Unheimlich and the uncanny in Dahl’s world
Unheimlich is the German term Freud used for the uncanny — something oddly close to us yet unsettling. The idea, echoed by Schelling, a German Romantic thinker, is the coming to light of what lies hidden, destined to stay hidden. The concept can feel intimidating, even eerie.
In English, unheimlich translates roughly as enigmatic, a fitting label for the works of two masters of macabre wonder: Edgar Allan Poe and Roald Dahl. So closely linked is Dahl with this mood that he earned the Poe Award twice for stories that bend the ordinary into the uncanny.
Great children’s literature
Dahl stands out as a prolific writer of children’s novels that reach classrooms across the globe and inspire film adaptations by renowned directors such as Tim Burton, Wes Anderson, Steven Spielberg, and Danny DeVito. That fame often overshadows other facets of his career and sometimes leaves the man behind the stories in the margins.
“Home was a very difficult idea for Roald,” observes biographer Donald Sturrock. Sturrock, born to Welsh and Norwegian roots and educated in England, shared a revealing London conversation in 2019. The authorized life story, The Life of Roald Dahl, alongside Love from Boy, a collection of Dahl’s letters to his mother from age nine onward, illuminate how a film about Sturrock’s life never quite materialized. Dahl’s Welsh heritage carries an intensity of fiction that rivals some of Tolkien’s magic.
Roald Dahl endured the loss of his seven year old sister and the death of his father when he was very young. His mother raised the family, and these early traumas, combined with the orphaned figures that populate English and Welsh storytelling, fed the recurring theme of orphans and resilient protagonists in his work. Dahl also grew up surrounded by tales of Norse folklore told by his mother, tales filled with elves, giants, fairies, and other spirits that later echo in his own narratives.
He did not pursue a university path, spent time in Tanzania, and served in World War II among Hollywood circles. His life involved five children and a few highly publicized family challenges. Yet these experiences informed a creative output that would reach millions of readers and later become a cornerstone of film and theatre across decades.
Dahl’s appeal to younger audiences helped propel him to best-seller status and spurred historical cinema. Beyond the beloved Matilda and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, he wrote James and the Giant Peach, The Witches, The BFG, The Twits, and many more. His stories, though wildly popular, carry a surprising breadth that stretches beyond children’s lit into a broader cultural influence, including museums, school programs, and charity efforts tied to his name. Yet Dahl’s adult writing carried equal weight in shaping his lasting legacy.
Indelible stories
Descriptive labels of ominous, eerie, gory, or funny have followed Dahl. He is often boxed into a dark genre, which can obscure the range of warmth and wonder his work contains. The author’s talent lies in revealing, within the ordinary, the hidden recesses of the psyche. This aligns with Schelling’s unheimlich, a moment when the visible world uncovers what lurks beneath the surface of social norms and everyday life.
Some readers might prefer a broader lens to describe Dahl’s voice. Neo-Gothic hints at his fascination with science, medicine, and the strange. The grotesque surfaces in tales that pair domestic quirks with sharp irony, frequently delivered with a sly, almost mischievous humor. The result is a clutter of voices and visions that feel both intimate and explosive, a contrast that keeps his work alive and provocative.
Among nearly sixty stories aimed at teens to older readers, war-themed pieces stand out for their close-up battlefield perspectives. The horrors of war unfold through soldiers, civilians, and those who bear witness in devastated towns, rendered with a delicate blend of realism and lyric imagination. Notable pieces include Katina, a friendship tale with officers, and Solo esto, which traces a long-distance bond between a mother and her pilot son during a plane crash.
In the later suites, deception, trickery, and revenge swirl with Machiavellian cunning. Vengeance drives plots like Miss Bixby and the Colonel’s Coat, The Umbrella Man, and The Gastronomers. Humorous yet pointed stories of strong, independent women also appear, offering sharp counterpoints to the male-dominated myths often seen in the era. The collection invites readers to explore themes of justice, resilience, and the cost of ambition.
Recurring scenes anchor Dahl’s world in rural England, whether in Cleric’s Pleasure, the Mildenhall Treasure, or the Claud’s Dog episodes. A roguish trickster figure appears repeatedly, each time with a different trap but always a moral twist that lingers after the laughter ebbs. The parlor joke, the prank of everyday life, becomes a doorway to larger questions about power, restraint, and consequence.
Some stories push into the wildest fantasies. Edward the Conqueror imagines a cat as a reincarnated Liszt, and Royal Jelly imagines a man turning his daughter into a bee. Others carry a darker charge but never stray far from a breath of humanity, recalling why a hero on a tattoo can become a living art piece. Dahl’s influence appears in a kinship with writers like Saki and Cortázar, shaping a tradition of playful, unsettling storytelling that invites multiple readings.
His most affecting cinema adaptations sit alongside enduring novels like The Boy Who Talked to Animals and The Swan. These works are often best experienced in print, with the text guiding the imagination more reliably than any screen adaptation can. Dahl’s stories about bullying, courage, and cleverness resonate deeply with readers who want a story that cuts through the noise and speaks in a voice they can trust.
Contemporary discussion of Dahl often touches on the tensions between his public persona and the complexities of his life. Critics have weighed his male bravado against episodes of criticism and controversy, including remarks that feel inappropriate by today’s standards. Understanding the man behind the myths helps illuminate why his prolific output still feels essential and why his characters persist in the cultural imagination as courageous, witty, and defiantly human.
The arc of Dahl’s life — marked by loss, extraordinary success, and the persistent pull of both light and shadow — positions him as a towering figure in 20th-century storytelling. He emerges not merely as a master of whimsy or menace but as a creator who could make the ordinary extraordinary and invite readers to question what they think they know about childhood, adulthood, and the spaces between them.
Strength drawn from hardship frames his legacy. From youth onward, Dahl navigated schooling far from home and endured harsh discipline, experiences that surface in the hardness and resilience of his protagonists. His semi-autobiographical works offer intimate glimpses of those years, while his other memoirs and interviews reveal a mind that thrived on transforming pain into wit, wonder, and a lasting sense of mischief. The enduring appeal of his stories lies in this alchemy — the talent to bend fear into fascination and to turn fear into laughter, all without losing a sense of humanity that keeps readers coming back for more. The result is a literary footprint that feels as expansive as it is intimate, echoing across generations and borders, inviting Canadians and Americans alike to discover, re-discover, and reimagine the uncanny in every page.