I am currently in the process of reading my second independent reading book, Picnic at Hanging Rock.  It’s a novel of mystery and suspense from the Australian author, Joan Lindsay.  The setting is a girls’ boarding school in Australia in the year 1900.  On a picnic to the nearby massive rock formation, Hanging Rock, three girls and a supervisor vanish without a trace.  The rest of the novel follows the ensuing investigation, revealing shocking human truths along the way.  Picnic at Hanging Rock is a novel of questions, not answers.  The book is full of mystery, but never once do we ever get the sense that Lindsay feels obligated to really attempt to solve the mystery.  That’s not the point.  The book is not a whodunit.  While revelations are come to about the girls (I won’t spoil anything) the rock at the center of the entire mystery remains shrouded in mystery.  With no satisfying literal conclusion, one must search for a deeper meaning in the text.  And believe me when I say that there is no shortage of meaning to be found in these pages.  What I personally got out of the story was a striking commentary on the social stigma around female emotions and sexuality and the repression of such “uncomfortable” ideas.  The rock is freedom from repression.  When the girls first begin to explore the slopes of the rock and shed their shoes and stockings, they shed any bonds that the school, i.e. the order and structure of everyday society, has over them.  When the girls disappear, they leave behind a younger girl, Sara, who wasn’t allowed on the picnic.  Sara has an infatuation with Miranda, the most beautiful and mysterious of the vanished girls, which Miranda may or may not share.  Whether it is simply a sisterly bond or something more scandalous remains unclear, but either way, I feel like it holds great meaning. I’m not exactly sure what.  Overall, Lindsay is master of creating a huge amount of depth for her characters and ideas.  The book is so rich, we feel as though there is so much about these character’s lives that goes unexplored, as if we are just reading the tip of the iceberg.  Despite this feeling, never once do we truly desire to know more than what Lindsay presents us with.  Any more would overcomplicate things.  Reading the text as it is, we already feel voyeuristic, as if we are witnessing something forbidden and secret.  And yet Lindsay relishes that feeling, basks in it, and we can’t look away. It’s too haunting.  With beautifully crafted sentences and flowing prose, the novel is truly deserving of its status as a classic. A film based off Joan Lindsay’s novel was made during the 1970s brilliantly directed by Peter Weir.  With a haunting soundtrack and gorgeous colors and cinematography, not to mention superb acting and direction, I would also highly recommend checking that out.  It is just as good as the book, if not slightly better.