think how the crowds of strangers must be laughing. “They must be,” I repeat to myself. At last, I pick a bench near the entrance and sit down. The busy street rings in my right ear, but I must not get up again. “I must not.”
I pull my belongings from the bright yellow backpack. The gentle mechanical click of my father’s cassette player softens my tormented mind. A quarter-well-spent Glenn Miller tape plays as I set my laptop upon my thighs and begin work for the day.
* * *
Hours pass with little setbacks. I’ve finished my assignments and decide to head home. I cross Amsterdam Ave. and glance behind me at a Gray’s Papaya; 10 years visiting the city and I’ve never tried the so-called “New-York hot dog.” “Should I cross the street?’ I think to myself. “What if it’s too pricey?” I have food prepared at home; I shouldn’t eat out, “but still…”¹ “maybe just this once.” A maybe won’t do; my mind inspects all possible outcomes. I see myself in the store, glancing up at the price, regretting my decision. Do I walk out or unwillingly purchase one to avoid the embarrassment? “How imprudent it would be…”⁵ “Maybe the price is posted outside?” I stop to wonder. There must be over 30 signs plastered along all walls and windows, yet I see no indication of price. “What a strange way to advertise,” I note. Time rolls by unnoticed as I stand stiffly on one side of the crosswalk. I regain awareness and the overwhelming glares of those around me saturate my every ounce of focus. “They all must think I’m absurd, standing here— staring— like a maniac.” Because everyone knows New Yorkers are so bothered by the actions of insignificant young girls. “They must.”
* * *
Shirley Jackson’s, “The Daemon Lover,” transports readers to the inner workings of the protagonist’s growing desperation and anxiety. This presentation of anxiety highlights the distinction between those with internal monologues and those without. Olivia Rivera, a 22-year old without an inner voice, finds her “anxiety manifests in more of a physical way.”⁶ To the contrary, the woman’s anxiety in the “Daemon Lover” emerges primarily in her mind, consuming her every thought and action. On several occasions, she becomes consciously, “horribly aware of her over-young print dress” and pulls “her coat around her quickly.” While asking the newsdealer for assistance, “she thought, he thinks it’s a joke or a trick.”⁷ As we read, our perception of these interactions is obscured by the woman’s inner monologue.
* * *
I tell myself, “one foot in front of the other, that is all it takes.” The LED man wakes. He is trapped within his yellow metal box. I travel 17 Paces across Amsterdam towards the shop door. I hesitate, for only a moment, then walk past the shop, past the 30 signs along the walls and windows. I don’t look back. I find myself wondering once more, “what on earth is wrong with me?” It begins to feel more like a cry for help than a rhetorical question.
I walk down one block, cross the street, and return east, avoiding eye contact with the Gray’s Papaya. I sit across from the station entrance and attempt to compose my mind. “Breathe in, 1…2…3…4…breathe out, 1…2…3…4…” I suffocate from the sounds of society.
I stand; I step; I enter the station. With elegant timing, the train screeches to a halt as I approach the platform. I take my seat and the doors close. “This day feels like a dream.” I blink twice. “I must be dreaming.” I pinch my wrist; I blink twice; the conductor announces the next stop. “I must.”
References:
- “The Daemon Lover” by Shirley Jackson, p. 9
- p. 10
- p. 11
- p. 23
- p. 14
- Soloducha, Alex. “What it’s Like Living Without an Inner Monologue | CBC News.” CBCnews. CBC/Radio Canada, 06 Mar. 2020. Web.
- p. 20
