Section B - Disturbing Unknowns

To what extent do you think Gothic writing is a disturbing exploration of the unknown?

[37/40 A* - Timed Mock]

 

It is true, in many ways, that Gothic writing presents a disturbing exploration of the unknown; the supernatural, by definition, is unknown to us, and we are warned to fear the unguessable power of the sublime and natural forces. However, perhaps what is more harrowing is the realisation of the darker elements of that which we think we know; conventional society, and the most intimate of areas; our own human psyche. Perhaps, in this sense, Gothic writing presents us with obvious, outlandish ‘unknowns’ – stock characters such as Heathcliff/the Marquis with mysterious pasts, and black magic such as Faustus’ conjurings – only as a veneer to hide the real disturbing truths, the evil that lies amongst the everyday.

Arguably, Bronte’s ‘Wuthering Heights’ explores the clearest depiction of ‘disturbing unknowns’ – presenting us with Heathcliff, a dark, ‘evil’ character with an unknown past and mysterious mannerisms, and by layering an element of the supernatural amongst what would otherwise be a somewhat ‘realistic’ novel. Heathcliff is adopted as an orphan, and arrives (both to the Earnshaws, and to us as readers) without any past – even his name (simply ‘Heathcliff’) shows his lack of any real identity, and he is branded a ‘gypsy brat’ by Hindley and even Nelly, in fact his dark skin leads them to be suspicious of him from the very beginning – branding him an ‘imp of Satan’ ‘as dark as if it came from the devil’. This association with the devil, along with Heathcliff’s position as an outcast leads us (or at least attempts to lead us) to view his lack of identity and mysteriousness as almost supernatural and inherently evil; he is earmarked as a disruptive force throughout the rest of the novel. As he later goes on to become something of a two-dimensional ‘stock villain’, hanging dogs, beating Isabella and calling her a ‘slut’, and treating Linton, his own son, with contempt and hatred (branding him as ‘tin’), the majority of the fear and violence within the novel stems from this ‘fierce, pitiless, wolfish man’. In fact, even his appearance connotes both mystery and evil – he has ‘dark whiskers’ and hair, and Nelly questions if he is in fact supernatural, a ‘worldly visitor’ or not. In this sense, the disturbing fearful elements of the novel all seem to stem from the introduction of the ‘unknown’ mysterious force of Heathcliff at the very beginning – without which the novel may well have been completely devoid of conflict or anything ‘gothic’ at all.

 

Additionally, the unknown elements of the supernatural – in particular the use of ghosts – also add a disturbing twinge to the novel. When Lockwood first stays with Heathcliff, he sees Catherine’s ghost – an ‘icy white hand’ that grabs at him through the window and begs ‘Let me in’. This is our first real introduction to the supernatural, and in particular the threatening nature of the ghost makes the encounter all the more disturbing, as it initially refuses to release Lockwood’s arm. However, later on in the novel this same element of ghostliness is presented not as disturbing, but as desirable, and the key to a happy ending. Heathcliff, upon her death, begs Cathy to ‘Haunt [him] then!’, and all throughout the novel the two talk of how they wish to reject heaven and instead ‘wander on the moors’ – their own personal, wild, heaven. As we are slowly charmed into this gothic, transgressive rhetoric, by the end of the novel we are championing this idea – desperately hoping for Cathy and Heathcliff to become ghosts, and completely rejecting Lockwood’s oh-so-conventional, poetic assertion that he cannot imagine how anyone could picture ‘unquiet slumbers’ for the ‘sleepers in that quiet earth’. Now fully partaking in the gothic, the unknown does not disturb or frighten us, but appeals to us as much as it does to Bronte’s characters.

 

‘The Bloody Chamber’ also presents us with a wealth of unknown territory to explore. In fact, we begin with our protagonist leaving the familiarity of her mother’s apartment for the ‘unguessable country of marriage’ (and in fact, the unguessable country of sex). However, we are quickly filled with a sense of foreboding when these unknowns start to seem more negative – ‘into marriage, into exile’ (not intimacy or quiet seclusion, but harsh ‘exile’ – it seems she is not being drawn to a fantastic new ‘land’, but rather is expelled from the safety of her old one). Similarly, where she first describes her ‘leonine’ husband she talks of his face, ‘washed smooth’ like ‘a mask’ as though he had a ‘real face’ hiding elsewhere. This Dorian-Grey-esque description not only connotes mystery and fakeness (we are already alerted to the fact that he’s hiding something) but is particularly sinister in that she then goes on to describe him as having a ‘real face’ somewhere else, which is both rather grotesque/disturbing, and yet also ironically rather close to the truth. However, as Carter chose to adapt her work from well-known fairytales, we as an audience are somewhat well prepared for the terrors that await the girl in marrying the Marquis. By knowing the story of Bluebeard, these ‘unknowns’ become less of a shock, less disturbing for us, and in fact we almost feel a sense of superiority over our foolish narrator, who knows nothing of the terrifying world she is getting herself into.

 

In fact, it is the shocking revelations made about the girl herself – about our own human psyche – that are far more harrowing. We are comfortable with the conventional stock villain, with having a clear ‘evil’ side to fight against, but being forced to examine the fact that maybe we don’t know ourselves as well as we might think, is far more harrowing. The way that the girl ‘sensed in [herself] a potentiality for corruption’, and comes to find that ‘that cruel necklace became [her]’, that she becomes ‘vain’ and willingly enters into the violent world of sadism, masochism, and sexual transgression, is far more shocking for us. Due to the use of a first person narrator, we find ourselves complicit in all her transgressions – that we also get caught up in the thrill and tension of S&M, and in fact masochistically enjoy the terror and plight of Carter’s characters, and this is perhaps a far more disturbing realisation. It is this insidious ‘potentiality for corruption’ within ourselves that we fear far more.

 

Doctor Faustus allows us (and Elizabethan audiences at the time) to enter into a world of blasphemy, necromancy, and the supernatural that would otherwise have been totally unknown/off limits to us. It could be argued that perhaps we are meant to be disturbed by this – the staging would no doubt have been terrifying for audiences at the time, and even the Globe Theatre production presents us with looming spectres and grotesque demons. However, it seems as though Marlowe is in fact presenting the supernatural as enticing and exciting, rather than disturbing. Faustus remarks that ‘necromantic books are heavenly’ (a blasphemous juxtaposition that perhaps asks us to question what kind of ‘heaven’ we really want?) and we are shown a parade of the ‘seven deadly sins’ that Faust states ‘delights my soul’ – sin and the supernatural are portrayed as entertainment; fun and thrilling, and we are invited to partake in this unknown, not warned to shy away from it, for fear of seeming ‘boring’ or ‘too conventional’.

 

Interestingly, however, the truly terrifying, disturbing elements come from that which we think we know; God and everyday religion. Mephistopheles (who, notably, is presented as attractive, cunning, and intelligent) states that ‘all places which are not heaven’ are hell, and ‘this is hell, nor am I out of it’. We are forced to question the very world in which we live – to really notice the sin around us and the insidious darkness of the everday. In fact, God sounds almost selfish, as ‘all places which are not heaven’ seem to have been condemned. Arguably the most terrifying line comes at the very end – ‘my God! Look not so fierce on me!’. We are shown that the true thing to fear is God’s wrath, and the juxtaposition of the possessor ‘my’ and ‘fierce’ suggest perhaps that we need to question even our relationship with God – that he does not love humans, he is not really ‘ours’, and in fact will willingly harm us.

  
In conclusion, while it’s true that supernatural, violent elements of the unknown do, in some cases, present fear for the reader, the truly disturbing realisations come from the alternative ‘gothic’ explanations of the everyday, conventional religion, and the human psyche.

Section A - Wuthering Heights - Violence and Tenderness

This is the section A from our most recent mock. For those wondering why so many of my Section A's are Wuthering Heights, it's cause that's the book I feel most comfortable writing about, plus Georgina set us a load of essays to do. Also I'm just totally shite at Faustus, and would pretty much never do a Section A on it. Also, a couple of people have asked about the underlining thing - yes, I do do it when I handwrite the essays, and I'd actually recommend it; in my opinion, it highlights what are your key points (particularly if you're doing a counter 'turn-around' point that you want to have an impact) and makes your argument sound a lot more forceful and self-assured, even if it's actually bullshit. Just my two pence there. 

(NOTE: When I wrote this essay, I didn't realise that Cathy's 'condition' in her final scene was pregnancy. I thought it was an illness, so that's why I keep referring to it as such, like a twat)

‘In Wuthering Heights love is presented as an emotion which provokes violence rather than tenderness’’

To what extent do you agree with this view?

[40/40 A* - Timed Mock]

As a gothic (or arguably pseudo-gothic) novel, Bronte’s Wuthering Heights depicts the powerful, heightened emotions of the human psyche that have come to be a characteristic of the genre – in particular, the raw, wild love shared between Heathcliff and Cathy has led to the novel being heralded as one of the greatest romance novels of all time. Despite this, many have argued that this ‘love’ only leads to despair, violence, and aggression, rather than tenderness and affection. While it is undeniably true that the tumult of their love provokes the violent, raw sides of Cathy and Heathcliff to emerge, it is superficial (and too bound within the societal chains which the gothic genre attempts to transgress) to suggest that violence and tenderness are mutually exclusive. In Wuthering Heights, violence is used not only in addition to, but in fact to amplify, tenderness – the two feed off each other so inextricably that to suggest a complete lack of tenderness is to maintain a false dichotomy.

 

Arguably, there are elements of the novel where love provokes a violence completely devoid of tenderness – particularly the relationship between Isabella and Heathcliff. Despite Isabella’s intense infatuation with him, and the conventional expectations she has for their relationship (assuming, like a ‘diamond in the rough’ she can calm his violent nature and draw out his tenderness), Heathcliff relishes inflicting pain upon her. He boasts t Cathy of how much he longs to beat Isabella, and in fact describes bruising her as ‘painting’ her face – as though such violence is the same as fashioning a masterpiece. Even Cathy warns Isabella of the consequences her love for Heathcliff will likely provoke; branding him a ‘fierce, pitiless, wolfish man’ which reflects his violent, animalistic nature, though was likely misinterpreted by the deluded Isabella to connote the ‘fierce’-ness of his love and inner feelings, one the ‘wolf’ has been tamed. Cathy even remarks that to let Isabella love Heathcliff would be the same as leaving a ‘canary’ in a ‘park [in] winter’ – clearly showing how she will become a vulnerable victim to his wrath is she enters into a relationship with him. In this sense, it appears love, at least Isabella’s, provokes only violence, and no tenderness whatsoever from Heathcliff.

 

However, it must be noted that this ‘love’ was always one-sided and unrequited – Heathcliff’s violence towards Isabella is not provoked by his love for her, as he does not love her. He calls her ‘deluded’ in her love for him, and states he has always been ‘honest’ in saying he has no love for her – even after her death he brands her a ‘slut’ to Linton. Clearly, openly insulting her, and in fact outright stating his disdain for her, is proof enough that Heathcliff’s violence in this case was not fuelled by love, but by sheet dislike for the woman, and so it is false to suggest in this case that ‘love’ provokes violence, and foolish to expect even an ounce of tenderness from Heathcliff.

It is undeniable, however, that Heathcliff loves Cathy very much, and she him; like kindred spirits, ‘whatever [their] souls are made of, [they] are the same’. It is also true that this powerful (almost ‘gothic’ in itself, as it is so frequently spoken of by Heathcliff in his gruff, intense language) raw love is the driving force behind a large amount of violence within the novel; even their last meeting seems almost most like a battle than anything romantic. Cathy grasps his hair and pushes him down, he grabs her neck so tightly it bruises, then ‘foaming like a mad dog’ pulls her tightly to him in a fit of ‘greedy jealousy’. Such violent acts are amplified not only by the shocked intensity of Nelly’s description (Cathy’s heartbeat is described as a ‘violent throbbing’ rather than just ‘beating’ and the whole scene is fast-paced and intense) but also by the fragility of Cathy’s condition (which Nelly, again, continually reminds us of – reprimanding Heathcliff for having ‘no concern’ for her illness). By presenting Heathcliff as a ‘mad dog’ it seems to suggest his raw, heightened love almost dehumanises him; we are presented with an animalistic being not capable of tenderness of concern, merely driven into a violent aggressive state by the ‘jealousy’ and ‘greed’ of his love.

That said, perhaps the sheer intensity of this language can give insight into a tenderness that we may be missing, not because it isn’t there, but because Nelly (and ‘conventional society’) doesn’t want it to be. Cathy and Heathcliff’s romantic reunion would have been scandalous at the time, due to their marital statuses; even their love for each other deviates too far from social norms (as a working class ‘gypsy’ it would ‘degrade [Cathy] to marry him’) – and such passionate violent love is almost a transgression of sexual boundaries, in the same way that BDSM is seen by society. For these reasons, it seems Nelly is a little too zealous in dehumanising Heathcliff and presenting his love as violent and uncaring; in fact, by constantly referencing Cathy’s ‘condition’ she seems to attempt to present Heathcliff as almost an attacker rather than a lover; as if this violent display is one-sided and Cathy is merely a passive victim. She even remarks that she could hardly believe he was of ‘the same species’ – dehumanising him and demonising him further, in such a hyperbolic fashion that it seems almost ridiculous. We as readers can clearly see Cathy’s own role in the violence, and her relishing in it – she pins him down and grabs his hair, even ‘[tearing] out’ a fitful. She is not a victim of his lovers’ violence, but a willing participant in what is an act of tenderness and affection. It is purely because Nelly, and society, cannot accept this raw kind of passionate love as a type of tenderness, of intimacy and closeness on a level so in tune with the body of your lover that pain and pleasure, violence and gentleness, become intertwined, that we are presented with a demonised version of love that leads only to ‘violence’.
 

In fact, if we examine this love for ourselves we can see how tenderness and violence are reconciled. Even the microstructure of the scene reflects this masochistic intimacy; aggressive, violent words are juxtaposed by tender, more conventional romantic language – ‘locked in an embrace’, ‘the violent throbbing of her heart’. The whole scene is meant to reconcile the two; to show us that Cathy and Heathcliff’s love is so powerful, unearthly, and untamed that is presents its tenderness through violence. In fact, examining the rest of the novel, all the ‘romantic’ descriptions Cathy uses for them are twinged with a violent edge – they are not ‘moonbeams’, but ‘lightening’, not ‘frost’, but ‘fire’ – their affection is raw and uncivilised – to expect conventional tenderness of them would be to reject their ‘gothic’, untamed love (as though attempting to contain ‘the sea’ in a ‘horse trough’, in fact) – to brand conventional tenderness as the only kind of tenderness, however, would be to reject the whole premise of the gothic genre, and refuse to be charmed into the world of transgression and heightened emotions.

Ultimately, while it’s true that in many cases the extreme love depicted in Wuthering Heights leads to violence and pain, it is wrong to see it only at this level (as conventional society would wish us to) and in fact this violence stems from, and intensifies, tenderness. It is through the transgressive nature of the gothic that we can break free of the social norms that impose this dichotomy on us and accept the raw, tender intimacy that violence can facilitate.

Section A Essay - The Bloody Chamber - Sex and Violence

This was the question from our mock in December. Really, it's an amazing, perfect question, but I made a total tit of it - I say some absolute bollocks in this essay. Additionally, I remember when we got feedback it was mentioned that some of the kids in our year went with the argument of  'sex as an alternative to/escape from violence', which is (in my opinion) a FAR better argument than the one I've used here - so definitely take this essay with a grain of salt.

‘Sex and violence are always linked in the stories in The Bloody Chamber’

To what extent do you agree with this view?

[36/40 A* - Timed Mock]

 

The Bloody Chamber, in true gothic fashion, is rife with elements of gore, torture, and violence – what, perhaps, is more shocking, is the glorification of these gruesome acts, and the constant link to sex and eroticism, to the extent where the two cannot be separated. Carter uses language to bring together this dichotomy of pleasure and pain, so that even instances that could arguably be seen as ‘sex sans violence’ (in ‘The Bloody Chamber’) or ‘violence sans sex’ (in ‘The Company of Wolves’) are inextricably caught in this bong of sadomasochistic violent arousal.

‘The Bloody Chamber’ is perhaps the most obvious tale to examine, when exploring the link between sex and violence. One of the most poignant and beautiful symbols of the whole story is the ruby choker – used by Carter to begin to embed the idea of violence and pain as sexual pleasure/beauty, even from very early on in the story. It is described as ‘his wedding gift, clasped around my throat…like an extraordinarily precious slit throat’ – and we are told of the gruesome history of the tradition; of beautifying and glorifying the thought of violence and death on the guillotine. The use of the verb ‘clasped’ to describe the ‘wedding gift’ marries the two ideas – their relationship, and his oppression of her (the term ‘clasped’ is usually used to describe the action of ‘clasping your hands’ around someone’s throat to choke them). Additionally, the simile ‘like and extraordinarily precious slit throat’ compares the shining, valuable rubies to a bloody wound – and implies that pain and cuts are things to be valued, treated as ‘precious’, and desired, almost in an erotic manner. The necklace serves as a recurring motif throughout the story, as he forces her to wear it for sex, and for when he plans to behead her – this makes it seem like a shackle or a spiked collar; a tool of BDSM to give power to the dom and oppress the sub. Later on, she comments that ‘it bit into my neck with tenderness now’. The verb ‘bit’ personifies the necklace as a violent animal, hurting her and tearing into her flesh, but by juxtaposing this with ‘tenderness’ it further creates the erotic link between sexual pleasure and violence; like a lover biting at her flesh during sex, violence out of love/passion, not anger.

 

Sex and violence are even more explicitly linked through Carter’s description of the lovers’ sex, and her use of intertextuality and art references. She describes the sex as ‘a dozen husbands [impaling] a dozen brides’ – a powerful image that compares the man’s penis to a sword or spear; a weapon. This metaphor is particularly poignant in that our first-person narrator speaks of her own sexual experience in a desensitised, external manner; ‘a dozen’ husbands/brides. This perhaps suggests not only a link between sex and violence in their relationship, but that this idea of sadomasochism and sexual transgression can be generalised on a wider level; perhaps all sex has elements of a man’s striking power over a woman, and her taking a violent blow? In terms of power-play, could even vanilla sex be seen as ‘violent’? Additionally, the Marquis has many examples of erotic art/books; ‘The Immolation of the wives of Sultan’…‘his prick curved upwards like the scimitar he held’ – yet again, this compares a man’s penis to a sword, and the term ‘immolation’ portrays women as a sacrifice and ties sexual pleasure to the sadistic thrill of flagellation. What is particularly interesting, however, is that Carter portrays our ‘heroine’ as aroused/turned on by this (she ‘shudders’ and feels herself ‘stirring’) – in fact, at least at the beginning of the novel, she is depicted as enjoying the role of masochist/victim. This deviation from the original fairytale (where there is, naturally, no talk of sexual pleasure from violence, due to the audience/format) highlights perhaps that one of Carter’s main intentions when retelling was perhaps to cement this link – to question morality and examine sexual transgression into S&M.

 

However, it could be argues that there are elements of ‘The Bloody Chamber’ which do not reinforce this bond of sex and violence. When the wife finds the Bloody Chamber, all sexual arousal seems to depart from violence, and she is left terrified and wishing ‘to escape [her fate]’. She calls the torture chamber an ‘obscene cell’ – and this use of the adjective ‘obscene’ indicates that she has reverted back to the commonly held view that violence/pain is not pleasurable/arousing. In fact she ‘bursts into a tumult of sobbing…a dreadful anguish’ – the violence here seems to not be linked at all to sex. That said, perhaps we only hold this view because our narrator is the terrified maiden herself’ while here the violent chamber may not be arousing for her, it is still definitely linked to his sexual arousal (in fact, it is likely a BDSM dungeon created solely for this purpose). Additionally, the wives are described as getting sexual pleasure from it; ‘the dead lips smiled’ – this metaphor reconciles the dichotomy of death/violence and pleasure/smiling and stands to maintain our link between sex and violence, even if it has dissipated for our protagonist.

 

Similarly, it could be argued that her love for the piano tuner and her life with him afterwards is evidence of sex without a link to violence. He is described all the way through as meek, ‘gentle’, and little more than ‘a boy’ – a complete opposite of her husband, and someone who would never inflict violence upon her (even his blind state makes him appear weak). In this sense, one could argue that her love for him/their marriage is not violent al all – but the fact is that it isn’t sexual at all either. We are given no erotic description of him, no lust, no indication of sex – unlike the description of her violent husband, and so in this sense it is clear that the lack of violence leads to a lack of sex (or sexual description) as the two are too heavily linked, and you cannot have one without the other.

 

It could be argued that ‘The Company of Wolves’ is a story that displays elements of violence without much sexual input. We are given a young female protagonist, who perhaps is too naïve for sex, and a beast focused solely animalistically on violently devouring his prey. We are given a fairly gruesome description of grandma’s death, with tension building as a lack of punctuation/direct dialogue heightens the pace of the description (‘Oh God what have you done with her?’), and wolves are described repeatedly as ‘carnivore incarnate’. This violent imagery seems to lack a sexual undertone, instead focusing on the ruthless, ferocious desire to kill and devour that all wolves possess, almost religiously (‘incarnate’) – they are the embodiment of violence. In fact, we do not typically view wolves as sexual objects, merely beasts, and so it could be argued that all we see is the animalistic violent desire. However, Carter utilises the gothic conventions of transgression, liminality, and the supernatural to input a sexual element in these wolves. They are naked men, and so potentially a target for arousal. Similarly, grandma’s death is described using almost-comically-incongruous sexual language; ‘his genitals, huge!’, ‘dark nipples’ like ‘fruit’ and the last thing she saw was ‘a naked man approaching her bed’. This clearly ties the act of murder with sexuality – explicitly making reference to ‘genitals’ and ‘nipples’, and more implicitly subtly linking the two by describing grandma’s death in a way typically used for sexual intercourse; ‘when he was done with her’ (he even changes the sheets). This ultimate link between sex and violence comes when our protagonist decides to have sex with the wolf – falling asleep ‘between the paws of the tender wolf’. In a similar fashion to the necklace description in ‘The Bloody Chamber’, the paws of the wolf (used only a short while ago to tear apart and devour grandma) are now described as ‘tender’, like the arms of a lover. It could be argued that this dissipates the link to violence, as the wolf, now a sexual image, is no longer violent but ‘tender’ – but this is far from true; the term ‘paws’ still reminds us that he is an animal, a beast, and in fact is appears to be his violent nature that drew our protagonist to desire him sexually. While the violence here may not be directed towards the girl, it is still present, and still irremovably wrapped up within the sexual/erotic image of the wolf.

 

Ultimately, it is clear that even elements of sex/violence that appear to be isolated from each other, are still tightly bound in Carter’s masochistic gothic world. We are invited to become thrilled/aroused by the violence inflicted upon characters (who themselves take pleasure/satisfaction in pain) and Carter makes us the ultimate sadists – viewing sex and violence as inextricably linked, as a key theme across all of her short stories.

Section A Essay - Wuthering Heights - Gothic Narrators/Setting

The Gothic elements of Wuthering Heights are made credible by the novel’s setting and ‘narrators.’ How far would you agree with this view?

[40/40, A* - Not Timed]

In many ways, Bronte’s use of setting and narrators seem to add a sense of realism and normality to the supernatural, gothic elements of the novel – we are told of the events of transgression and the ethereal through the frame of the very socialised, concrete narrators of Nelly and Lockwood, and the civilised, societal setting of Thrushcross Grange seems to provide not only a juxtaposition to the distinctly gothic setting of Wuthering Heights, but also acts as an anchor in reality – arguably lending credibility to the more abstract, ghostly elements of the novel. However, while these narrators/settings may bring a touch of realism and normality to the novel, they do not bring credibility, and in fact we are presented with a world where it seems society is the lie; holding us back from the wild, raw elements of our human psyche and exaggerating such things to the point where one has to wonder if perhaps many of these gothic elements – of evil, transgression, and the supernatural – are really little more than hyperbolic fantasy, bred by our ‘credible’ narrators to demonise that which does not fit in normal society.

The duality of settings within the novel (arguably a gothic element in itself), namely the two houses, Thrushcross Grange and Wuthering Heights, seems to present us with a lens through which to believably, almost rationally even, witness the gothic. We can see how supernatural, ethereal, and liminal Wuthering Heights is, because the grange is so concrete and normalised; we can see how wild and raw the inhabitants of the Heights are, because those at Grange are so civilised (after a short stay, Cathy is morphed from a ‘wild hatless savage’ to a ‘very dignified person’). As opposed to the thorns that govern Wuthering Heights, the Grange has a ‘flower pot’ – even the nature is tamed and gentle, symbolic of society. The house exudes luxury and excess; ‘a splendid place carpeted with crimson’ (Bronte’s choice of ‘crimson’ over simply ‘red’ connotes greater majesty and wealth), ‘crimson-covered chairs’ (in contrast to Wuthering Heights’ green, ‘primitive structures’), and ‘a shower of glass-drops hanging in silver chains’ – presenting the Grange as ornate, delicate, and beautiful – a thoroughly socially acceptable place, and one which we are perhaps encouraged to use as a benchmark by which to view the gothic elements of the novel. While Wuthering Heights embraces nature entirely, and provides a sinister, wild setting for the supernatural elements of the novel to occur, Thrushcross Grange brings a sense of realism to these otherwise-dubious events by acting as an anchor of ‘normality’ among the chaos, and in this sense could be said to lend credibility to the novel’s the more ‘gothic’ elements.

That said, even the pristine, civilised world of the Grange isn’t without a tinge of darker, unpolished elements – and these subtle, almost unnoticeable, injections of gothic themes beneath the lexicon of grandeur and shiny veneer of normality creates a sort of dissonance, perhaps subconsciously, for the reader – leading us perhaps to question the credibility of such a setting, and whether or not things really are what they seem. Here we are presented with a ‘splendid’ and ‘heavenly’ place, that we assume to be our point of reference from which to judge the gothic, wild nature of Wuthering Heights, and yet when Heathcliff and Cathy first stumble upon the house they observe not peaceful harmony, but ‘quarrelling’, ‘weeping’, and screaming – the polished appearance of the house is not carried through in the behaviour of its inhabitants. Isabella is described as ‘shrieking as if witches were running red hot needles into her’ – connoting suffering, pain, and perhaps even a sense of sin (implicitly gathered from the term ‘witches’). In fact, Heathcliff implies that the grandeur of the setting has spoilt and tainted the spirits of the children, making them petty and ungrateful, and he would not ‘exchange [his] condition…for a thousand lives’. This puts as at a crossroads – we are unsure which ‘world’ in the novel we should trust, who is really telling the truth. Are we on the side of civilised society, of the grange, that exposes for us the terrifying, cruel elements of the human psyche laid bare at Wuthering Heights – and presenting a credible account of these gothic elements? Or is the shiny veneer of society little more than a façade to keep us from the true freedom of ourselves – unfairly demonising that which is wild and natural as gruesome, and even supernatural, as a tool for oppression?

Similarly, and perhaps uncharacteristically for a gothic novel, our narrators (Nelly and Lockwood) seem to frame the sublime, supernatural world of gothic transgression with their more reasoned, conventional humanity – almost normalising the ethereal qualities of the novel by acting as anchors to civilisation. Lockwood is presented as well educated; a traveller from civilised society witnessing the ‘shocking’ events of the wild moors – he talks politely and eloquently (‘I do myself the honour of calling as soon as possible’) and so initially it appears we can perhaps use him as a credible narrator to add a touch of realism to otherwise unbelievable events. That said, Bronte frequently hints at Lockwood’s flaws as a narrator – he is presented as fallible and unreliable, and his character is almost used to mock conventional society;  self-absorbed and ‘educated’ to such an extent that he misuses terms and misinterprets events. His language is flowery and convoluted (stating ‘the gate over which he leant manifested no sympathising movement to the words’, when ‘he didn’t open the gate’ would have sufficed) and ill-equipped to describe accurately the events of such a wild, gothic setting. He also comes across as pompous, oblivious, and an incredibly bad judge of character – he brands himself as ‘reserved’ and a ‘misanthropist’ and yet rushes off immediately to meet Heathcliff, who he then perceives overzealously as a ‘capital fellow!’, despite him ‘interrupting’ and ‘wincing’ when speaking to Lockwood. Clearly, we are to doubt Lockwood’s ability to discern the true nature of the world around him, and so it cannot be said that he makes any events, gothic or otherwise, more credible.

Nelly, from whom we learn the majority of events about Heathcliff’s past, is also extremely biased and fallible as a narrator. While initially we are perhaps drawn to her rhetoric – she seems the most ‘normal’, down-to-earth character among the chaos of the others, and does seem to present herself as an ‘observer’ (and therefore in the same role as us) despite actually being heavily invested in the action. Her depiction of events is often charged with overemotional language (a characteristic of the gothic genre, but one we would perhaps not expect from a ‘credible’, reliable narrator) – she frequently speaks of Heathcliff’s actions as ‘diabolical’ and even admits she ‘plagued [him] shamefully’ throughout his life – later stumbling on almost an epiphany and remarking that she ‘thought Heathcliff himself less guilty than [her]’. By demonstrating, both through her emotionally-charged account of events, and her level of involvement in shaping them, Bronte subtly hints that Nelly, as a narrator, cannot be trusted. While it’s true that she represents the reasoned, civilised world of society, Nelly is presented as restricting and overly critical of that which transgresses the boundaries of what she deems acceptable (for example, emphasising to Cathy that she should not go to visit the rocks on the moors as they are ‘not worth the trouble of visiting’) – and from this we gather that she, perhaps acting as a symbol for conventional society, has ulterior motives and delivers a demonised, less-than-credible account of things. After admitting her initial bias about Heathcliff’s origins (branding him ‘it’ and focusing on his status as a ‘gypsy’) perhaps Nelly actually makes his depiction as a gothic villain less credible, one has to wonder if he was (as she seems to make out) always an intrinsically evil, devilish being, or whether her views on his social class and outsider status led her to demonise his every action – presenting us with what appears to be a distinctly gothic character, when really Heathcliff is simply an abused orphan whom society looks down upon?

In this sense, it is hard to argue that Bronte’s use of setting and narrators lends any sort of credibility to the gothic elements of the novel. As is characteristic of the genre, they do seem to act as anchors of realism and normality that, by contrast, emphasis the gothic – but perhaps this is an overemphasis rather than a credible presentation, and our settings and narrators are not quite what they seem, with hidden agendas and a task to demonise and over exaggerate any elements that deviate from the norm and what is ‘acceptable’, and to brand such transgressions as ‘evil’, ‘supernatural’, and ‘gothic’.

Section A Essay - Wuthering Heights - Heathcliff

Charlotte Brontë described Heathcliff as a “man’s shape animated by demon life – a ghoul”. To what extent do you think this is an accurate assessment of the ways in which Heathcliff is presented in the novel?

[40/40 A* - Not Timed]

Of all the characters in Bronte’s Wuthering Heights, Heathcliff is arguably the most contentious and most complex – branded as a demon even in childhood, he develops into a sadistic, cruel, almost-clichéd Gothic villain in the second half of the novel. However, it is an oversight to fail to examine both the role of his torturous childhood and social exclusion as a demonised member of the working class, in leading to his own brutality and violence. In this sense – it is far too superficial to assume Heathcliff to be simply a ‘man’s shape animated by demon life’.

In many ways, Heathcliff is presented a typical gothic villain – fundamentally dark and twisted; evil incarnate. Even as a child he is branded ‘imp of Satan’, and in adulthood this connection to evil is made even more obvious – in the second half of the novel Heathcliff has so fully developed into the stock-character role of the villain that he almost becomes a parody of stereotypical gothic villainy. He is cruel and arguably sadistic in his actions – delighting at the thought of ‘turning [Isabella’s] blue eyes black’ and presenting the act of beating her as poetically as painting a masterpiece on a fresh canvas (‘painting on its white the colours of the rainbow’), showing an almost inhuman lack of compassion and love of brutality. Even his use of speech is intrinsically ‘gothic’ – he speaks gruffly, without wasting words, and uses imperatives (‘Speak!’, ‘Go and fetch...’ etc), making him seem intimidating and menacing. His dialogue is also littered with (often unnecessary) references to hell, evil, and violence (‘sent sleep to the devil’, ‘I’m in hell till you do’) - further cementing his role as a symbol of evil and brutality. Even Cathy brands him a ‘fierce, pitiless, wolfish man’ who will ‘seize and devour [Isabella] up’ – this lexicon of bestiality presents him as animalistic, the wild embodiment of evil unburdened by human conscience – and so in this sense he could clearly be seen as ‘a man’s shape animated by demon life’.

Additionally, Healthcliff is frequently presented as an almost supernatural figure – at times he is literally depicted as a ghoul. He is described, in childhood, as ‘as dark almost as if it came from the devil’ (which, some have argued demonstrates Bronte’s latent racism – though this seems a fairly tenuous position to hold, as ‘racism’ would have been so commonplace at the time that it is more likely that Bronte unconsciously chose this element of his appearance based on his role as a mysterious ‘outsider’, rather than any attempt at actual racism) which instantly sets him up as a potentially supernatural figure, in addition to his lack of any real ‘history’ which adds an element of mystery and ambiguity to his character. He also moves and acts in a very ‘ghostly’, eerie fashion  - ‘lurking’ in the shadows of buildings and waiting quietly so as to seem almost like an apparition to the unsuspecting Nelly, who is ‘uncertain whether to regard him as a worldly visitor’. This presents him as almost supernatural, like a ghoul, and yet the fact that we are aware that he is human means he also embodies the gothic convention of the liminal – teetering on the edge of natural and supernatural, as he juxtaposes financial/moral realism with unearthly references to haunting and the supernatural.

However, in many ways Heathcliff’s character is far more psychologically complex that the typical gothic villain, and it is an oversight to merely brand him a fundamentally evil, ghoulish being. While it’s doubtful that Bronte intended to write Heathcliff as a synecdoche for how abused children become cruel adults and repeat this cycle of abuse (in fact, at the time the novel was written the idea of ‘child abuse’ would have been relatively unheard of, and Heathcliff’s childhood treatment would likely have been regarded as unfortunate, but not drastically shocking) by looking at his character through a modern psychodynamic lens, we can see that Heathcliff is far from some sort of abstract embodiment of evil – rather, he is a victim of his own consciousness, unwillingly moulded into a villainous abuser by the psychological trauma of his own childhood. After initially being found ‘starving and houseless’ on the streets of Liverpool, Heathcliff is ‘welcomed’ into a family that hates him – he is spoken of as ‘it’ (a pronoun which is both dehumanising and contemptuous), and ‘[Nelly and Hindley] plagued’ him ‘shamefully’ – treating him poorly and relentlessly (hence ‘plagued’) tormenting him.  Nelly even admits to demonising him unfairly throughout his life, and remarks that she ‘thought Heathcliff himself less guilty than [her]’ – giving an explicit insight into her part in Heathcliff’s poor treatment, and perhaps alluding to the role it played in shaping his character. In this sense, it is wrong to brand Heathcliff merely a ‘man’s shape animated by demon life’ – he is not intrinsically, essentially, evil, and (in a rather un-gothic fashion) beholds a web of psychological pain and suffering in childhood which sculpted his own cruelty and ‘evil’ ways.

Additionally, the presentation of Heathcliff as dark and evil can be seen not as a supernatural, ethereal demon – but as a representation (and demonization) of the aspiring working classes, firmly grounded in the concrete realm of financial and status-based conflict. His is frequently called a ‘gipsy brat’ by Hindley, and Edgar calls him a ‘ploughboy’ – even Cathy herself mockingly refers to the two of them as ‘of the lower orders’ and tells Nelly she can never marry Heathcliff as it would  ‘degrade’ her. Clearly a large amount of Heathcliff’s social exclusion stems from his class (or lack thereof) as opposed to any inherent evil or ghoulishness within him. When he returns to see Cathy, Edgar scoffs at the notion of Heathcliff being led ‘into the parlour?’ and ‘[suggests] the kitchen as a more suitable place for him’. Not only does this convey Edgar’s personal contempt for Heathcliff’s lower status, and provide us with an explicit contrast between the statuses of the two men (and hence a clear rationale for Cathy’s choice), it can perhaps act as a microcosm for society at large. Heathcliff is seen as a symbol of the aspiring working class, and perhaps this (as opposed to his evil nature) is why he is so demonised – the upper classes do not want any social climbing to occur, they want to keep the class system intact and prevent ‘ploughboys’ like Heathcliff from working their way up into the metaphorical ‘parlour’ of society. Additionally, Heathcliff’s own ‘evil’ scheme seems based firmly in finance and wealth-based revenge – he states that he is ‘resolved’ (indicative of a calm, calculated scheme – not a sporadic, sadistic, conventionally ‘gothic’ one) to claim both houses as his own, to earn the ‘triumph of seeing [his] descendent fairly lord of their estates’. Far from the scheme of a gothic villain, the workings of evil incarnate, Heathcliff’s actions seem to be financially motivated – an attempt to conquer the class system and get revenge upon his oppressors.

Ultimately, while on the surface Heathcliff seems to be almost a stock character of gothic villainy, and perhaps this was Bronte’s intention, a more thoughtful analysis returns a far more psychologically intricate conclusion. Far from a devil, he is merely an abused child, demonised and excluded throughout his life due to his working class status, and forced to perpetuate this same model of abuse onto others.

Section A Essay - Wuthering Heights - Setting

First essay I'm uploading - these aren't going to necessarily follow a logical order. I apologise in advance for any typos, and obviously this is just an example, don't take my opinion as fact, all that jazz. Oh and I'm shit at paragraphs. I never learnt how to do them, so my paragraphs are generally quite long, my bad. Also, for some reason the website won't let me format this essay properly, so apologies for the weird massive paragraph spaces.

‘Gothic settings are desolate, alienating and full of menace’

In light of this comment, consider some of the ways in which writers use settings

[40/40, A* - Not Timed]

Bronte uses setting in Wuthering Heights to impart a range of messages and symbolic imagery to the reader - embracing the gothic convention of duality/dichotomy with her two contrasting houses. While Wuthering Heights is clearly a conventional gothic setting, symbolic of nature and the untamed human psyche, and Thrushcross Grange its antithesis, representing the polished, civilised world of the upper classes, Bronte’s use of these settings extends far beyond this basic symbolism to instead offer a more subtle criticism of conformity and societal values at the time.

Wuthering Heights is the epitome of a gothic setting; isolated, primitive, and natural, it is used to symbolise the wild, untamed nature of man. Bronte uses a lexicon of war when describing the house; ‘[jugs] towering row after row’, ‘villainous old guns…horse-pistols’, ‘defended with jutting stones’ which, particularly when coupled with her frequent use of ‘primal’ language (‘a wilderness of crumbling griffins’, ‘lay bare’, ‘primitive structures’), gives off an intimidating, menacing feel – perhaps hinting to cruelty that has occurred within the house, or, on a deeper level, representing the wild, violent nature of a human psyche left untamed by society. Lockwood also brands it a ‘personal misanthropist’s Heaven’ (despite being far from a misanthropist himself) – hinting at the alienating, isolating nature of the house; a typical desolate gothic setting. Even the term ‘Wuthering’ is stated as a perfectly fitting adjective, descriptive of the ‘atmospheric tumult’ and ‘pure, bracing ventilation’ of the house, and presenting it as a place at the heart of nature and the sublime, perpetually instilling the gothic convention of the untamed power of the natural world in the reader. In this sense, Wuthering Heights is certainly desolate, alienating, and full of menace – an intimidating vessel of wild natural power.

Thrushcross Grange, by contrast, is an example of a very ‘un-gothic’ setting injected into a gothic novel, and is used by Bronte to symbolise conventional society – it is warm, well-furnished, and polished. As opposed to the thorns that govern Wuthering Heights, the Grange has a ‘flower pot’ – even the nature is tamed and gentle. The house exudes luxury and excess; ‘a splendid place carpeted with crimson’ (Bronte’s choice of ‘crimson’ over simply ‘red’ connotes greater majesty and wealth), ‘crimson-covered chairs’ (in contrast to Wuthering Heights’ green, ‘primitive structures’), and ‘a shower of glass-drops hanging in silver chains’ – presenting the Grange as ornate, delicate, and beautiful; even Heathcliff brands it as’ heaven’. This type of luxurious setting seems far more suited to a more conventional romance (rather than gothic) novel – it is well-kept, not desolate, warm and welcoming rather than alienating, and ‘heavenly’ rather than menacing. In fact, the Grange serves as a contrast the Wuthering Heights throughout the novel, and perhaps brings a sense of realism and a touch of the outside world to the isolated moors – while Wuthering Heights embraces nature entirely, and provides a sinister, wild setting for the supernatural element of the novel to occur, Thrushcross Grange brings a sense of realism to these otherwise-dubious events by acting as an anchor of ‘normality’ among the chaos.

That said, it could be argued that Bronte uses Thrushcross Grange to implicitly indicate the problems that lie beneath the surface of what appears to be ‘splendid’ and ‘heavenly’ – the house is not depicted as entirely devoid of darker, unpolished elements. When Heathcliff and Cathy first stumble upon the house they observe not peaceful harmony, but ‘quarrelling’, ‘weeping’, and screaming – the polished appearance of the house is not carried through in the behaviour of its inhabitants. Isabella is described as ‘shrieking as if witches were running red hot needles into her’ – connoting suffering, pain, and perhaps even a sense of sin (implicitly gathered from the term ‘witches’). In fact, Heathcliff implies that the grandeur of the setting has spoilt and tainted the spirits of the children, making them petty and ungrateful, and he would not ‘exchange [his] condition…for a thousand lives’. Perhaps here Bronte is hinting at a darker level of turmoil beneath the shiny veneer of the Grange; while it may still not qualify as a ‘gothic’ setting, it is far from ‘heaven’ and perhaps having such a luxurious setting leads to a corruption of the spirit.

While the settings do symbolise a lot individually, it is perhaps more interesting to note how the relationship/dichotomy between the two influence the characters within the novel; and what this represents for wider society. After merely five weeks at Thrushcross grange, Cathy has been ‘socialised’ – tamed from a ‘wild, hatless little savage’ to a ‘very dignified person’. The contrast of the nouns ‘savage’ and ‘person’ in particular suggests that Cathy was almost inhuman in wildness at Wuthering Heights – she was animalistic and in touch with nature, and has now been moulded into a perfect civilised young woman. Interestingly, the stay at Thrushcross Grange also appears to have forced Cathy to take on the stereotypical gender role that she was unbound by at Wuthering Heights (suggesting, perhaps, that gender is distinct from biology and is in fact a social construct imposed upon individuals). She leaves Wuthering Heights ‘barefoot’ (uncaring about her appearance, or even comfort – very untypical for a girl), but returns from Thrushcross Grange in ‘a grand plaid silk frock’ and ‘burnished shoes’, having been thoroughly ‘feminised’. In fact, this ‘socialisation’ seems to affect even the animals – while the dogs at Wuthering Heights are described as a ‘swarm’, the pet at Thrushcross Grange is branded ‘a heap of warm hair’ – domesticated, tame playthings, as opposed to the menacing connotations of ‘swarm’. This presents Thrushcross Grange as a place of conformity and civilisation – stripping people and animals of their natural form and domesticating them, and perhaps this relationship between the settings is used by Bronte to criticise this element of society (while Cathy was originally demonstrative in her affections, she seems to now value her appearance more than her affections – she ‘dare not touch’ the dogs for fear they would ‘fawn upon her splendid garments’ – perhaps this ‘socialisation’/’feminising’ has robbed her of her liscence to properly express her emotions). Thrushcross Grange is presented as the veneer of society – representative of the superficial ways we attempt to cover up our animal nature and present ourselves as sophisticated and dignified, losing touch with our real psyche.

In conclusion, while the line between gothic and non-gothic setting is often blurred in Wuthering Heights, Bronte’s use of setting perfectly epitomises the gothic conventions of duality, the sublime, and desolation. We can also gather much more about Bronte’s intentions when examining how the settings relate to each other and the characters within them, rather than observing them in isolation – and in this sense can see the two houses not merely as symbols of wilderness and civilisation, but as a synecdoche for the battle between human nature and society’s desire to conform and impose gender.

A2 Revision Notes

Back again, if slightly later on in the year this time round.

Apologies to the people who've been asking for this stuff for quite a while, I know I'm a couple of weeks later than I said I would be, but hopefully I'll be reasonably quick putting content up. 
To run through what I'm planning on putting up: 

- Any essays I've done this year, for Section A or B, plus the marks and whether it was timed or a homework task. I'll be typing them, rather than scanning them, as I know how horrendous my writing is ('30% unreadable', apparently)
- Plans for as many section B questions as I can, with the arguments and quotes I'd use for each text
- Anything else I feel would be helpful, or anything people ask me for at school

If anyone needs anything else, give me a shout. My email's 13zadurianm on the St Doms system.