Letter to Shirley Jackson

Letter to Shirley Jackson, author of “The Lottery”

July 23, 1948

Dear Shirley Jackson,

Are you the lady that wrote that story? The Lottery it is called. I saw it in a magazeen on a park bench in New York City. Says on the magazeen it is The New Yorker of June 26. The story has your name on it. Shirley Jackson. I done read it twice. The whole thing. I have it in my rup sack right now.

What I like about it is the random killing. Just picking a number and if its your number its rock rock rock out go the lights. People pick up rocks and throw them at you until you die. Thats what the libarian said when I asked her in the New York public libary what happens at the end. I didnt understand it at first. It boggels me that this happened and that the New Yorker magazeen let you tell it. The libarian lady got me the address for the magazeen and so I could mail this letter to you.

That was a nice thing you done maam. You care for sociaty. And civilzashun. It was the right thing to do that Lottery. A good thing for your town so it won’t get to big. People will prospur. Its okay to kill people off to help the rest of us live better. Thats how I see it. But Im no geenius. Are you? I bet you are.

I want to do what you done Shirley Jackson. You were there I know. You saw it all. Saw the lady get her number picked. Saw people serround her and throws rocks at her head. You threw one I bet. More than one I bet.

My mama Ada calls me Charles. I dont like it. I like Charlie. I am Charlie writing to you. I be 13 years old born November 12 1934. I just run away from School for Boys in Terra Hoat. School for bad seeds which I gess I be. Nuns beat me with a leather strap. I run away and sleep in woods and under bridges by tracks. I find many smart folks. Formed my philosophys. And got to where I be now in New York City.

Mama Ada got paroled in 42 after her assault and robbery. Arrested for grand larceny after that but got off. She drink every day and let me rome. She say Charles you are on your own. So I school myself. Outside. But others say no. Say Charles get your ass to real school. Only good thing about it all is I learn to read and write. And steal. I be a truant they say. Nothin to it I say. Thats my poem. They say I have to leave the libary now. Shit!

- - -

Okay it is the next day now. I will write more. A week after I read your The Lottery story I done my first real crime. I rob a poor ass grocery store cause I so fucking hungry I want to puke. You ever be that hungry Mrs J? When you can eat a pencil? Chaw it down to the nubbin? Chew the eraser like gum? I figure sociaty has failed me. Making me a crimnal. And you know what I got in the steal from the store Mrs Jack? 17 dollars cash in a ceegar box. As mama Ada would say Charles you aint got a lick of sense and you are one sorry piece of crap.

It was beatiful while it lasted the cash. But it dont last long do it? Charlie back on the bottom like a mud suckers ass. A skinny snake in the grass. A stick cracking under a boot. I am sick of it and aint able to stand it much longer so I set my sights on down the road. Maybe to where you are or where your town is that has the Lottery. Or I will get some folks to follow me and go start our own town. Do our own killing and try to make a better civilsation. This is why I write you.

I have questions about the Lottery story.

Where did it happen? I want to travel there.

Why just one person killed? Why not kill sevral? A famly?

Can we make it so you just kill rich folks? Not poor like me?

Was the draw rigged? Can you rig it?

You wonder me Mrs Jack. I want to say it was sure beatiful what you all done. Killing is good for the world. Its part of nature. Like mud. The muck shall inherit the earth. Survival of the fittest the smartest the luckest. I am writing a song about it. Do you like music Mrs J? Id like to be a star someday. On the radio or in the dark sky dancing with the moon. Either one is fine by me.

Fuck I have to leave libary again. I aint done yet.

- - -

Back in the libary. I gone outside and saw a drug store I can boost. Open late. Not a bunch a wackamoles around. I have a knife but no gun. That will work. But first I must compleat this here letter. I hope you can read my hand writing Mrs J. I never learned it very well what they call the cursiv. When I first hear that word I thot it means you can swear. I was wrong. As usual.

Maam its up to people like us to fix the world. Get rid of those who be dammed. Build us a better sociaty. You are a caring sole Mrs. J. I wish I had you in school. You would teach me a lot. But you teach me now in the Lottery story.

Mama Ada used to say to me Charles you will never amount to anything if you dont learn and if you can not then you got to get peoples to like you. Well my ma dont know much but I believe she is right on the moola on that.

The world is going to shit Mrs J. We need to start a new one. We need more caring folk like you. To help kill off the blood suckers and blood mixers among us. It will be beatiful to chase them with rocks and see them hold there heads and run scream bleed helter skelter. Hell yes!!!

I am ready to commense the killing.

Your friend,

Charles Manson

Please write me back. Send letter to the libarian lady.

New York Public Library

Flannery Connors

476 5th Avenue

New York City, New York

Letter from Charles Manson to Shirley Jackson found in New York Public Library archives.

Note: Hundreds of people canceled their subscription to The New Yorker after Shirley Jackson's story "The Lottery" was published on June 26, 1948. Readers as well as critics found it outrageous, shocking, gruesome. Some said every copy of the magazine should be burned. Many readers were confused by the story, mistaking it for a factual report. Its themes of ritual violence and blind faith in tradition were considered disturbing and horrific. Shirley Jackson became a literary star over night.