The green house represents the weight of history and familial dysfunction. The Quoyles, who dragged the house across the frozen sea ice from Gaze Island to Newfoundland a century before the events in the book, have a bad reputation on the northern coast of Newfoundland both because they were reputed to be wrackers (people who lured ships into wrecking on the rocks and then pirated their cargoes) and because of multiple reports of incest and other forms of sexual deviance. In the present, Agnis tries to downplay this history, but she cannot escape it, especially because she was one of its victims: her half-brother Guy sexually assaulted her repeatedly throughout her childhood. Nevertheless, she is at first determined to reclaim the house for herself and for the newer and less morally compromised generations of Quoyles represented by Quoyle, Bunny, and Sunshine. And her attempts to renovate the house and make it more modern and comfortable show that she wants a better future for herself and the others. But the novel implies that she inadvertently limits herself by clinging to the past in this way. When a late-winter storm sweeps the house off the rock to which it’s tethered, the book pointedly suggests that no good can come of Agnis’s plan. Only when she and Quoyle (and Wavey and others) decide to close the painful chapters of their pasts—Agnis’s sexual abuse and the loss of her lover Irene; Quoyle’s and Wavey’s painful first marriages—and look toward the future can they find happiness.
House Quotes in The Shipping News
“Yes of course I remember. […] There was another white dog adventure couple weeks ago. You know that little white stone I had on my garden rock? If you squinted at it it looked like a dog’s head? She come pounding on the door yelling her head off. I thought something terrible’d happened. Couldn’t get her to stop yelling and tell me what was the matter. At last she holds out her hand. There’s a tiny cut on one finger, tiny, about a quarter of an inch long. One drop of blood. I put a bandage on it and she calmed down. Wouldn’t say how she got the cut. But a couple days later she says to be that she threw away ‘the dog-face stone’ and it bit her. She says it was a dog bite on her finger.”
The aunt laughed to show it wasn’t anything to have a fit about.
The house was heavy around him, the pressure of the past filling the rooms like odorless gas. The sea breathed in the distance. The house meant something to the aunt. Did that bind him? The coast around the house seemed beautiful to him. But the house was wrong. Had always been wrong, he thought. Dragged by human labor across miles of ice, the outcasts straining against the ropes and shouting curses at the godly mob. Winched onto rock. Groaning. A bound prisoner straining to get free. The humming of the taut cables. That vibration passed into the house, made it seem alive. That was it, in the house he felt he was inside a tethered animal, dumb but feeling. Swallowed by the shouting past.
In the man before him, in the hut, crammed with the poverty of another century, Quoyle saw what he had sprung from. For the old man was mad, the gears of his mind stripped long ago to clashing discs edged with the stubs of broken cogs. Mad with loneliness or lovelessness, or from some genetic chemical jungle, or the flooding betrayal that all hermits suffer. Lops of fishing line underfoot, the snarl tangled into compacted detritus, a churn of splinters, sand, rain, sea wet, mud, bits of wool, gnawed sheep ribs, spruce needles, fish scales and bones, burst air bladders, seal offal, squid cartilage, broken glass, torn cloth, dog hair, nail pairings, bark and blood.