WHAT IS A GOTH?

• Goths aim to be individuals but share a distinctive uniform, common tastes and attitude.
• They are often sullen, dress in black and red with silver or stainless steel and leather adornments and body piercings.
• They carry around a lot of metal on their clothes and bodies. They wear heavy military style boots, fishnet tights or stockings if they are female and distressed clothing.
• Their rooms are dark caves full of the sounds of Siouxsie and the Banshees, the Cure, the Mission, Cradle of Filth, Sisters of Mercy and other guitar bands.
• They rarely speak to adults but their language tends towards estuary although many retain their regional accents.

Good to know those sullen boys I see wearing fishnet aren’t goth. Maybe they’re ninjas!

Plotwise, too: A mere eight pages in, the central character, a knight named Sir Philip Harclay, meets a peasant boy name Edmund Twyford:

The young gentlemen came up, and paid their respects to him; he apologized for intruding upon their sports, and asked which was the victor? upon which the youth he spoke to beckoned to another, who immediately advanced, and made his obeisance: As he drew near, Sir Philip fixed his eyes upon him, with so much attention, that he seemed not to observe his courtesy and address.

And you KNOW Sir Philip reacted this way because the youth looks so much like his dead friend, one-time Baron of the local castle (believed to have died in battle but doubtless assassinated and usurped). Edmund will turn out to be the true heir, blood will triumph over villainy, etc.

I’m interested in the use of the term “gothic” in the subtitle. There are accepted definitions of “gothic”, but for fun I’ve been allowing some of those definitions to accrue as I make my way ever so slowly through the literature. I wondered if there might be a contemporary definition, but Dr. Johnson didn’t deign to include the word in his Dictionary, so here’s the next best thing, from the OED Online:

3. †a. Belonging to, or characteristic of, the Middle Ages; mediæval, ‘romantic’, as opposed to classical. In early use chiefly with reprobation: Belonging to the ‘dark ages’ (cf. sense 4). Obs. [Cf. F. les siècles gothiques.]

1695 [see 4]. 1710 SHAFTESBURY Charact. (1727) I. III. 217 [The Elizabethan dramatists] have been the first of Europeans, who since the Gothick Model of Poetry, attempted to throw off the horrid Discord of jingling Rhyme. 1762 HURD Lett. Chiv. & Rom. 56 He [Spenser] could have planned, no doubt, an heroic design on the exact classic model: Or, he might have trimmed between the Gothic and Classic, as his contemporary Tasso did..Under this idea then of a Gothic, not classical poem, the Faery Queen is to be read and criticized. 1765 H. WALPOLE (title) The Castle of Otranto, a Gothic Story. —— Let. to Cole 9 Mar., A very natural dream for a head filled like mine with gothic story. 1771 BEATTIE Minstrel I. xi, There liv’d in gothic days, as legends tell, A shepherd swain. Ibid. I. lx, Here pause, my gothic lyre, a little while. 1773 JOHNSON Let. to Mrs. Thrale 21 Sept., A castle in Gothick romance. 1782 COWPER Table Talk 564 He sunk in Greece, in Italy he rose, And, tedious years of Gothic darkness past, Emerged all splendour in our isle at last.

. . .

4. Barbarous, rude, uncouth, unpolished, in bad taste. Of temper: Savage.

1695 DRYDEN Du Fresnoy’s Art Paint. 93 All that has nothing of the Ancient gust is call’d a barbarous or Gothique manner. 1710 SHAFTESBURY Charac. (1733) I. III. 274 We are not so Barbarous or Gothick as they pretend. a1715 BURNET Own Time (1753) V. 222 His [Chas. XII] temper grew daily more fierce and Gothick. 1732 BERKELEY Alciphr. v. §13 This Gothic crime of duelling. 1749 FIELDING Tom Jones VII. iii, ‘Oh more than Gothic ignorance,’ answered the lady. 1782 F. BURNEY Cecilia IV. ii, What he holds of all things to be most gothic, is gallantry to the women. 1812 SHELLEY Lett. Prose Wks. 1888 II. 384 Enormities which gleam like comets through the darkness of gothic and superstitious ages. 1833 CHALMERS Const. Man II. i. (1835) I. 173 Such a gothic spoliation as this. 1841 J. T. J. HEWLETT Parish Clerk I. 111 Dinner, which was eaten at the gothic hour of one o’clock.

I’m particularly fond of this Hewlett quotation at the end. I like to eat what the English call dinner at the paleolithic hour of 11.30am!

1. on Page 98: “… Mercedes and Frances breathe the name to each other as a kind of … woman in a wide hat and an old- fashioned dress cut low, with a rose in her lap. …”
2. on Page 174: “… Otherwise it has been obliterated by a riot of rust and brassy browns. Frances wears her hair in braids too, just like Lily and Mercedes, although hers writhe with escape-artist locks that by the end of the day bounce free. She cuts her own bangs. …”
3. on Page 189: “… you how much we love you and you forgive us for ever teasing you and then you die, okay?” “Okay, Frances.” Mercedes would be motherly Meg, and Frances would be tomboy Jo who cuts off her hair but gets married in the end, …”
4. on Page 193: “… “Why did she say look after me?” Frances doesn’t take her eyes off Lily, she just says evenly, “Because she loved you, Lily.” .. I love her too.” Tears. Frances puts out a hand and barely strokes Lily’s long hair that’s never been cut. …”
5. on Page 233: “… The Old French Mine 233 Eustace does is poke at an old and tender bruise that reminds Frances what a bad apple she really is. Frances has been going stir-crazy waiting for her life to begin. She has cut the sleeves off most of her dresses and shortened them herself-uneven is all the rage. …”
6. on Page 272: “… She shows him a picture of Louise Brooks. He shakes his head. “I don’t know how to cut ladies’ hair-” “I’m not a lady.” “Listen, dear-” She grabs his scissors, lops off one of her braids and says, “Now fix …”
7. on Page 332: “… Pearleen Campbell works at Ferguson’s Funeral Parlor, she washed the body, there was a homemade cut in the belly, Pearleen and Teresa were girls together that’s how Teresa knows. Years ago, Teresa took a big check …”
8. on Page 396: “… pen, crisp memos scrolled into pigeonholes. This is the type of office Mercedes would like some day. Someday I will cut off all my hair and enter the convent. I will teach. …”

The results are a bit clumsy, but 2, 3, 4, 6 and 8 resonate strongly. There’s at least an undergrad essay in hair imagery and character in the novel.

It seems like stating the obvious to say I wish I had tools like this when I was studying English. It also seems obvious that by clamping down on content through ever tightening copyright restrictions, publisher’s are limiting if not prohibiting this kind of research. I’d like to dig a little deeper but can’t pull up lengthier excerpts to view these quotes in context. Of course, I could just look at the book itself, but I happen to have left it at home today.

I also discovered the book’s truly deepest, darkest secret.

I’ve been reading and rather enjoying Fall on Your Knees. It’s gripping enough I keep forgetting to look for things to write down. There’s lots of good stuff, here. The writing is engaging, and the story is compelling—although occasionally a bit melodramatic. Melodrama being the stage version of gothic, I’ve wondered whether to include this book in that seemingly long forgotten project. There’s certainly a lot of Roman Catholicism (which is barely this side of the supernatural) and one of the central characters has started having dreams that include details of real events she could not possibly know; unless, subconsciously, she has cobbled together these important bits from the stories her sister has told her.

At any rate, today I ran across this and just had to make note of it:

But she hasn’t had a chance to read the little book herself because Frances grabbed it, turned to the last page — as is her habit with all books — and read it aloud. Lily has understood everything in the happy-death prayer except one word.

“What’s a viaticum?”

“It’s a holy word for clean underwear.”

“Can I see the book now Frances?”

Lily reaches, but Frances pulls the book away and explains, “When you’re about to die and the priest comes and gives you extreme unction, he takes a set of clean underwear out of your drawer and blesses them. Then he puts them on you. Or if it’s an emergency and there’s no priest, anyone can bless the clean underwear. That’s were Fruit of the Loom underwear comes from, it comes from the Hail Mary when you say ‘Blessed is the fruit of thy loom, Jesus.’ ”

When slogging through the crowded incidents, one wonders how such an insane mishmash could have gained popular success. Much is totally unprepared, and nothing is adequately motivated; there is little consistency in the types of incidents, and the focus of interest shifts radically from moment to moment. Far from a coherent undertaking, the novel is best seen as an attempt to comprehend within a tiny compass as great a variety as possible. (27)

I’ll be writing more on Brown’s approach to the gothic in future posts.

Work Cited

Brown, Marshall. The Gothic Text. Stanford, CA: Stanford UP, 2005.

Perhaps the most disappointing thing about The Castle of Otranto is that Walpole took credit for writing it after the success of the first edition (1764). The unsigned preface to the first edition presents itself as having been composed by the translator, identified on the title page as the fictional William Marshal, Gent. The supposed Italian author is identified as Onuphrio Muralto. The preface tells how the book came to be translated from the Italian, with commentary on the style and subject matter to the effect that the translator admits to being quite fond of the work regardless of the author’s defects. The translator also (and this is critical) claims, “[t]hough the machinery is invention, and the names of the actors imaginary, I cannot but believe that the groundwork of the story is founded on truth” (5).

The preface to the second edition (1765) is signed by the author. Why did he choose to come forward? Well, because the first edition was a great success, and I suppose he wanted the credit:

As diffidence of his own abilities, and the novelty of the attempt, were his sole inducements to assume that disguise, he flatters himself he shall appear excusable. He resigned his performance to the impartial judgement of the public; determined to let it perish in obscurity, if disapproved; nor meaning to avow such a trifle, unless better judges should pronounce that he might own it without a blush. (7)

If I may paraphrase, “having something of a public reputation, the author wouldn’t want his name attached to a book that, because he was not confident that it was either well written or appropriate for polite company, might sully that reputation. However, having discovered the book to be rather popular, the author wants to make damn sure people know who wrote it.” Or something along those lines. Sadly, it seems a poor aesthetic judgement. I was much more satisfied with the first, fictional preface, in so far as it was itself part of the work. The second disowns the first and to my mind lessens the work. I wonder if Walpole wasn’t an early example of Wharton’s mechanical reader/author whose primary criterion for literary value is sales.

As for the book itself? We’re certainly in the realm of the gothic. The setting is a medieval castle; the period, the 11th or 12th century. There’s a ghost, and some kind of immaterial giant who drops bits and pieces of his equipment here and there. And, of course, there is blood. Turns out (in case you haven’t read the book, it comes as no surprise) that the noble-seeming peasant character is, in fact, noble. Much like Earl William in Longsword, Earl of Salisbury, the peasant Theodore (whose true nobility is ultimately revealed) behaves with impeccable noblesse throughout. By the same token, the tyrant Manfred is revealed to be the grandson of a usurper, hence the inheritor of that sin. Naturally, his behaviour leaves a bit to be desired.

Otranto is not particularly well written, but it is enjoyable. My initial sense is that it doesn’t contain remarkable depth as a work of literature. It is, of course, widely recognized as the first novel in which the various thematic elements that make up the gothic are all present, and so I was a little disappointed to find in it little more than a diversion; but it’s always possible that I am the one not reading deeply enough.

Associating the goth subculture with the first generation of goth bands can be troublesome. Since the adjective “gothic” was used to describe the sound of specific punk, post punk, and new wave bands, not all punks and new wavers who liked these groups associated themselves with a goth scene; regardless these early groups are where goth rock traces its origins. What is most notable about the core 1970s and 1980s bands is that, typical to their punk roots, they had a general distaste for labels. . . .

As one who, in the 80s, wore a fair amount of black clothing (with eyeliner to match) but who also disdained labels, I was rather surprised to discover at some point in the 90s that that thing we were doing had reified into a subculture with carefully defined characteristics by which one could be considered goth, or not goth, or (dread insult) weekend goth. It makes perfect sense to me that high-school kids might affiliate themselves with essentially two-dimensional stereotypical subcultures—although it seemed to me kind of silly even when I was in high-school some 25ish years ago—but it has never made sense to me that an actual adult might declare themselves a (fill-in-the-blank).

So rather than engage in any discussion or attempted understanding of goth culture, I figured I’d just go back to the literature. Where does this gothic thing come from, and what makes it interesting to me? But how does one discover what literature is considered gothic? Blessed with the gift of librarianship, I used my special powers to dig up a “Timeline of Gothic Authors and Works” in Thomson, Voller, and Frank’s Gothic writers : a critical and bibliographical guide. They provide an interesting list, beginning in 1762 with Longsword and ending in 1999 with Stephen King. I’m not sure I agree with the inclusion of King, but I admit to knowing fairly little about the topic at this point. Nevertheless, I’m fairly certain that gothic and horror are distinct (albeit often overlapping) subgenres.

That Longsword is included is also probably debatable. Published in 1762, it’s setting is England and France during the high middle ages, probably under Henry III (a reference in the text makes clear it is after the reign of John, and the king is referred to as Harry). The novel is a historical romance, but with none of the elements of the supernatural one might expect to be associated with the gothic. Coincidence, perhaps guided by the hand of fate or even God, plays an important role in the happy outcome of the story; but this is as much melodramatic as gothic.

Notable, however, is the role of good and evil in the story, and the importance of a very medieval understanding of nobility. William, the titular Earl, is above all else noble. The evil characters in the story are involved in one way or another in trying to dispossess William of his life, his land, and his wife. In short, they would undermine the natural social order. The good characters, on the other hand, support William; some, because they have long been friends or followers, but others simply because upon meeting him they recognize and immediately sense their responsibilities to his inherent nobility and the social order (essentially feudal and chivalric) he represents.

I not too long ago read Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter and was struck by the way in which the characters’ souls seemed to emanate into their surroundings. There seems to be a possible parallel, here, which might be used to pull Longsword, however reluctantly, toward the gothic. I also wonder about a possible connection to the goth subculture I was perhaps a little harsh with, above (but for which I should confess a certain affinity, and no small affection). In some respects, goth subculture (like so many others) is about self-expression. The person you truly are is both disguised by the adoption of conformance to a subcultural style, and at the same time somehow (uncannily?) revealed to those who know how to look.

Further Reading

Hawthorne, Nathaniel. The Scarlet Letter. 1883. The Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne. Vol. 5. St. Clair Shores, MI: Scholarly Press, 1970.

Thomson, Douglass H., Jack G. Voller and Frederick S. Frank. Gothic Writers: A Critical and Bibliographical Guide. Westport, CT: Greenwood, 2002.