Gothic works seem to be as undead as the characters parading through them. Individual… species might come and go – vampires were trendy couple of decades ago, then we had zombies – but the fact remains: Gothic and horror fiction* will remain relevant, reflecting inner human fears. Gothic characters are merely manifestations of our own fears, both personal and social. *read my article on the differences between Gothic, horror and science fiction
In today’s article I’d like to show you a sample of just how many secrets Gothic characters might hide. Forgive my somewhat assuming title, but whereas many know of Count Dracula and some might know there is something odd (indeed queer) about his sexuality, how many could claim to know the secrets around, say, the character of Quincey Morris?
Gothic characters are what makes a narrative Gothic
Without further delay, let’s begin our list. The Gothic characters I have picked are:
Note: the following article on fate and chance in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein is a modified excerpt (pp. 83-84) from my doctoral dissertation, “Time is Everything with Him”: The Concept of the Eternal Now in Nineteenth-Century Gothic, which can be downloaded (for free) from the repository of the Tampere University Press. For a list of my other academic publications, see here.
Fate and Chance as Dichotomies of Timing
In several Gothic works, fate and chance (and particularly their dynamic balance) are often the main force driving the plot forward. As Frankenstein exemplifies, characters often fall prey to their fate as a result of frustratingly well-timed occurrences.
As the character of Walton mentions in his letter to his sister, his plans would have failed if he had not inherited a fortune “just at [the] time” of a failed previous endeavor (Shelley 14).
At the beginning of his narration, Victor Frankenstein mentions how “a variety of circumstances” did not allow his father to marry early (Ibid 26). This is only the beginning, as Victor himself soon falls victim to the machinations of time. Just as he is about to leave Ingolstadt and return to his hometown, “an incident happened that protracted [his] stay” (Ibid 40). Later on, Victor sees his plans falling apart again. As he plans to return to Geneva, he is “delayed by several accidents” (Ibid 55).
These instances of tragic irony are what I define as dichotomies of timing. Essentially, the plot splits into two different directions: the thetical one that is the actual outcome leading to the events described in the story, and the antithetical one that is its opposite. Such a reading poses a question: Had Victor escaped these events, would the ensuing catastrophe have happened? Is fate avoidable?
Are choices based on fate or chance? Destiny or coincidence?
Note: the following article on Mary Shelley’s The Last Man is a modified excerpt (pp. 70-74) from my doctoral dissertation, “Time is Everything with Him”: The Concept of the Eternal Now in Nineteenth-Century Gothic, which can be downloaded (for free) from the repository of the Tampere University Press. For a list of my other academic publications, see here.
Mary Shelley’s The Last Man is an apocalyptic tale that, as the title suggests, deals with the possibility of someone being the last person left in the world after a plague has annihilated the human race. The trope of immortality is not only present, but also seen in a context of loss, destruction, and forlorn hope. Although Lionel Verney, the surviving character of The Last Man, is not an immortal in the strict sense of the word, he effectively possesses immortal status: he survives the death of everyone he knows, to the point that he apparently outlives every single person on the planet. In The Last Man, death is presented as preferable to staying alive.
The novel features a remarkably complex temporal scheme. Not only does it follow the typical narrative mechanisms of the Gothic canon – discovered manuscripts, multiple narrators, dubious objectivity – but also a time flow so chaotic that it verges on incoherence. The reader discovers that in the universe of The Last Man, time exists on more than one layer, as Albright argues:
Shelley frames her novel as an ancient prophecy by the Cumæan Sybil, written on Sibylline leaves (in various ancient and modern languages) found in a hidden cave in 1818 by an anonymous “author” … It is an ancient prophecy of a future apocalypse written retrospectively by its lone survivor, who looks back upon the final decades of the human race’s existence from the year 2100. By narrating the close of human history, the novel reconfigures and humanizes time. Since history is now complete, we can perceive it in its entirety. (2009, 133–134)
Shelley’s novel is among the first examples of post-apocalyptic fiction
