r u ever like damn i hate my body but then ur like life is an illusion i’m floatin around on a rock trapped in an orbit around a ball of flame in a vast & largely unknown universe where death is unescapable who gives a shit ???
I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
Sylvia Plath, The Collected Poems
To acknowledge Andrews’s appeal, then, forces us to go to a place we visit in daydreams and poems but not in our normal, every-day, waking life—the semiconscious, half-remembered realm of children’s stories, fantasy, and fairy tales. And as anyone who’s read the unsanitized Grimms’ tales knows, this is not the candy-colored vista where Disney movies were filmed. As adults we try to forget that we ever visited this sinister place—the place where Cinderella’s stepsisters cut off their toes to fit into the glass slipper, where children were cooked and eaten in a gingerbread house, where Cathy Dollanganger was locked away in the towers of Foxworth Hall. But Andrews’s books remind us we’ve kept a hidden key to this world in our pocket all along. In other words, what makes us uncomfortable isn’t the feeling that, when we open the pages of Andrews’s books, we don’t recognize anything. Instead, we’re made uncomfortable because we recognize everything.