Generally, these stories could be described as fairy tales, but fairy tales before their Victorian domestication. Angela Carter's The Bloody Chamber might be a useful point of comparison, but Carrington's stories are a little stranger and fiercer and crueler (especially about intra-familial relations) than even Carter's, while all the time maintaining a calm, imperturbable sangfroid.
Surreal touches abound. The narrator of "The Three Hunters" is resting in a forest when "a heavy object fell on my stomach. It was a dead rabbit, blood running from its mouth." Moments later a man, "about ninety," lands beside her:
He was wearing a hunting jacket the color of Damascus rose, a bright green hat with orange plumes, and very long black boots trimmed with summer flowers. He wore no trousers. He looked at the rabbit with interest.
I kept thinking a set of illustrations from Edward Gorey would be just about perfect. His subtle whimsy was just about the same shade of dark as Carrington's (bruise-purple, ochre at the edges), he had the same knowingly antique air, and he had a gift for the macabre.
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