The Bird's Nest

by Shirley Jackson

Although Betsy did not sleep, and did not think she ever had,

For a moment, staring, Betsy wanted frantically to rip herself apart, and give half to Lizzie and never be troubled again, saying take this, and take this and take this, and you can have this, and now get out of my sight, get away from my body, get away and leave me alone.

what would the man on the ledge think of her if he knew she was going around telling people where her mother lived?

Many rooms have white walls and many beds have white covers, but only hospitals have white walls and white covers and a bed table with a glass of water and a glass bent straw and nurses who speak with quite that quality of enthusiasm;

my reader who is puzzled by my awkward explanations close his eyes for no more than two minutes, and see if he does not find himself suddenly not a compact human being at all, but only a consciousness on a sea of sound and touch;

She turned her face away sullenly, and I repressed a great jubilation at seeing her so chastened; here was no wild laughter and tormenting teasing, but only a vicious creature trapped and held fast.

Without enthusiasm, I added R4 to my notes, and hoped she was the last; each of Miss R.’s varying selves, I thought, proved more disagreeable than the last—always, of course, excepting Beth, who, although weak and almost helpless, was at least possessed of a kind of winsomeness, and engaging in her very helplessness.

I found myself, lying awake that night in bed—one finds, I think, that even with a clear conscience there comes an age when sleep forsakes the weary mind; I am not elderly, but I frequently, now, court sleep in vain—that

“Close the door, please,” I said quietly, “and moderate your language. Even if you are not a lady, you are addressing a gentleman.”

should call it, as a matter of fact, a completely practical practical joke, not for the general order of person, but most effective if one just happens to have four warring personalities, and one pencil.

Oh, well. I have taken a roundabout way to get me to Miss Jones’ house, but I have outgrown the minor vices of my youth, and am unwilling to find them painted on people’s walls today.

“I hope you realize,” the doctor said, “what violence I am doing to my own pride in resuming the care of your niece, Miss Jones. Only my conscience—” “If you’re worried about violence,” said Morgen evilly, “you’d better keep quiet to me about your conscience.” And she hung up, pleased to think that she had had the last word, but that he would be coming anyway.

“It is five and twenty after four,” he said at last. “I am able to recollect, much as you may doubt it, that youth feels little sense of time, with all the future at its beck and call; regrettably, we who have had the pressure of years forced upon us—”