Ann Gothic

“The Abbey in the Oakwood” by Caspar David Friedrich, circa 1808. Source: Wikipedia

This painting reminds me of Wordsworth’s “The Thorn.” The barren scene brings to mind the hill, “o’ergrown/ With lichens to the very top, And hung with heavy tufts of moss, A melancholy crop” (13). Like Wordsworth’s poem, this painting evokes a remembrance of loss, of trauma, of a wretched attempt at regeneration. Like the crestfallen female that is the object of Wordsworth’s methodological gaze, I imagine a sad frequenter to this scene. A person who comes for reprieve from worldly judgement in between dusk and blackness. Like “The Thorn,” this painting is the house of ghosts. But it goes beyond that.

        In his essay “The Uncanny,” Freud defines this phenomenon as “the class of the frightening which leads back to what is known of old and long familiar” (546). For me, the experience of the uncanny is something that cannot be articulated in words. It goes beyond terror-- it occupies a realm of complete unknowing yet intimate remembering. I know that sounds confusing. It is. Freud also notes that, in our own introspection, we must select certain instances “of uncanniness which are most prominent, and . . . seeing whether they too can fairly be traced back to infantile sources” (547). To childhood.

        I decided to undergo this process. I ask myself: what excites a degree of uncanniness within me? There are a few experiences in my life which have thrust me into the experience of the uncanny. Freud mentions a personal example of a time when, strolling in Italy, he continues to stumble on the exact same piazza over and over again. This feeling of reoccurance aroused in him a state of “helplessness,” like that emerging from certain “dream-states” (548). I know exactly the feeling. 

        When I was a child, I had my first lucid dream. That is, I was aware of the fact that I was dreaming. In this dream, I lived near a forest with many animal friends who would tell me secrets and share insights. One particularly perceptive rabbit informed me there was a monster who wanted to kill and eat me the next day. She told me that the only way the beast would not kill me is if I woke up from my lucid dream and continued living out my waking life. As I was aware I was asleep, I figured I would simply wake myself up and the horror would be over. Not so easy. I could not wake my body, my consciousness, into a state of full awareness. I was stuck in my dream, entirely lucid of the fact that I was dreaming. Furthermore, my life depended on me returning to conscious reality. 

        I began panicking in my dream. I cannot even begin to explain the sensation of helplessness that arises from being psychologically and consciously stuck in a dream. It is the most terrifying sensation. You never know if you will wake up again, but you know that you have to. My rabbit friend then told me that if I were able to fall asleep within my dream, I would wake up in real life. So I tried. But I was so horrified, so disturbed, so afraid to be killed, that I tossed and turned-- again, still dreaming. I remember laying on this grassy field that was the mirror image of that of my childhood playground with a light blanket, shivering, while my animal friends tried to soothe me to sleep so my life could be saved. Yes, it was the most uncanny experience, combining Freud’s helplessness, familiarity, and terror of unknown yet childlike origins.

        I have a theory about John Polidori’s “Vampyre”: while Lord Ruthven may be creepy, nocturnal, suspicious, and unexplainable, I think he is not entirely to blame for the horrors within Polidori’s plot. Not that I want to detract from the beautifully dark, haunted aspects of this short story; rather, I want to entertain an alternative narrative: I think Aubrey is Ianthe’s killer. The text reveals Aubrey’s fascination with Ianthe, her “innocence,” unblemished virtue, and “fairy form” (93). Actually, it is the latter quality which intrigues Aubrey and me the most. Fairy-like. As in, Ianthe is almost supernatural herself. Aubrey continues to obsess over Ianthe while growing distant from and, naturally suspicious of, Lord Ruthven. What happens resembles a self-fulfilling prophecy.

        In the beginning of “The Vampyre,” Aubrey perceives Lord Ruthven as “the hero of a romance,” with his elegant appearance and precocious persona (90). After traveling with him and becoming sensitive to vampire folklore, Aubrey begins to notice “something supernatural” about Lord Ruthven (91). More intriguing is that Ianthe is the one who tells Aubrey of vampires, rendering him perceptive of this possible realm. While Aubrey becomes more and more enchanted with the supernatural charms of Ianthe, he becomes disenchanted with those of Lord Ruthven. Then he shifts to the other end of the spectrum and is terrified of him. Is this not what usually happens when we build someone up upon such precarious and lofty scaffolds in our minds?

        Anyway, now Ianthe is the object of Aubrey’s obsessive analysis. Like Lord Ruthven, however, Aubrey begins to notice flaws in her personhood. One moment, he is describing her as a fantastical, transcendental creature; the next, a “frank, infantile being,” unconscious of his affections (93). Soon after, Aubrey visits a dark forest where Ianthe claims vampires dwell. She begs him to return before sunset but he becomes so lost in his intrigue that he allows himself to lose the daylight. Lost in every sense, Aubrey stumbles on the haunted region. Previously, Aubrey observes how the loss of daylight exerts a strong influence of “rage” over people (94). This is slightly suspicious. Also, Aubrey suddenly finds “himself in contact with someone,” and is “seized” with “superhuman strength” (94). Although this literally means that a monster picked him up, when I first read this, I thought it means that Aubrey is metaphorically “seized” with an influx of strength, and utilizes this strength to “hurl” himself across the cave in anger (94). It’s almost as if the attacker and Aubrey are one supernatural being in this scene. Interestingly, the feminine screams halt in this moment. Where is the woman?  

A haphazard collage of Hoffman’s “The Sandman.”

        I love this short story. It is both deeply terrifying and genuinely hilarious and we have Clara’s raw wit to thank for the latter attribute. Like Polidori’s “Vampyre,” I interpret Hoffman’s story in two ways: the first, in which Coppelius is actually a monster, the Sandman, and is out to get Nathanael—that everything that happens to Nathanael occurs as so in reality and his reactions are entirely sane and justified. This first case would render “The Sandman” a text of pure, supernatural horror. My second interpretation is a psychoanalytic one like we discussed in class. A part of me trusts Nathanael’s environment and distrusts Nathanael’s narrative voice and perceptions. Whichever interpretation I yield to, I can’t deny that Coppelius and Olimpia leave me in goosebumps.

        I feel like there are aspects of my subconscious which create specific horror archetypes, similar to what Kristeva speaks of in her Powers of Horror essay on abjection. I’m unsure of the origin of my personal archetypes, but there are dark rooms in my psyche which are reserved for figures such as Coppelius and Olimpia. That is, a forceful, ambiguous, supernatural being who appears at night to steal, among other things, your eyes. Eyes are such a fundamental aspect of identity. In our culture, we are largely taught that what we see is what we know. By embodying the constant threat of the loss of eyesight, Coppelius metaphorically threatens Nathanael with the loss of self and sanity.

        The second figure of archetypal horror, Olimpia, represents something different but equally ominous: the uncanny. Olimpia reminds me of the “uncanny valley” effect; that is, the initial reaction of horror to a robot or mechanical creation who resembles almost perfectly a living human… but not quite. There is always something missing, and this slight discrepancy both confuses and concerns our subconscious, resulting in a feeling of terrifying familiarity and repulsion. Think of a technologically advanced robot with silicon skin, human hair, complex muscle movement, and the ability to form algorithmic sentence combinations. Nothing terrifies me more than the “uncanny valley” effect. Indeed, this phenomenon is so strong because it is a product of sublimity for the human brain: the uncanny other is neither human nor non-human. This is the feeling Olimpia evokes in me. Even more disturbing, Nathanael is not repulsed but actually seduced by her uncanny attributes.

        Why is he so fooled? Why is he annoyed and threatened by the distinctly human traits of Clara but swept into lust by the perfectly mechanical persona of Olimpia? This is the most fascinating aspect of “The Sandman” for me, as I feel like Nathanael’s denial of Clara in favor of the uncanny perfection of Olimpia is not that unnatural, especially when read within the light of contemporary Western society, which subliminally promotes physical perfection, again, again, and again. But there remains the feeling that something is missing. In the case of Olimpia, Nathanael’s brain has a blind spot. 

The Cathedral of Chartres, France is an archetypal French Gothic Cathedral. Not only does the Cathedral display impressive flying buttresses and pointed archways, it is also the stronghold of a mystical and commanding labyrinth. I remember visiting the Chartres Cathedral during a class trip to France. My reaction to the labyrinth was one of almost-horror. There was an ominous energy emanating from it yet the curved cobblestones drew me in with a primal force. Since then, I have been fascinated by labyrinths and, with their ambiguous, forceful, and alluring presence consider them to represent the Gothic. Finally, I love how Chartres Cathedral forms the crux of the town and the labyrinth, the nucleus. It’s as if the residents make it the focal point in order to uncover its secrets.  

        Reading Matthew Gregory Lewis’ The Monk makes me feel like I’m in Spain. The sensuality, the heat, the diction, the Catholic overtones... it’s a twisted kind of beautiful. Unlike A Sicilian Romance, which takes place in Italy but retains a British feel, The Monk explodes with Spanish energy and vitality. This is my favourite aspect of Lewis’ novel. To me, Spain represents the crux of the Gothic. With respect to it’s architecture, it’s acknowledgement and representation of human desire, and it’s lusty temperatures, Spain is the epicenter of supernatural happenings in the literary world. 

        More than anything, reading The Monk makes me long for Spain. I’m aware of the perversity of this, in consideration of the ghastly and ghostly elements of the novel, including but certainly not limited to rape, poisoning, specters, and dishonor. Regardless, if I read between the lines of the horror, this novel stirs up nostalgia in my spirit. The accursed church of the Capuchins, the stronghold of Ambrosio, reminds me of the Basilica de Santa Maria del Mar. European churches are different than most of those in North America. In Europe, the churches are heavy with ghosts. Heavy and black. Like damp, decaying wood. Warm stone slabs. Petrified sermons of the past. In particular, however, there’s one poignant memory that keeps popping up whenever Lewis evokes the church of the Capuchins. 

        One Barcelona morning, I decided to visit the Basilica during a mass. I slipped through the monstrous Gothic doors into the arid darkness of the church. I recoiled at the density of the burning incense, but soon felt intensely comforted. Stepping into the Basilica was like returning to the womb, not because of the religious aspect of it, but because of the energy, the warmth, the darkness, and the anonymity.I stayed in the recesses of this grotto for a few minutes, shuffling along the massive, worn cobblestones. The deep, primal, earthy organ suffused the air further. To me, this space was less about praying and more about being. ‘Being’ in the most visceral sense. It was amazing. 

        In his excerpt from Nymphomania, M.D.T. de Bienville characterizes feminine desire and sexuality as a disorder which soils the spirit of the individual and spills it’s contagious energy into her surrounding society. Bienville notes that “this disorder” of hypersexuality hits women the hardest in cases of unrequited love, when their “premature” hearts desire someone who they cannot, for many possible reasons, marry (516). Of course, this was common of the time. Desire, as Bienville asserts, leads women into a “labyrinth of horrors” from which she is unlikely to return (517).

        Okay, I think we have Bienville to thank for the incessantly lingering stigma surrounding healthy female sexuality. Bienville’s argument, among many at the time and still today, asserts the disconnection of the body from the mind. Mostly, his essay assumes that connecting with and yielding to bodily desires directly equates to a poisoning of the spirit. But not just any desire, no, only female desire. There is no mention of male desire in this essay. The only time the male is mentioned is when he is used as an innocent object towards which female lust is obtrusively directed. 

        By regarding female sexuality and the feminine pursuit of pleasure through the lens of the mind-body polarity, in other words, by catering to religious beliefs regarding self-sacrifice and bodily denial (therefore control), Bienville gets away with his argument. But the only reason female desire was popping up all over the place in this time and society is because it was so tightly suppressed and consciously denied. Bienville should at least acknowledge the funny nature of human desire: the more we deny ourselves access to something, the more we want it. The more it rears it’s reviling head. The more erect it becomes. Hello, return of the repressed. 

        So, the only thing wrong with female desire and pursuit of pleasure is that it was forbidden, veiled, and manipulated so as to be associated with human baseness. Bienville also argues that feminine sexual desire gives way to an insatiable appetite on all fronts: for bloody meat, for masturbation, for seduction in any shape or form. But maybe, just maybe, through seeking out sex, women were able to feel self-agency again. And maybe, this glimpse of self-power (which did not necessarily equate to dominating another human being) made them hungry for other modes of satiation. Hence, the consumption of delicious food and the pursuit of men. Why was this considered a normal aspect of male behaviour but was frowned upon when made manifest in the woman? By desiring, by pursuing, a woman assumes an active role in the locus of society. This is less a disorder and more a birth right.

        But as long as the pursuit of pleasure harms neither yourself or another, there is absolutely nothing evil nor base about it. On the contrary, sexual emancipation through the body can become a form of transcendence of the separated “I,” the ego. In this case, the body and the mind, and spirit, are not split but rather merge in complete surrender to the moment. To complete presence. This does not have to occur through bodily pleasures but can arise from any form of sensual activity: being in nature, cooking/tasting food, speaking your deepest truths, connecting with others. Simultaneously, pursuit itself, of anyone or anything (as long as it is respectful and is in accordance with one’s personal moral code), can teach us more about our deepest, sometimes darkest, selves than many other activities. This form of exploration, this introspection and self-evolution, becomes invaluable.

As a tribute to the setting of Matthew Gregory Lewis’ The Monk, I thought I would share some pictures I took while staying in the Gothic Quarter of Barcelona, March 2012. Click on each photo for a description, which is also pasted below: 

Picture 1) Picture 1 features a spotlighted statue flanking the Catedral De Barcelona. I snapped this picture at 2 AM, the early morning of my arrival into the city. As is customary in Barcelona, there had been a riot at the time of my arrival, ceasing all city transport. This resulted in me dragging my suitcase over the shattered glass of storefront windows for hours in search of the Gothic Quarter, and this photo is a glimpse of my victory. 

Picture 2) Picture 2 is the front of the Catedral De Barcelona in the center of the Gothic quarter. Although not too visible in this photo, the church is the epitome of Gothic architecture with respect to pointed archways and ribbed vaulting.

Picture 3) Picture 3 is down a side alley beside the cathedral, showcasing mini pointed archways.

Picture 4) Picture 4 is the inside of the Basilica de Santa Maria Del Mar. This church was incredible, showcasing incredibly high pointed archways and a dark, bygone energy that cannot be explained in words.

Picture 5) Again, the Catedral de Barcelona in the morning. I've included this shot as it seems strikingly reminiscent of what Ambrosio's morning crowd looks like in Madrid.

Picture 6) To contrast the architecture featured amongst the Gothic Quarter, I have added a shot of Gaudi's Sagrada Familia. This monolith is, according to Gaudi, a hybrid of the Gothic and the Art Nouveau.

Picture 7) Inside Sagrada Familia. Note the differences in architecture: smooth marble, rounded edges, natural intimations.

Picture 8) Again. Interestingly, the Sagrada Familia still boats pointed archways, yet they seem to be obstructed by sharp designs (aka, razor-like petals).

        ‘Beautiful’ seems the perfect word to sum up A Sicilian Romance, on the surface. Radcliffe’s prose is lush with depictions of nature and, to keep readers on edge, with plot twists which reflect the abandoned corridors of the Mazzini castle. Beyond this shallow interpretation of the novel, however, lurks something disturbing: the hidden. Although A Sicilian Romance sweeps up the reader’s attention in a myriad of mini-dramas and pursuits, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something grotesque was haunting me from between the lines. This feeling would become so intense at times that it inspired goosebumps. Even though the unexplained mystery surrounding the Mazzini castle was explained logically, albeit barbarically, I still cannot dismiss the feeling that the text itself is haunted. When I found out the truth behind the reappearing lights and the low groans, I still did not dismiss the possibility that the castle remains haunted.

        I have to ask myself: why? Why do I continue to suspect a haunting while Radcliffe wraps up the ending both sweetly and logically? I think it has to do with the way Radcliffe builds up the landscape, the characters, and the castle in the beginning. She introduces the castle as an iceberg; that is, perfect, transparent, on top while hiding shadowy recesses (the abandoned wing) and cold intent (the marquis’ malicious behavior) beneath. Of course, the iceberg is a psychological metaphor for the conscious and the unconscious; as well as Hemingway’s notorious writing style. Without getting too deep into psychoanalytic theory, I have to assert how much the Mazzini castle represents the human psyche, according to psychologists such as Carl Jung and Freud. While Emilia and Julia represent perfect complementary pairs, they unknowingly share a home with a hideously hidden secret. The secret, the hidden, is their mother who is presumed dead but instead remains half-alive, imprisoned in a damp grotto beneath the southern wing of the castle. 

        While Emilia and Julia are as the perfectly integrated, complementary conscious mind, their mother represents the unconscious which has been forcefully repressed by the marquis. I suggested earlier that I wanted to avoid a strictly psychoanalytic interpretation; however, this interpretation is simply a vehicle for me to carry on with the haunting tone of the text. In other words, I think the reason that I still believe the Mazzini castle to be haunted is because the subconscious, the dark aspects of the Mazzini legacy, will always exist. While Julia, Madam De Menon, Hippolitus, Ferdinand and the rest of the strictly ‘good’ characters of the novel have banished the darkness that is the marquis and the former marchioness; the subconscious will continue to be a force behind the actions of the characters, despite the novel’s tight (and light) resolution.