The definition of Gothic fiction: A style of writing characterised by elements of fear, horror, death or gloom, but also, and quite heavily, romanticism. Settings are often dark and picturesque, or fear-inducing, using old, dilapidated houses and castles, set in bleak, gloomy or lifeless landscapes. Such literature frequently involves supernatural elements, especially vampires, to bring fear, torment and death to the forefront.
My love for Gothic horror began around the age of thirteen, when I realised just how enigmatic Christopher Lee's portrayal of Dracula was.
I had watched Hammer Horror Dracula films with my mother since quite a young age, but had never fully appreciated them. It was as if I was seeing all the details of those films for the very first time: the grim forest, or little Transylvanian town settings; the murky streets of London; the cliched, yet thoroughly atmospheric castles; storms; moonlight; bats; and of course, the seductive lure of the vampire.
I was hooked.
I sought out a copy of Bram Stoker's Dracula to read, and began researching vampire lore, the history of Stoker and the Yorkshire town of Whitby (which still remains one of my favourite sea side towns to visit).
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| Whitby Abbey |
From there I progressed to the history of Gothic Literature, to Mary Shelley, Oscar Wilde, Emily Bronte, and I read the book that, supposedly, started it all: The Castle of Otranto, by Horace Walpole. My family have a copy printed around the early to mid 1800s. I read it with extreme care.
Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte (1847)
(an extract)
...Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff's dwelling. 'Wuthering' being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather. Pure, bracing ventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed: one may guess the power of the north wind blowing over the edge, by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun...
~
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley (1818)
(an extract)
...Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight afforded by these wonderful regions, seems still to have the power of elevating his soul from earth. Such a man has a double existence: he may suffer misery, and be overwhelmed by disappointments; yet when he has retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit, that has a halo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures...~
The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde (1890)
(an extract)
...As he looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skillfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and, closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he might wake...~
The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole (1764)
(an extract)
...The horror of the spectacle, the ignorance of all around how this misfortune had happened, and above all, the tremendous phenomenon before him, took away the prince's speech. Yet his silence lasted longer than even grief could occasion. He fixed his eyes on what he wished in vain to believe a vision; and seemed less attentive to his loss, than buried in meditation on the stupendous object that had occasioned it. He touched, he examined the fatal casque; not could even the bleeding, mangled remains of the young prince divert the eyes of Manfred from the portent before him...
~
And then I discovered Byron.
Darkness
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour
They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twin'd themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought—and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails—men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer'd not with a caress—he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak'd up,
And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek'd, and died—
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—
A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge—
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them—She was the Universe.
~
The influence for this hauntingly beautiful poem was, partly, the prediction by an Italian astronomer that the sun would burn itself out and destroy the world on July 18th, 1816. Mass hysteria was recorded after (unknown at the time) Mount Tambora, an Indonesian volcano, erupted and caused 'the year without summer'. During this time the sky was continually gloomy, the temperatures dropped and thunderstorms were frequent. Also, during the solar eclipse of June 9th - 10th that year, the sun appeared to disappear from the sky. The state of panic that ensued, amongst those of a more sensitive nature, added to Byron's inspiration.
The words of Lord Byron's poem Darkness sent a spellbinding jolt of creativity through me - and it has stayed with me ever since.
I believe that I subconsciously still draw on that poem when I write. A dark, Gothic tone resides in my creative nature. I am lured by the haunted forest; the mysterious castle; the storm over the sea; the windswept moor. The tragic ending.
This is not to say that I am a predominantly gloomy person, only that these elements of dark atmosphere and mystery inspire me.
And I hope they continue to inspire me.