Dark Cartographies
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The Ethos Hub
‘The Gothic’
2BU
U
2013
Dark Cartographies:
Exploring Gothic Spaces
Edited by
Anya Heise-von der Lippe
Inter-Disciplinary Press
Oxford, United Kingdom
© Inter-Disciplinary Press 2013
http://www.inter-disciplinary.net/publishing/id-press/
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ISBN: 978-1-84888-149-5
First published in the United Kingdom in Paperback format in 2013. First Edition.
Table of Contents
Introduction
‘In a Glass Darkly’: Heterotopias and Gothic Spatiality
Anya Heise-von der Lippe
vii
Section 1 Gothic Structures
Anarchy in the USA: Community, Cannibalism, and
Chaos in Joe R. Lansdale and Stephen King
Kevin Corstorphine
3
‘No More America?: Gothic Terminations in Gary
Shteyngart’s Super Sad True Love Story
Geoff Hamilton
17
Psycho and the American Modern Gothic
Markku Koski
Gothic Romance Revisited: Villains on Screen and a
Twist in Convention
Dagmara Zając
29
49
Section 2 Gothic Spaces
Paris Opera as an Edifice and a Literary Haunted House
Dorota Babilas
Polymorphous Masculinities: Gothic in Fin-de-Siècle
Suburbia
Tanya Pikula
Horrified Residing: Ghost Houses in Finnish Postmodern
Horror
Tomi Sirviö
67
89
115
Section 3 Gothic Geographies
Cornwall, Venice and the Supernatural: Varying Functions
of the Gothic in Daphne du Maurier’s ‘The Birds’ and
‘Don’t Look Now’
Nil Korkut-Nayki
133
Italian Gothic Literature: The Case of Antonio Fogazzaro’s
Malombra
Maria Parrino
An Abyss of Sadness and Infinite Loss: The Postcolonial
Indian Gothic in Anuradha Roy’s An Atlas of Impossible
Longing
Lydia Saleh Rofail
Gothic Spaces in Fantasy Fiction: The Use of Place
Archetypes in Nix’s Sabriel and Other Novels
Nicola Alter
147
165
189
Introduction
‘In a Glass Darkly’: Heterotopias and Gothic Spatiality
Anya Heise-von der Lippe
‘[A]re you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such as “what
one reads about” may produce?’ 1 Henry Tilney asks Catherine Morland, the
young, naïve heroine of Jane Austen’s Gothic parody Northanger Abbey (1818). 2
His question evokes a vivid set of mental images by drawing on a literary
convention which was already well-established in the 1790s: the heroine will pass
through the ‘gloomy passages’ of the abbey (or castle) which is ‘undoubtedly
haunted’ and even the weather conditions will seem hostile, when ‘thunder so loud
as to seem to shake the edifice to its foundation will roll round the neighbouring
mountains.’ 3
If we consider Gothic spatiality in the mirror of late-eighteenth-century
parodies, the perfect Gothic space is the ruined castle or abbey, preferably in a
remote, mountainous location. The anonymous ‘Terrorist System of Novel
Writing’ (1797), which parodies the writing of Gothic novels, 4 catalogues the
indispensable architectural elements as follows:
In the first place, then, trembling reader, I would advise you to
construct an old castle, formerly of great magnitude and extent,
built in the Gothic manner, with a great number of hanging
towers, turrets, and pinnacles. One half, at least, of it must be in
ruins; dreadful chasms and gaping crevices must be hid only by
the clinging ivy; the doors must be so old, and so little used to
open, as to grate tremendously on the hinges; and there must be
in every passage an echo, and as many reverberations as there are
partitions, … . 5
Both Austen’s parody and ‘The Terrorist System of Novel Writing’ take an
ironic stance towards a literary tradition, which uses awe-inspiring architectural
and natural spaces like the castle or rugged mountainscape, not as mere settings or
backdrops for the action, but as an essential part of the overall effect of the text.
Terror and suspense are created by the flight of the heroine through the dark,
subterraneous passages of the building and the reader, attuned to the heroine’s
focalized experiences, is expected to suffer by proxy the effects of the gloomy
architecture or its rugged natural surroundings on her susceptible mind. Mirrors,
echoes and strange doubles not only play an important role in the creation of a
Gothic atmosphere, they also draw attention to the self-reflexive, meta-narrative
quality of many Gothic texts.
The Gothic experience is, from the beginning, associated with a certain
aesthetic mind-set. It is based on the philosophical theories of the time, i.e. the
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Introduction
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concept of the sublime, which associates Gothic architecture with the stimulating
effect of sublime terror and with a sense of the numinous 6 often connected to the
(supposedly) supernatural elements in the story. Edmund Burke discusses the
sinister effect created by the dark interiors of Gothic architecture in his
Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and the
Beautiful: ‘all edifices calculated to produce an idea of the sublime, ought rather to
be dark and gloomy.’ 7 The sense of deliberateness in the construction of Gothic
architecture to achieve certain aesthetic effects, which Burke describes here, was
immediately taken up by Gothic literature.
Just like the artfully devised spaces of the castle, landscapes in Gothic literature
have a tendency to feel constructed, but, once again, this constructedness serves a
purpose. As Benjamin A. Brabon argues, Ann Radcliffe’s works combine ‘the
effects of detailed panoramic surveys of space with imaginative sublime Gothic
vistas,’ creating a unique ‘Gothic cartography.’ 8 A well-established example of
this effect are the different, mood-reflecting landscapes in Radcliffe’s The
Mysteries of Udolpho (1794) - from the ‘pleasant banks of the Garonne’ 9 in the
heroine’s home country, to the ‘straight walks, square parterres, and artificial
fountains’ 10 of her aunt’s neo-classical French garden, which reflects the
restrictions placed on Emily’s life, via the treacherous charms of Venice to the
castle of Udolpho surrounded by the ‘Apennines in their darkest horrors.’ 11 Gothic
landscape and mindscape operate in tune with each other, as the descriptions of the
castle’s natural surroundings are focalised through the heroine’s perspective and
reflect her mood of ‘melancholy awe.’ 12 Emily’s arrival in Udolpho establishes a
pattern for her future experiences, cementing a Gothic convention later parodied by
Jane Austen: the heroine will be shown to a remote chamber, live in constant fear
of being raped or abducted by night, as she cannot even lock her door. She will
spend her days exploring the mysterious depths of the castle, always in fear of the
villain’s vicious temper, as she tries to escape his clutches and his castle. While
this convention originated in the female Gothic it is neither restricted to the
Radcliffean Gothic nor to the late eighteenth century. Consider, for example,
Jonathan Harker’s adventures in castle Dracula or the use of Gothic spaces in the
Harry Potter series.
It has been argued that, for the Gothic heroine, the interior space of the house
(or castle) doubles as a trap: along with safety, marriage and family it also
symbolizes patriarchal control and a lack of personal freedom. Sandra Gilbert and
Susan Gubar argue that the Gothic heroine often experiences the interior space of
the house in terms of ‘imprisonment and escape,’ 13 rather than ascribe to it the
essentially positive connotations of ‘our house’ as ‘our corner of the world’ 14
outlined by Gaston Bachelard in The Poetics of Space (1958). Descriptions of
female Gothic 15 spaces reflect this sense of entrapment. A prominent example of
this is Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s semi-autobiographical novella The Yellow
Wallpaper. Confined to an attic room while recovering from postpartum
Anya Heise-von der Lippe
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depression, Gilman’s mentally unstable heroine begins to see creeping women
behind the ‘bars’ 16 of the hideous wallpaper and claws at the walls in an attempt to
both free her double and ‘get out.’ 17 In Gilman’s story, the sense of confinement is
created by the combined hegemonic structures of marriage and the medical
profession, but the horror clearly comes from the inside: it is lodged both in the
treacherously familiar space of the home and in the heroine’s psyche. This
contributes to an ambiguity of perception which is typical for the female Gothic
heroine: faced with the seemingly supernatural she can never be entirely sure of
her own judgment. However, the reality status of the supernatural elements (which
may later be explained away in an often unsatisfactory resolution) is far less
important for the Gothic than the atmosphere of instability and the psychological
effect created by the heroine’s surroundings. While this pattern of representing
Gothic spaces as essentially threatening, claustrophobic and destabilising is typical
of the female Gothic, many postmodern Gothic texts seem to draw on the same
kind of symbolic spatiality.
As central plot motors, Gothic spaces and places mirror and simultaneously
influence the characters’ psychological state(s). In consequence, the space/time of
the Gothic is often more symbolic than modelled on a particular historical location
or epoch. The 1790s Gothic, for example, is notorious for its picturesque use of
medieval ruins, often set in a time frame which could never justify their apparent
state of decay. Moreover, Horace Walpole’s claim, that he began to write The
Castle of Otranto based on a dream about a medieval castle, situates the
quintessential Gothic space of the castle firmly in the realm of the symbolic:
I waked one morning in the beginning of last June, from a dream,
of which all I could recover was, that I had thought myself in an
ancient castle (a very natural dream for a head filled like mine
with Gothic story), and that on the uppermost banister of a great
staircase I saw a gigantic hand in armour. In the evening I sat
down and began to write, without knowing the least what I
intended to say or relate. 18
Clearly, Walpole’s castle is not an empty space: it reverberates with meaningful
echoes of an imaginary Gothic past, stoked by an antiquarian taste for everything
medieval. As Fred Botting argues, Gothic spaces serve as mirror images of society:
In recreating the architecture of an essentially fictitious, chivalrous past, the Gothic
also creates an inverted historical heterotopia of the present:
“Gothic” functions as the mirror of eighteenth-century mores and
values: a reconstruction of the past as the inverted, mirror image
of the present, its darkness allows the reason and virtue of the
present a brighter reflection.’ 19
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Introduction
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As Botting points out, Gothic romance does not offer a mimetic image of
contemporary or even past society, nor does it provide an exemplary model of
conduct, as offered by the realist tradition of the novel: ‘The Gothic mirror offers a
heterogeneous and conflicting reflection of the present.’ 20 Drawing on Foucault’s
concept of ‘heterotopias,’ Botting argues:
For Foucault, a heterotopia, in contrast to a utopia, is a “countersite”, an “effectively enacted utopia” in which the real sites of
culture are “represented, contested, inverted”. The main features
of Gothic fiction, in neoclassical terms, are heterotopias: the wild
landscapes, the ruined castles and abbeys, the dark, dank
labyrinths, the marvellous, supernatural events, distant times and
customs are not only excluded from the Augustan social world
but introduce the passions, desires and excitements it
suppressed. 21
In the nineteenth- and twentieth-century Gothic, spaces often seem just as
artificial or constructed as the fictional ruins and ‘Gothic cartography’ of the
1790s. They are designed to create a particular effect (of Gothic terror) or a
specific cultural mind-set. Gothic heterotopias are mirror-spaces - reflecting both
the particular culture that created them and, more generally, a cultural need to
create such dark mirror-spaces.
Interestingly, most of the examples that Foucault discusses in ‘Of Other
Spaces’ (1967) - the cemetery, the various heterotopias of deviation, like
psychiatric hospitals and prisons, as well as the theatre or cinema, the motel room
and, maybe to a lesser degree, the (often labyrinthine) garden 22 - have at one point
or another been represented and/or read as Gothic spaces. Several of the chapters in
this volume address examples like the (drive-in) cinema, the opera house or the
motel. Even the heterotopias of compensation, which Foucault describes as highly
restrictive, possess a Gothic potential. Heterotopias of compensation ‘create a
space that is other, another real space, as perfect, as meticulous, as well arranged as
ours is messy, ill constructed, and jumbled.’ 23 The (seemingly) well-regulated
space of suburbia, so different from the chaotic city centre, can be read as
heterotopias of compensation. With their hidden potential for havoc under a
smooth, regulated surface they are heterotopias of compensation gone horribly
wrong.
As the various contributions to this volume suggest, the Gothic seems to have a
unique potential to explore these mirror spaces. After all: ‘Fiction itself, as much as
the landscapes and cultures it represents, operates in the manner of a
heterotopia.’ 24
Anya Heise-von der Lippe
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Although Foucault does not discuss heterotopias in terms of Freudian terminology,
his description of the estranging effect of the heterotopia par excellence, the space
of the mirror, is reminiscent of Freud’s concept of the uncanny. 25 As Foucault
argues:
The mirror functions as a heterotopia in this respect: it makes this
place that I occupy at the moment when I look at myself in the
glass at once absolutely real, connected with all the space that
surrounds it, and absolutely unreal, since in order to be perceived
it has to pass through this virtual point which is over there. 26
This simultaneous existence of the real and the unreal is uncanny, as it has the
potential to render the familiar space, which I am occupying while looking into the
mirror, suddenly strange. An example of this sudden estrangement of the familiar
can be found in Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu’s story ‘Green Tea’ from In a Glass
Darkly (1872):
I was running the head of my pencil-case along the line as I read
it, and something caused me to raise my eyes.
Directly before me was one of the mirrors I have mentioned, in
which I saw reflected the tall shape of my friend Mr Jennings,
leaning over my shoulder, and reading the page at which I was
busy, and with a face so dark and wild that I should hardly have
known him. 27
The familiar face of the friend is perceived as strange in the mirror. Of course,
the strangeness is not created by the mirror alone, but the mirror seems to double or
reflect the feeling of estrangement, which Le Fanu’s protagonist and narrator Dr
Hesselius experiences. The complex construction of reading and unreadable figures
and their reflection in this scene creates an uncanny atmosphere.
Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper creates a similar effect in the strange doubling
of its heroine both inside and outside of the unreal mirror-space of the curiously
mutable wallpaper. Indeed, the doppelganger in the ambiguous space of the dark
glass seems to be a prominent trope of the female Gothic. The dark double,
mirrored and multiplied, is also a central image in Margaret Atwood’s postmodern
Gothic novel Lady Oracle. Atwood’s heroine, Joan Foster, a writer of Gothic
romance novels, experiments with automatic writing, using the trance-inducing
combination of a three-sided mirror and a candle:
I stared at the candle in the mirror, the mirror candle. There was
more than one candle, there were three, and I knew that if I
moved the two sides of the mirror toward me there would be an
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infinite number of candles, extending in a line as far as I could
see. … The room seemed very dark, darker than it had before;
the candle was very bright, I was holding it in my hand and
walking along a corridor; I was descending, I turned a corner. I
was going to find someone. I needed to find someone. 28
The mirror space is, thus, a space of discovery, a passage into a different world
or a different mental state, which can and must be entered and explored. However,
for Atwood’s protagonist this is a treacherous journey, as she loses herself in the
dark space of the mirror, while looking for and writing about the other woman she
can ‘almost see’ there: ‘she lived under the earth somewhere, or inside something,
a cave or a huge building.’ 29 This doubling of the (fictional) author and her
protagonist and the reference to the cave metaphor 30 - another potent image of
reflection - make this a psychological as well as a highly symbolical journey. Joan
Foster will enter the mirror space over and over again in an attempt to discover ‘the
truth or word or person that was mine.’ 31 However, her frustrated attempts to make
sense of her mirror-self also have a reflection in the ‘real’ world of the protagonist:
by recreating her own personality in different incarnations, hiding her former
selves and even faking her own death to leave the country for Italy, Joan Foster
recreates a similar identity quest outside the Gothic heterotopia of the mirror. Her
various identities - both fake and fictional - merge in her mind, creating an
uncanny effect of doubling and a sense of haunting and paranoia.
Lady Oracle can be read as Gothic parody, based on Joan Foster’s writing of
Gothic pastiche and the meta-narrative commentary the novel makes about writing
as a psychological experiment. However, the text also works as a dark heterotopian
mirror of contemporary culture, and the roles this culture offers to women in
particular.
Heterotopias possess a potential to engage us in a critical re-assessment of what
we perceive as real. As Trent H. Hartmann argues concerning Foucault’s mirrorheterotopias:
The mirror is exemplary insofar as it can only function in relation
to that which it reflects, that is, the very space you're occupying
when you look into it. The effect it produces is something
uncanny, opening up the possibility for critically re-engaging
what was once familiar. 32
By looking into the dark mirror of the Gothic text, we become aware of the
strange and uncanny aspect of familiar spaces. This estrangement of the familiar is
a central element of the Gothic - not just of the eighteenth- and nineteenth-, but
also of the twentieth- and twenty-first-century varieties, which no longer rely on
Anya Heise-von der Lippe
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creating Gothic castles in temporally and spatially remote locations to hold a
mirror up to contemporary culture.
The chapters in this volume explore the modern and postmodern Gothic’s
fascination with heterotopias - places which may be firmly rooted in the here and
now, but possess the potential to raise critical questions when they are suddenly
perceived as ‘Other.’ They are enquiries into the nature of Gothic spatiality,
exploring Gothic spaces from Italy and Cornwall to small-town USA, looking at
Gothic locations like the London suburbs and a remote mining town in the Indian
jungle, or Gothic buildings like the Paris opera, the haunted high-rise buildings of
Finnish suburbia, or a semi-abandoned North-American motel. However, it is not
necessarily only the Gothic places and localities that interest the contributors, but
also Gothic mind-sets like those evoked by the spatial conditions of enclosed,
segregated, remote, lonely, haunted, strange, suddenly unfamiliar spaces.
Section 1, ‘Gothic Structures,’ brings together four chapters focusing on Gothic
spaces and their effect on and interaction with the Gothic psyche. While discussing
different media - literature, the visual arts and film - from different periods of the
twentieth- and twenty-first century, the four chapters are united by their focus on
the American Gothic and the various ways in which it imagines the horror within.
In ‘Anarchy in the USA: Community, Cannibalism, and Chaos in Joe R.
Lansdale and Stephen King,’ Kevin Corstorphine explores spatiality and the
psychological and social results of enforced boundaries in the contemporary
Gothic. The texts under discussion are Stephen King’s Under the Dome (2009) and
John R. Lansdale’s The Drive-In (1988). Both novels focus on the influence that
close spatial confinement (to a small town or a drive-in movie theatre,
respectively) will have on the psyche of the characters, presenting the highly
allegorical enclosed space as a dark mirror image of American society.
Corstorphine argues, that ‘both novels use their trapped communities as a
microcosm of society and explicitly project a very Gothic vision of human nature
onto their subjects.’ 33 While the enforced boundaries may seem contrived and
artificial, the ensuing reactions of the trapped humans are far more interesting than
the reason for their entrapment, demonstrating ‘that the horror has always been
within.’ 34
Geoff Hamilton’s chapter ‘“No More America?”: Gothic Terminations in Gary
Shteyngart’s Super Sad True Love Story’ discusses a similar phenomenon - that of
the destruction of an America utopia from within - by perversion of its own
cultural values. Shteyngart’s dystopian novel shows the corruption of the American
code of values centred around ‘the freedom to recreate the self, the newness of
social arrangements and economic opportunities it presents, and the democratic
openness of its society to newcomers.’ Drawing on elements of the Gothic in the
American imaginary, Hamilton argues that ‘what Shteyngart charts here, in fact, is
the apocalyptic transformation of America from its originary status as a pastoral
paradise ... to a Gothic dystopia.’ 35 Super Sad True Love Story, the chapter argues,
xiv
Introduction
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is a representation of ‘a very late, “undead” stage in the “life cycle” of America’s
foundational ideals, and a shift from pastoral optimism to Gothic horror.’ 36
Perversely but also consistently, the dystopian nightmare shown in the novel comes
straight from the heart(land) of the American dream.
Markku Koski’s chapter, ‘Psycho and the American Modern Gothic,’ reads
Hitchcock’s visual masterpiece in the context of art history, comparing it to the
empty, almost nightmarish, cityscapes and ‘lonely crowds’ painted by Edward
Hopper, as well as the bleak, and ultimately horrific, domesticity of Grant Wood’s
American Gothic. Focusing on architectural as well as aesthetic and psychological
spaces, Koski argues for a reading of Psycho as modern American Gothic: the film
reflects the modern Gothic’s tendencies towards humour and irony, while holding
up a mirror to American society. Its central Gothic spaces - the old mansion and
the seedy motel - provide much more than a mere backdrop for the murder plot: as
Koski argues, ‘they are at the same time real and unreal,’ 37 and thus perfect mirrorheterotopias. As prefigured by Freud’s ‘uncanny’ at the beginning of the twentieth
century, the modern American Gothic draws its power from the ‘un-homely’ - the
strangeness in the familiar, or the darkness from within. As Mark Edmundson has
argued: ‘In showing us that our psyches are thoroughly haunted, Sigmund Freud
gives us what I call internalized Gothic.’ 38
In the section’s concluding chapter, ‘Gothic Romance Revisited: Villains on
Screen and a Twist in Convention,’ Dagmara Zając reads the Gothic with Michael
Gamer as ‘a site crossing the genres, … across forms and media,’ 39 and draws on
Leslie Fiedler’s description of the typical Gothic plot as a ‘dream landscape,’ 40 in
which the relationship between the Gothic maiden and her prosecutor is realised.
Her chapter discusses the American horror film of the 1930s as a form of Gothic
revival (in a long tradition of such re-writings and re-creations of familiar motifs).
Tracing what could be termed our ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ 41 back to similar
tendencies in various Gothic classics, which were, however, suppressed by the
eighteenth-century Gothic’s need for closure and clear moral divisions, Zając
argues, that our involvement with the dark imaginary is, in fact, as old as literature
or storytelling and that humanity has always been fascinated by the darkness
within. Maybe the only modern innovation lies in the possibility to express this
fascination in the language of psychology. The imaginary space of the ‘locus
horridus’ - the place/space of horror - seems to be firmly rooted in our heads.
In Section 2, ‘Gothic Spaces,’ three chapters explore the literary manifestations
of a highly symbolic kind of spatiality that emerged in the nineteenth-century
context of the growing city and its suburban sprawl: both the London suburbs and
the Paris Opera House reflect the tastes and the struggle for class identity of an
emerging upper middle class, which actively constructed its own, often inherently
flawed, heterotopias. By focusing on haunted houses in twentieth-century suburbia
the third chapter in this section explores the after-life of this Gothic space,
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exploring the manifestation of the suburban haunted house in Finnish horror
novels.
In her chapter on ‘Paris Opera as an Edifice and a Literary Haunted House’
Dorota Babilas discusses Gaston Leroux’s novel The Phantom of the Opera (1910)
as a literary homage to Charles Garnier’s architectural masterpiece, the Paris Opera
House. As Babilas argues, the Palais Garnier can be read as a case of Wagnerian
‘Gesamtkunstwerk,’ and Leroux’s novel reflects the buildings eclectic combination
of various styles and aesthetic sources by offering a broad kaleidoscope of
historical and biographical references in a framework of literary invention. While
the text is devoid of supernatural elements, there is nevertheless a strong sense of
haunting evoked by the various intermedial and historical references - a haunting
which the chapter meticulously traces back to Garnier’s Opera House and the
people who were involved in its construction and success as a theatrical space. As
Babilas argues, Leroux’s novel not only gives the reader a guided tour of the Opera
House, exploring spaces from attic to cellar which were never accessible to the
public, but it also ‘offers one of literature’s great cityscapes - situated between the
reality of nineteenth-century Paris and the ghostly realm of Gothic imagination.’ 42
Tanya Pikula’s chapter on ‘Polymorphous Masculinities: Gothic in Fin-deSiècle Suburbia’ explores the dark abyss behind the seemingly smooth and
heteronormative surface of London’s late nineteenth-century suburbs. Employing
Deleuze and Guattari’s concept of ‘smooth’ and ‘striated’ spaces ‘to identify
various degrees and combinations of liberatory and repressive energies occasioned
by suburban-related realities and discourses,’ 43 the chapter explores the state of the
suburban cityscape at a particular historical moment in its development, showing
that the original layout of the suburbs - guaranteeing the privacy of their
inhabitants to pursue their bourgeois ideals - ultimately opens up a space for the
exploration of ‘various types of alternative lifestyles,’ once the suburbs become
affordable for the lower-middle and working class. As Pikula argues, the
possibility to explore an alternative lifestyle in the privacy of a suburban home is
‘one of the most disturbing aspects of democratised suburbia.’ 44 The two literary
examples discussed in the chapter, Arthur Conan Doyle’s ‘The Man with the
Twisted Lip’ (1891) and Arthur Machen’s ‘The Novel of the Iron Maiden’ (1895),
both explore the deviant potential of life behind the suburban masks to the limits:
Doyle’s story of a seemingly respectable suburban finance capitalist who lives a
double life as a professional beggar, and Machen’s tale of a gentleman club
member’s macabre suburban hobby of collecting instruments of torture ‘reflect the
late Victorian interest in suburban degeneration-related mysteries and horrors.’ 45
The third chapter in this section, Tomi Sirviö’s exploration of ‘Horrified
Residing: Ghost Houses in Finnish Postmodern Horror’ focuses on the cultural
implications of the ghost house in the novels of Finnish horror writer Kari
Nenonen. Set in the bleak surroundings of postmodern suburbia in Finland, the
novels literally show the after-life of the suburban dreams of the bourgeoisie
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discussed in the previous chapter. Reading Nenonen’s novels, which have never
been translated into English, as examples of postmodern horror, Sirviö explores the
connection between the ghost house as a quintessential suburban space and a
concept of communality, which, it seems, can only be established among the dead
inhabitants of the grotesque ghost houses. Like the bodies of their inhabitants, the
block of flats in Nenonen’s He Who Comes Last Is Death (1988) ‘can also be
interpreted as consisting of worms’ - and this is just one example of the extreme
corporeality of ghosts in what the chapter describes as ‘bodily hell.’ Sirviö
compares the concept of communality in Nenonen’s novels to similar motifs in
Boris Hurtta’s novel You Can’t Prevent the Coming of the Snow (1991), Clive
Barker’s short story ‘In the Hills, the Cities’ (1984) and Brian Yuzna’s film Society
(1992), concluding that Nenonen’s communities are unique in their ambivalence
and their reflection of Finnish society and that ‘the essence of community in the
urban environment is already ghostly.’ 46
Section 3 befittingly begins in Paris and ends in suburban Finland, proving that
Gothic spaces are not restricted to Anglophone countries or literatures. In their
Routledge Companion to the Gothic Catherine Spooner and Emma McEvoy make
a strong point for the transferability of Gothic spaces to other ‘locations’ 47 - i.e., to
the postcolonial spaces haunted by an oppressive past. The chapters in Section 3,
‘Gothic Geographies,’ discover Gothic spaces in a broad variety of locations, from
a small town in Cornwall to Venice and a castle in the Italian landscape to the
Indian jungle and the imaginary spaces of young adult fantasy fiction from
Australia. What unites these chapters is their common focus on the Gothic as a
spatial principle based on and reflecting a specific literary and cultural tradition.
In the opening chapter of this section, ‘Cornwall, Venice and the Supernatural:
Varying Functions of the Gothic in Daphne du Maurier’s “The Birds” and “Don’t
Look Now,”’ Nil Korkut-Nayki discusses the importance of Venice and Cornwall
as settings and plot elements in Daphne du Maurier’s short stories ‘Don’t Look
Now’ (1971) and ‘The Birds’ (1952). Comparing both stories to their popular film
versions by Alfred Hitchcock and Nicolas Roeg, Korkut-Nayki argues that ‘the
Gothic elements in these stories function differently owing to differing treatments
of place and the supernatural.’ 48 Todorov’s concept of the fantastic serves as the
theoretical basis for this distinction: ‘The Birds’ quickly dissolves the moment of
hesitation connected with the fantastic, when both protagonists and readers have to
accept the mass bird attacks as caused by supernatural forces and, thus, an instance
of the marvellous. Contrary to the development in ‘The Birds’ the element of
uncertainty is held until the end in ‘Don’t Look Now,’ partly based on the gloomy
and labyrinthine structure of Venice as a setting and partly on the uncertain
experiences of John, the main protagonist. As Korkut-Nayki argues, the reader
shares John’s uncertainties about his experiences even to his death and the end of
the story, as he continuously loses his way in the streets of Venice. Korkut-Nayki
shows that both stories operate differently: ‘While the unquestioning tone of “The
Anya Heise-von der Lippe
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Birds” evokes a sense of doom or apocalypse, the endless scepticism in “Don’t
Look Now” creates a much different effect, emphasising struggle in the face of the
unknown and raising questions concerning the nature of reality.’ 49 In both stories,
the perception of fantastic elements is intricately connected with a sense of place.
Maria Parrino’s chapter on ‘Italian Gothic Literature: the Case of Antonio
Fogazzaro’s Malombra’ explores one of the central spaces of the Gothic tradition,
the Italian castle (or ‘Palazzo’) and its surrounding nature, albeit from the
innovative angle of the Italian Gothic. By highlighting the Gothic elements in
Fogazzaro’s novel, Parrino shows that the author was indeed, as he claimed,
influenced by English Gothic and sensational novels and that his novel can be read
as part of the Gothic tradition. As Parrino argues, nineteenth-century
Gothic/sensational fiction is characterised by ‘a relentless search for the truth, an
obsessive need to revenge injustice and a strong desire to reinstate order to a
disrupted arrangement’ 50 - all elements strongly present in Malombra. Gothic
spaces like the Palazzo and the ominous natural space of the ‘Orrido’ play an
important role in the development of the story, to the extent of influencing the
protagonists and even operating on their own: ‘In Malombra the non-human setting
not only is not left in the background, but it can do without the human characters
themselves and even exclude them.’ 51 Contrary to many English Gothic novelists,
who merely use Italy as a romantic setting or even, as Brabon argues, as a space on
which they could project an English landscape, 52 Fogazzaro’s novel creates a
unique Italian Gothic landscape.
In her chapter ‘An Abyss of Sadness and Infinite Loss: The Postcolonial Indian
Gothic in Anuradha Roy’s An Atlas of Impossible Longing’ Lydia Saleh Rofail
explores the geography of the Indian Gothic. As Saleh Rofail points out, ‘the
Indian Gothic aesthetic reveals how Indian society attempts to negotiate an identity
away from the haunting spectre of the mythological past, far from the pain of the
Imperial past, and into a contemporary, postcolonial landscape.’ 53 Haunted by the
colonial echoes in both past and present, the characters in An Atlas of Impossible
Longing re-enact, over several generations, a plot full of Gothic elements like
locked-away madwomen, dead mothers, transgressions and family secrets in a
hostile (jungle-)landscape, which is responsible for more than one untimely death.
However, as Saleh Rofail argues, the Indian Gothic reconfigures and adapts these
Romantic Gothic elements to an Indian context. Drawing on David Punter’s
concept of the Gothic as a textual negotiation with history, which is apocalyptic in
its vision, 54 the novel explores ‘the traumatic legacies of Indian history, etched into
an ominous terrain in which the lives of the characters are doomed.’
In this volume’s concluding chapter Nicola Alter examines ‘Gothic Spaces in
Fantasy Fiction: The Use of Place Archetypes in Nix’s Sabriel and Other Novels.’
Arguing from the combined point of view of literary production and interpretation,
and with a theoretical background in reader-response criticism, Alter explores the
use of Gothic place archetypes which ‘tap into a shared knowledge of imagery,
xviii
Introduction
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themes and ideas from Gothic literature and film.’ 55 Exploring Gothic spaces like
the castle, the graveyard, dark waters and sublime wildernesses, Alter shows how a
few words of description can evoke a whole set of associations, allowing the reader
to re-create an archetypal landscape in their mind’s eye without the necessity for
the lengthy descriptions so characteristic of the eighteenth-century Gothic. Of
course, this mechanism is only possible based on a previous knowledge of a long
literary/medial tradition. As Alter points out, ‘these settings have outlived the
original eighteenth-century Gothic novels that entrenched them, finding their way
into various other genres and media.’ 56 Their shared ‘core Gothic atmosphere’
suggests ‘a historic and unsettling landscape devoid of light, teeming with the souls
of the dead or sinister supernatural beings, and brimming with concealed secrets.
These spaces are always frightening to inhabit, ….’ 57 The Gothic imaginary, it
seems, is hardwired to the dark dreamscapes in our heads.
As the chapters in this volume demonstrate, Gothic spaces are indeed most
frightening to inhabit, but the fear they create is also part of their critical potential.
Gothic heterotopias help us make sense of the cultural spaces they mirror. The
variety of Gothic spaces discussed in this volume demonstrates the amazing
adaptability of the Gothic across different times, geographical locations and media.
What unites these chapters is a common focus on Gothic spaces as dark mirrors of
specific cultural mind-sets.
The volume was conceived at Inter-Disciplinary.Net’s second conference on
‘The Gothic - Exploring Critical Issues’ in Warsaw, which brought together
scholars from a variety of countries and backgrounds. In fact, Warsaw itself as a
teeming metropolis with a socialist past still visible in its urban architecture and the
strangely heterotopian space of the hotel and the neighbouring shopping mall (so
thoroughly North-American in style as to explode any sense of cultural geography)
contributed - at least for me - to the impression of a fitting locale in which to
discuss Gothic heterotopias. While the overall focus of the conference was not
limited to Gothic spatiality, a remarkable number of papers revolved around the
topic in its various incarnations - a fact which seems to indicate that this is an area
of ongoing scholarly interest. 58
Some of the excellent conference papers and fruitful discussions evolved into
the chapters in this volume, which brings together twelve scholars from almost as
many countries, who contribute their unique perspectives on Gothic spaces and
places, showing, that, while the Gothic is still firmly rooted in an Anglophone
literary tradition, it has become a globalised concept inhabiting a variety of
geographies on the mental map of contemporary cultures.
The Gothic effect combines, as Chris Baldick argues, ‘a fearful sense of
inheritance in time with a claustrophobic sense of enclosure in space, these two
dimensions reinforcing one another to produce an impression of sickening descent
into disintegration.’ 59 The mirror-spaces of Gothic heterotopias visualise this
Anya Heise-von der Lippe
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moment of disintegration, allowing us a glimpse into the uncanny recesses of our
own cultural subconscious.
So, ‘are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that’ Gothic spaces ‘such as
“what one reads about” may produce? - Have you a stout heart? - Nerves fit for
sliding panels and tapestry?’ 60 Then, I bid you welcome.
Notes
1
Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey (London, Vermont: Everyman, 1994), 122.
Although Northanger Abbey was not published until 1817/18, it has been
established that the novel was written in the late 1790s, probably 1798 or 1799.
Austen made a first attempt to sell it to a publisher in 1803.
3
Ibid., 122f.
4
The anonymous author of The Terrorist System of Novel Writing claims: ‘I think I
can lay down a few plain and simple rules, by observing which any man or maid, I
mean, ladies’ maid, may be able to compose from four to six uncommonly
interesting volumes, that shall claim the admiration of all true believers in the
marvellous.’ Anon., ‘The Terrorist System of Novel Writing’, quoted in: Angela
Wright, Gothic Fiction. A Reader’s Guide to Essential Criticism (Basingstoke:
Palgrave, 2007), 22.
5
Ibid., 22 (Italics in the original).
6
See Immanuel Kant: Kritik der Urteilskraft (1790).
7
Edmund Burke, A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the
Sublime and the Beautiful (1757), 72.
8
Benjamin A. Brabon, ‘Surveying Ann Radcliffe’s Gothic Landscapes’, Literature
Compass 3, No. 4 (2006): 840.
9
Ann Radcliffe, The Mysteries of Udolpho (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1980), 1.
10
Ibid., 120.
11
Ibid., 226.
12
Ibid., 226.
13
Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar, The Madwoman in the Attic (New Haven and
London: Yale University Press, 2000), 85.
14
Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. Maria Jolas (Boston, MA:
Beacon Press, 1994), 4.
15
I am using the term ‘female Gothic’ here as delineating a certain heroine-centred
plot-structure, rather than a focus on the gender of the author, as originally
suggested by Ellen Moers in Literary Women (1976). A more thorough discussion
of the development of the term can be found in Andrew Smith and Diana
Wallace’s ‘Introduction - Defining the Female Gothic’, in The Female Gothic:
New Directions (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2009).
2
xx
Introduction
__________________________________________________________________
16
Charlotte Perkins Gilman, The Yellow Wallpaper and Other Writings (New
York: Bantam, 2006), 12.
17
Ibid., 10.
18
Horace Walpole, ‘Letter from Horace Walpole to the Reverend William Cole, 9
March 1765’, in Strawberry Hill, Anna Chalcraft and Judith Viscardi (London:
Frances Lincoln, 2007), 40.
19
Fred Botting, ‘In Gothic Darkly: Heterotopia, History, Culture’, in A Companion
to the Gothic, ed. David Punter (Malden, MA, Oxford: Blackwell, 2001), 5.
20
Ibid., 8.
21
Ibid.
22
Michel Foucault, ‘Of Other Spaces’, accessed January 8, 2012,
http://foucault.info/documents/heteroTopia/foucault.heteroTopia.en.html.
23
Ibid.
24
Botting, ‘In Gothic Darkly’, 10.
25
According to Fran Tonkiss, each of Foucault’s heterotopias possesses an aspect
of the uncanny. See Fran Tonkiss, Space, the City and Social Theory: Social
Relations and Urban Forms (Cambridge: Polity, 2005), 133.
26
Foucault, ‘Of Other Spaces’.
27
Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, ‘Green Tea’, in Carmilla and 12 Other Classic Tales
of Mystery (New York: Penguin, 1996), 353.
28
Margaret Atwood, Lady Oracle (London: Virago, 2001), 220.
29
Ibid., 222.
30
Of course the cave can also be read with Plato as a metaphor of our limited
vision of reality, which we can only ever perceive as a shadow on the wall of the
cave. See Allan Silverman, ‘Plato’s Middle Period Metaphysics and
Epistemology’, in The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter 2008 Edition),
N.
Zalta,
accessed
28
January
2012,
ed.
Edward
http://plato.stanford.edu/archives/win2008/entries/plato-metaphysics/.
31
Ibid., 221.
32
Trent H. Hartmann, ‘message ## 10606,’ Foucault-L mail-list, accessed January
8, 2012, http://foucault.info/Foucault-L/archive/msg10606.shtml.
33
Kevin Corstorphine, ‘Anarchy in the USA: Community, Cannibalism, and Chaos
in Joe R. Lansdale and Stephen King’, in this volume, 3.
34
Ibid.
35
Geoff Hamilton, ‘“No More America?”: Gothic Terminations in Gary
Shteyngart’s Super Sad True Love Story’, in this volume, 19.
36
Ibid., 22.
37
Markku Koski, ‘Psycho and the American Modern Gothic’, in this volume, 34.
38
Mark Edmundson, Nightmare on Main Street (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press, 1999), 7.
Anya Heise-von der Lippe
xxi
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39
Quoted in Dagmara Zając, ‘Gothic Romance Revisited: Villains on Screen and a
Twist in Convention’, in this volume, 50.
40
Quoted in Zając, ‘Gothic Romance Revisited: Villains on Screen and a Twist in
Convention’, 54.
41
The Rolling Stones, ‘Sympathy for the Devil’, Beggars Banquet (London:
Decca, 1968).
42
Dorota Babilas, ‘Paris Opera as an Edifice and a Literary Haunted House’, in
this volume, 70
43
Tanya Pikula, ‘Polymorphous Masculinities: Gothic in Fin-de-Siècle Suburbia’,
in this volume, 90.
44
Ibid., 95.
45
Ibid.
46
Tomi Sirviö, ‘Horrified Residing: Ghost Houses in Finnish Postmodern Horror’,
in this volume, 126.
47
Catherine Spooner and Emma McEvoy, ‘Gothic Locations’, in Routledge
Companion to the Gothic, eds. Catherine Spooner and Emma McEvoy (London:
Routledge, 2007), 51f.
48
Nil Korkut-Nayki, ‘Cornwall, Venice and the Supernatural: Varying Functions
of the Gothic in Daphne du Maurier’s “The Birds” and “Don’t Look Now”’, in this
volume, 134.
49
Ibid., 133.
50
Maria Parrino, ‘Italian Gothic Literature: The Case of Antonio Fogazzaro’s
Malombra’, in this volume, 150.
51
Ibid., 158.
52
Brabon, ‘Surveying Ann Radcliffe’s Gothic Landscapes’, 842.
53
Lydia Saleh Rofail, ‘An Abyss of Sadness and Infinite Loss: The Postcolonial
Indian Gothic in Anuradha Roy’s An Atlas of Impossible Longing’, in this volume,
166.
54
David Punter, The Literature of Terror: A History of Gothic Fictions from 1765
to the Present Day (London, New York: Longman, 1980), 5-6.
55
Nicola Alter, ‘Gothic Spaces in Fantasy Fiction: The Use of Place Archetypes in
Nix’s Sabriel and Other Novels’, in this volume, 189.
56
Ibid., 203.
57
Ibid., 204.
58
This is also supported by the recent publication of London Gothic edited by
Lawrence Phillips and Anne Witchard (London: Continuum, 2010).
59
Chris Baldick, The Oxford Book of Gothic Tales (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1993), xix.
60
Austen, Northanger Abbey, 122.
xxii
Introduction
__________________________________________________________________
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xxiv
Introduction
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March 1765’. In Strawberry Hill. Anna Chalcraft and Judith Viscardi. London:
Frances Lincoln, 2007.
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xxv
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Zając, Dagmara. ‘Gothic Romance Revisited: Villains on Screen and a Twist in
Convention’. In Dark Cartographies: Exploring Gothic Spaces, edited by Anya
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