Remember a scene from your childhood: a movie that you saw for the first time, which made a lasting impression on you. Depending on how old you are, it might have been Gladiator, Apollo 13, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Jaws, or even something older. Try to remember how you felt watching it, who you were at the time; where you lived, how life was, how the space around you was; what kinds of thoughts you had at that age, what kind of hopes. Hold that thought. Let’s talk about the timelessness of that experience.
Categorizing a work of fiction might initially seem like an easy task. There doesn’t seem to be anything complicated about, say, Stephen King’s The Shining. It is a horror novel; just as Bram Stoker’s Dracula belongs to the Gothic genre (kind of; more about it in a moment), or C. L. Moore’s “Vintage Season” to the science fiction genre. But there is a vast number of works that seem to be awkwardly placed in the no-man’s-land between genres. What would, then, be the differences between Gothic and horror fiction? Or Gothic and science fiction?
The question might initially seem pointless to you. Surely, one might say, the differences between Gothic and science fiction novels are huge. However, that’s not true. As Brian Aldiss has argued, science fiction is “characteristically cast in the Gothic or post-Gothic mode” (1986, 25). In other words, both science fiction and the Gothic deep down use similar conventions and are predicated on similar fears.
Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, one of the most famous works of the Gothic canon, is also considered to be the first science fiction novel – and for good reason. How would you categorize Frankenstein? Is it a Gothic novel, a horror novel, or a science fiction novel? And why?
Few things can make one more miserable than being stuck in a bad marriage or in an unhappy relationship. Hours, days, weeks, months, years of emptiness, lack of empathy, lack of intimacy, animosity, hatred. Why on earth would anyone want to stay in such a situation? After all, our time in this world is finite. The scent of cardamom and cinnamon while decorating the Christmas tree, the feeling of waves gently lapping on your feet as you enter the sea, the full moons you admire in the hot August night – endless, don’t they seem? Hard to believe you have 10, 20, maybe 30 of those left before you die. Why would you waste them being with someone that doesn’t love you and, most probably, despises you? Maybe the Bard has the answer:
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover’d country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
Perhaps it’s all a matter of habit, of fearing the change.
