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.