Mexican Gothic

 

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I sometimes wonder/admire/contemplate what it’s like to be a modern writer publishing in this day and age. Consider that your readership has consumed and continues to consume so much content on the daily (as well as yourself); it must be so hard to come up with ideas. Different ideas. Right now I’m of the belief that it’s a real challenge for modern writers to be groundbreaking and show us something new because there’s a lack of complete originality that comes with living in such a media-heavy consumer society. This is a thought I had as I closed the cover on my book club’s third venture: Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s Mexican Gothic.

Described as a cross between the Bronte sisters and Lovecraft, the book tells the story of Mexican beauty and socialite Noemi Taboada, who’s father sends her to the decaying and gloomy High Place when he receives a concerning letter from her newly married cousin Catalina. Determined to discover what’s troubling her beloved cousin, Noemi goes without complaint, but soon discovers that there is something really wrong with High Place. The house is gloomy and crumbling around the inhabitants and the family is not much better. Catalina’s husband is charming, but menacing, his decrepit father is foreboding, and his tyrannical sister has no time for Noemi’s questions and concerns. Soon Catalina’s unease about the house and the family become Noemi’s, as she begins to have horrific nightmares and some dramatic stories come to light about skeletons in the Doyle family’s closet. 

This is a very easy read. A return to the true gothic aesthetic complete with stiff and eerie characters, wealth gone to seed, and a crumbling mansion haunted by goodness knows what. The central horror is rather Lovecraftian, treading a fine line between the scientific and the supernatural. An interesting excursion into the idea of ‘traumascapes’ (locations ‘haunted’ by horrible events of violence, scandal, etc…) Mexican Gothic does live up to the Guardian’s statement of “Lovecraft meets the Brontes in Latin America” with its engaging heroine out to uncover a mystery and the unsubtle racism of the supporting characters. 

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While the story itself is rather interesting, the prose is very blunt, sometimes the action, dialogue, and scenes of horror feel a little ham-fisted, and – as I mentioned earlier – there is nothing particularly different or shocking in the drama/horror because it’s reminiscent of a whole bunch of other authors and content creators. Lovecraft, Crimson Peak, The Last of Us, these are just a few things I was put in mind of when reading this book. 

But the pace of the story is good, there isn’t ever really a dull moment, the characters are compelling enough, and the imagery is pretty gorgeous. If you’re a fan of the gothic, then I would recommend you give this a go.

Author: Silvia Morena-Garcia, 2020

Published: Del Ray, an imprint of Random House, New York, 2020.  Pictured edition published by Jo Fletcher Books, London, 2021.

The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allen Poe

 

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It’s been a bit of a long bout between reading adventures. As a reader I have been trying to exercise and strengthen my abilities by juggling. Whilst I have concluded that this is something that I can do, it is not something that I like to do. The last book that I closed the cover on was one that I had been working on solidly for months. Plucked from the shelf with the intent of serving as my bedtime reads with tea in the evening and then morning reads with coffee, sharing my attention between the two books meant that this one took me absolute ages. An epic challenge that I have finally triumphed over, this book was The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allen Poe.

Featuring absolutely everything from Poe’s gothic thrillers such as The Fall of the House of Usher and Murders in the Rue Morgue, to his Verne-esque tales of scientific adventure, classic adventures tales akin to Louis Stevenson, and of course his various poems, this book is an absolute rollercoaster of a reading experience. Being a chunky anthology, I most certainly would not recommend going through it in one sitting. My thought process behind my choice to read it was to read a tale or two before bed in nice, manageable instalments. Even so, Poe’s incredible prose, long-winded descriptions, and sometimes brain-imploding plots are definitely not the light evening read I had envisioned. 

Of course.

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Most modern readers will probably only know Poe for The Fall of the House of Usher, The Pit and the Pendulum and The Raven and if there is one thing that I have discovered from reading his collected works, it is that he was such a well-rounded and versatile writer. At any point within these pages one could mistake the story for one from Jules Verne or Robert Louis Stevenson. Whilst some tales are an absolute struggle, others are gripping, thrilling, and captivating from the get-go and –at the end of it all- one cannot help but feel a little smarter and more culturally enriched for having read them all. 

Author: Edgar Allen Poe

Published: Random House, Inc., New York, 1938. Penguin Books, 1982.

And the Ass Saw the Angel

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 There’s something to be said about the stranger surprises that life can give you. Having recently been on a bender of fantasy, science fiction, and spoopy horror, the next book that I picked up proved to be such a contrast to those other books that I do believe I got whiplash from it! Don’t get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoyed the book, but whoa I was not ready for how dark and different it was to everything I’ve gotten used to recently. This week’s book was And the Ass Saw the Angel by Nick Cave. 

The book chronicles the nightmarish and thoroughly depressing story of Euchrid Eucrow. Born mute and into an abusive family that lives on the junk-heaped outskirts of a strict and maniacally God-fearing town, Euchrid’s life is one long nightmare of abuse, persecution, and isolation. After his town suffers an unseasonal torrent of rainfall, the skies part and the sun appears again with the arrival of a foundling child left abandoned on a monument step. The town immediately adopts the child and declare her to be a Chosen of the Almighty. But Euchrid doesn’t see her that way and his descent into isolation and insanity increases, leading to disastrous consequences for them both.

The debut novel from Aussie rock artist Nick Cave, And the Ass Saw the Angel is a brilliant example of modern Gothic. Cave explores a number of social and literary themes that keep the mind whirring with thoughts and analyses including the ‘problem’ of the unreliable narrator (very Poe-esque here) as well as the exclusivities of zealous doctrinal lifestyles. We’ve got some Beauty and the Beast vibes going on at one point, and while there are some scenes that are described with (I think) unnecessary graphic and violent language and imagery, the prose itself is decadent, rich in imagery, and just that delightfully bit pretentious. 

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Cave really manages to place you slap in the middle of this horrid, nightmarish Southern landscape (or traumascape if you will) and throughout the whole book I was completely blown away by how rich and incredible the imagery was. Confronting yes, disgusting most definitely, but still so vibrant and a real incredible example of the power of words. 

Honestly, it’s not for everyone. People with weaker constitutions for violence and gore or who just find that stuff needless and distasteful will be better off plucking something else from the shelf. But for anyone who is a fan of Gothic literature and interested to see its continued progression into the ‘modern’ age, I would recommend this!

Author: Nick Cave, 1989

Published: Black Springs Press Ltd 1989. Published by Penguin Books 1990. 

The Haunted Hotel

 

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After the various bouts of fantastical adventures I’ve recently been on, I thought this week’s book needed to be different; a real change of pace. And so I lovingly fingered the spines of my library for quite a while before I plucked this week’s choice off the shelf: The Haunted Hotel by Wilkie Collins. 

It’s a story about murder, madness, and memories that won’t rest… even in death. When the sinister Countess Narona marries Agnes Lockwood’s fiancé, she takes him to live with her and her brother in a rundown palace in Venice. Whilst there, a servant mysteriously disappears and the husband dies. Years later the palace is turned into a lavish hotel that manages to draw the Countess, Agnes, and the dead husband’s entire family to it. As the Countess slowly descends into madness, Agnes and the family suffer from various strange events in one room of the hotel and soon an investigation is underway to find out what really happened to the late Lord Montbarry and his servant. 

 This is a delightful little ghost story that reads a bit like a Sherlock Holmes mystery. Deeply dramatic, but written in quite a nonchalant tone, The Haunted Hotel has everything you could want for a good afternoon read. 

Murder, mystery and madness flavour the story immensely as well as two heroines that are chalk and cheese in character and work to scare each other more than the ghost.

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But perhaps what is best about this book is that it is left to the reader to determine the nature of the goings on and whether there is logic behind them or no. A Sherlock Holmes mystery minus the great detective, The Haunted Hotel is classically gothic in its sinister and mysterious central story, all of which is excitingly revealed in the climactic 'Fourth Part'. However, the book cleverly leaves off with a grand tie-up and characters are left with only their limited knowledge of the strange events to either dwell on or simply forget. Secrets are kept, horrors are hidden, and at the end of it all there is happiness and a tender little ending. 

Despite its seemingly dramatic content, I found The Haunted Hotel to be a really light and enjoyable read: engaging, filled with great imagery, and actually rather fun. Would recommend. 

Author: Wilkie Collins, 1878

Published: First published as a penny-dreadful serial series. Published in its entirety in 1889. This edition published by Penguin Group 2009.

The Pit and the Pendulum

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I am by no stretch of the imagination a seasoned reader; my profound lack of reading books during my most ‘informative years’ puts me at a bit of a disadvantage in terms of the amount of works that I have read. So please correct me if I am wrong, but I don’t think there has ever been any author anywhere who has been able to create a glimpse into the complexities of the human psyche better than Edgar Allen Poe.

Although he arguably gives an incredible flourish to his narratives in terms of the dramatic and gothic imagery he conjures, he’s the closest author (that I have come across) who is able to actually put the distressed mind state of the mentally ill individual into words that are extravagant, but not clichéd. This morning’s traverse down the gothic rabbit hole was The Pit and the Pendulum.

This short story tells the chilling tale of a political prisoner sentenced to death and then tossed into a dungeon cell where all manner of nightmarish tortures await to turn him mad including infernal darkness, demonic images painted on the ceiling, an infestation of ravenous rats, a dark and ominous pit, and a slowly descending, razor-edged pendulum that drops ever towards his bound body.

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The metaphoric interpretation behind this tale is that it’s an extravagant depiction of the depressed mind –Poe himself suffered from depression and mental illness, which was aggravated by alcohol. More than that, the story is one of the most thrilling stories in which literally nothing happens, but there is always the terrifying promise that some grim and climactic horror is soon to take place. Poe’s ability to pique his readers’ fascination and suspense goes beyond the boundaries of exciting the nerves and straight into shattering them, giving the reader a similar experience to that of his poor, trapped, and tormented protagonist.

This symmetrical reading experience is what makes The Pit and the Pendulum one of his most celebrated works, being masterfully crafted and painfully intimate with its signature first person register, potentially unreliable narrator, and brilliant, but simple prose that perfectly creates the book’s nightmarish images in the mind’s eye as well as superbly establishes its defeated and doomed tone.

The Pit and the Pendulum was written by Edgar Allen Poe and first published in 1843 when it was serialized in The Gift for 1843, Philadelphia.

The Fall of the House of Usher

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As much fun as it is to become immersed slowly and deeply into the worlds of long-winded novels (of the three-four hundred page variety), sometimes you yearn for the same fix, but in a fraction of the time. Cue Edgar Allen Poe! This morning I had a very exciting little adventure into madness and the dark of the human psyche with The Fall of the House of Usher.

This short story centres on the tale of an unnamed narrator travelling to an isolated and decaying mansion in response to a summons from his childhood friend Roderick Usher. Roderick is dreadfully melancholy and ill and the narrator spends over two weeks in his company reading, playing music, discussing art, and burying his sister alive!

When we think of Gothic literature, the mind immediately goes to Poe. His stories are a literary embodiment of the genre, with the settings, the themes, and the characters all gearing towards the macabre and an inevitable demise. The Fall of the House of Usher is probably one of his more confusing stories, with the majority of the drama being implied and left to interpretation than actually explained.

There are a number of ways in which you can interpret the story, though my mind reads it as a macabre exploration into mental illness and its affects not only on the sufferer, but those around them. Roderick Usher’s hypochondria and melancholia (which we’re led to believe are caused by the house and its isolation) actually begins to infect the mind of the narrator, posing two thrilling questions about the classic unreliable narrator: 1) is he unreliable because he is already suffering from mental illness himself, or 2) is Usher’s mental illness contagious. Considering Poe was writing at a time when internal disease of the mind and psyche was something relatively new and unexplored, the story is very complex because of its intimately internal conflicts.

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Poe’s signature delve into the mindset of his characters is what makes The Fall of the House of Usher so exciting and immersive despite it’s very short length. While there is no outer world for readers to explore, they are still given the complete and enveloping reading experience that many well-written novels offer, being placed right in the thick of the decaying mansion and its decaying inhabitants.

A lot of modern literature would not be what it is today without Poe’s thrilling and exciting prose and the Fall of the House of Usher is probably one of his best known and most delightfully entangling works.

The Fall of the House of Usher was written by Edgar Allen Poe and was serialised in Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine. It was first published in its entirety in 1839 by W. Burton, Philadelphia.

Villette

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Again, readers, apologies for the tardiness of reviews and the break in rhythmic flowing of the literary reservoir that is Hannahbelle’s Shelf, it is true that life is filled with many struggles and they take some time to get through. One such struggle for me has been the latest book I endeavoured to become absorbed in. In a considerably unwise move, I went from a long bout of fantasy (with the Skulduggery Pleasant series) to non-fiction (with Best Foot Forward and Boys Will be Boys) and then thought, ‘you know what would be great right now, a little Victorian literature!’… Definitely not my smartest move.

Villette chronicles the life story of Miss Lucy Snowe, a stoic and solitary woman who leaves an unhappy life in England and flees to France without the aid of family, friends, money, or class. There, she finds work as a teacher in Madame Beck’s Rue Fossette. Soon her solitary and demure nature are thrown into disarray as she finds herself drawn to the charismatic and enigmatic schoolmaster, Monsieur Paul Emmanuel and, despite the jealous interference from Madame Beck, Lucy is inspired to assert her right to love and be loved.

The book is based largely in part on Charlotte Bronte’s own experiences in Brussels and is primarily flavoured by themes of loneliness, identity obscurity, Depression, and self-worth, inspired by Bronte’s own feelings after the deaths of her sisters and brother. This autobiographical edge, coupled with its intimate first-person register makes Villette a very – sometimes even uncomfortably- personal book and thus, offers an incredibly voyeuristic experience.

Sometimes it can feel that this form of narrative is dense; definitely a bit of a struggle to get through if you’ve been out of practice with Victorian lit., but at the same time the book takes on another genre that keeps the reader enthralled. Much like Austen’s retreat into the tamer and slightly gloomy version of her biting and exhilarating wit in Persuasion, Villette can still very much be considered a Gothic romance in the same vein as Bronte’s first novel, Jane Eyre. A turbulent love story does, of course, ensue; not just between Lucy and Paul, but amidst a number of the supporting characters and there are glorious elements of social commentary, religious influence, class systems, and even the supernatural. There may not be a mad woman in the attic, but that theme of hidden horrors is still prevalent and serves as a strong hook for turning pages.

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Bronte injects her world with colourful and recognisable characters that continue to make the book accessible even though the language and structure of her prose can prove a little challenging, and this is what makes her writing transcend generations.

Despite struggling a little, being out of practice with Victorian lit., I rather enjoyed Villette and found that it was a book that I could indeed become entirely enthralled in. Obviously, Bronte’s not an author for everyone, but those who are curious about her writing, Victorian literature, and Gothic romance, will appreciate and enjoy Villette.

Villette was written by Charlotte Bronte and first published in 1853. A large portion of it is autobiographical, based on Bronte’s own experiences as an English teacher in Brussels in 1842; her sister Emily taught music.

We Have Always Lived in the Castle

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Whilst I am a complete sucker for basically any form of literature, if I had to pick a favourite genre in a life-or-death situation, it would be gothic all the way. As old as the 1800s, gothic literature has evolved drastically over time, but has always retained its characteristic traits of excitement, macabre, sinister, and beauty. Secrets, mysteries, and unreliable narrators are a foolproof good read for me and with this passion at hand I recently plucked a copy of Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle from my shelf and buried myself in it…

Narrated by 18 year-old Mary Katherine ‘Merricat’ Blackwood, Castle tells the story of Merricat, her older sister Constance, and her Uncle Julian’s simple happy life in their isolated family home. Protective of Constance and slightly eccentric, Merricat devotes herself to preserving their delicate way of life, especially since Constance was on trial and acquitted of murdering the rest of their family six years ago. But distressing disruption occurs when their cousin Charles appears out of the blue for a visit and while he’s all smiles and charm, he appears to have an ulterior motive in coming.

I honestly might have to read this book again because I’m still not sure I understood what was going on. It’s wonderfully gothic with its themes of isolation, social anxiety, and fear of the Other, but it’s actually a very tricky book to grasp because of its myriad of intense deceptions: namely the unreliable narrator. Like James and Poe, Jackson instantly sets readers up for a bumpy ride with the book being written in the first person perspective of a character that, we quickly realise, is not entirely ‘normal’. While Merricat’s narration is crisp and sophisticated, there are hints of a fractured mind and her actions also indicate a disturbed mental state. Her strategic placing of protective talismans around the house as well as her constant burying of objects are characteristic of OCD and the sincerity and rationality with which she communicates her mind hint at schizophrenia or post-traumatic stress disorder. The interesting, or frustrating, thing about the book is that no concrete evidence is given to tell you what Merricat actually is: mentally disabled, a witch, or dead? I’m still trying to decide.

This character and language deception is the car that Jackson drives us in through to the final page where there is still no destination in sight. Because of Merricat’s skewed perceptions of things and the isolation of the setting, it’s almost impossible to determine which characters to put our trust in. Uncle Julian is physically disabled and suffering from dementia, which throws a number of spanners in the works, and Constance also seems to suffer from OCD and PTSD as she spends all her time cooking and cleaning. Although Charles is obviously the villain he appears to be the only ‘sane’ person in the piece, which is actually not a very comforting thought.

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Although the story centers on Merricat’s struggles to preserve her remaining family’s delicate existence when it’s threatened by Charles’ appearance, there is an ever present ripple of mystery throughout the book: who killed the rest of the family? It’s this compelling need to find the truth of the tragedy that keeps you reading on.

We Have Always Lived in the Castle, despite being so small, is a rich and seriously complex book, one that (for me anyway) definitely warrants multiple readings. Perhaps I’ll research and reread it and then come back with a more concrete idea as to what is actually happening within its pages. Then again, where’s the intrigue if there’s no mystery?

We Have Always Lived in the Castle is the final book written by Shirley Jackson, published in 1962 by Viking Press. Jackson died three years after it was published.

Titus Alone

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And so we come to the final chapter –or book rather- in the story of Titus Groan, the Seventy-Seventh Earl of Gormenghast. A departure from the gothic fantasy tone of its predecessors, Titus Alone combines science fiction with a circular story –not unlike that of A Clockwork Orange- to create a strange yet stimulating travel log of a character journey.

The book chronicles Titus’ wanderings as a free man, away from the monotony and suffocating ritual of his homeland. Heading into unknown country and taking no notice of his directions he promptly gets lost and in dire trouble when he wanders into a modern civilization that has never heard of him or Gormenghast. With no papers, no identity, and no idea where he’s come from or where he’s going, his desired freedom takes on a new tinge of loneliness and soon he begins to question his own sanity.

Far from being my favourite book in the trilogy, Titus Alone is still a very interesting read. Completely disjointed from the rest of the series –in both setting and aesthetic- it’s a book that warrants numerous readings I think, as it seems to sample -or at least reminds me of- a number of other literary classics. There is definitely some interesting aspects of science fiction happening, reminiscent of Orwell’s 1984 –though not as extreme. 

Titus’ exploration away from home and into the modern world –for such is what happens- gives the story this strange edge and one interesting way to interpret it is that the whole thing is a representation of the genres of literature and how separate they are from one another. Gormenghast –and its fantasy tone- is something completely unheard of and –ironically- quite outdated compared to the rest of the world, which lives in this technological, science-fictiony age. This is by no means an academic interpretation, but it’s something I couldn’t help thinking about as I read.

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Despite the different tone and setting, there are some things that are still in keeping with the previous books. Peake’s ability to write fascinating allegorical caricatures of society is still here, filling Titus Alone with a group of fascinating people to read about. From the vain beauty Cheeta to the rugged king of the wilds Muzzelhatch, this book is alive with interesting characters and exciting stories. It’s a fascinating ending to a wonderful trilogy.

Titus Alone is the final book in Mervyn Peake’s Gormenghast trilogy and was published by Eyre and Spottiswoode in 1946.

Gormenghast

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There’s nothing like returning to a familiar landscape –regardless of how decrepit, dusty, and uninviting it might be. While the sun shines, the clouds swell and nature meanders onwards the stagnant and immovable castle of Gormenghast continues to hold all within its walls in its grip of subjugation and monotony…

Gormenghast picks up where Titus Groan left off with the Countess, Fuschia, and Doctor Prunesquallor pondering the mysterious disappearance of Lord Sepulchrave and the chef, Swelter. Amongst the castle’s multitudinous inhabitants Flay is the only one who knows the truth, but now lives as an exile in Gormenghast Forest. But despite his new home he still keeps an eye on the castle and it’s a good thing too. As Steerpike continues his treacherous ascent through the hierarchy, the heart of Gormenghast pulses with an irregular beat and as Titus approaches manhood a sense of rebellion stirs.

In what is undoubtedly the ultimate height of the series, Peake continues to envelop his readers with a richly verbose and eloquent prose that is poetically omniscient as well as mocking.

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While the characters we met in Titus Groan continue on their journeys we are also introduced to wonderful new archetypes and caricatures: most notably those of the Professors. A hilarious and repellent gaggle of men their various quirks and antics paint a marvelously funny picture of the British education system (at the time). We see Titus grow up and face his own internal struggles against his heritage and birthright while Steerpike enters into the realms of true villainy: his scars –a backlash of his own arson- reflecting his journey as well as disfiguring him into a monster. 

Where there should be dragons, and giants, and a dastardly witch ritual, loyalty, and ambition are the trials the heroes must battle through. Peake’s wondrous adherence to a fairytale structure –a very gothic one at that- pulls you into its pages and does not let you come up for air until it wants you to. For this reason, Titus Groan and Gormenghast are amongst my all-time favourite stories.

Gormenghast is the second book in the titular trilogy by Mervyn Peake and was published in 1950 by Eyre and Spottiswoode.

Titus Groan

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The lives of literary genres ebb and flow; die and then reincarnate into something more fitting for the times. But then sometimes the old ways return. Such is the case with Mervyn Peake’s spectacular Gormenghast trilogy.

The first book – Titus Groan- introduces readers to the wonderfully gloomy and dismal world of Gormenghast, ruled by the bloodline of Groan. Into this stronghold is born Titus, the 77^th Earl of Gormenghast and first male heir of Lord Sepulchrave and the Countess Gertrude. At the same time an ambitious youth named Steepike escapes from a hellish life of kitchen service and begins his treacherous ascent to power.

The book is a return to the traditional Gothic with everything from the gloomy castle to the excruciatingly dysfunctional family being reminiscent of such classic tales as Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto or Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho. Add to this Peake’s verbose prose, which tends to put one in mind of Dickens, and it sounds rather like a Victorian novel right? Wrong. Perhaps the most brilliant thing about the trilogy is that it was written in the 1940s –when Gothic literature had become pulp fiction- and is actually an extremely clever and scathing allegory for British society, as is represented by the traditions, class systems, and unquestioning acceptance of ridiculous Law.

Along with the exciting things that do happen as a result of Steerpike’s journey up the social ladder, the majority of the book is an introduction to a superb menagerie of characters, each and every one of them caricatured or archetypal. We meet the melancholy Lord Sepulchrave, weary by the weight of endless rituals and traditions that he upholds. Beside him there is the mammoth Countess Gertrude, a woman so detached from society that she replaces human contact with birds and cats. Their daughter Lady Fuchsia is young, headstrong and romantic and the servants are equally memorable: Nannie Slagg, Flay, and the librarians Sourdust and Barquentine are hilarious/horrific visions of age with Slagg being liable to collapse any second and Barqentine being the pinnacle of cantankerousness despite his withered leg and crutch.

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The setting itself, the castle, is a living breathing existence that holds these characters hostage and Peake’s delightful mixture of horror and humour consistently has you turning pages with a feverish need to know what comes next. In place of dragons, magic potions, knights, and fair damsels, the monsters of this almost-fantasy setting are the boring monotonies of ritual, narcissism, vanity, and social expectations described with such delicious wit and eloquent vocabulary that transport you from your couch to the vast stone corridors of the Castle.

Titus Groan is the first book in Peake’s Gormenghast trilogy, first published in 1946 by Eyre and Spottiswoode.

American Gods

The last time I attempted to read Neil Gaiman’s American Gods, it was right after finishing the works of Franz Kafka *puffs chest with pretentious, literary pride* and, sadly, it had put my brain into a weird place where I could not fathom or immerse myself in what the story was about. 

So, two years later I tried again and this time, I finished it! American Gods is the slightly gothic road story about an ex-con and forgotten gods from around the world. 

Days before his release from prison, Shadow learns of his wife’s death in a car crash. On his journey home, he meets a strange fellow named Wednesday, a former god, who offers him a job of being his bodyguard. With no better prospects, Shadow accepts the job and the two embark on a bizarre road trip across America, recruiting forgotten gods to fight in an upcoming war against the new gods of America. 

It’s probably because the book I read prior to this was Douglas Adams’ The Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul, which deals with similar themes, but I definitely got more out of American Gods this time around. It’s a compelling and fascinating read for a number of reasons and, at the same time, it’s one of those strange books where nothing seems to happen for hundreds of pages, but for some reason you continue ploughing through it page after page. 

The central idea is fresh, relevant, and downright fascinating. It must have been a lot of fun to research. It explores the idea that different gods from all over the world migrated to America with the people who believed in them, but slowly over time became forgotten as ethnic traditions and beliefs dried up or changed into something else. As a result, there are these poor gods wandering about the place, undernourished because no one believes in them anymore. 

The central conflict is between the old and the new: epics gods from myths and legends fighting new-age gods of technology and the material world. 

In the middle, representing the mortal man is Shadow who is something of a strange hero figure. Going through the trials of the quest narrative as well as his own weird journey of self-discovery, Shadow is an interesting character because he remains something of a mystery right to the very end. Whilst the majority of the story takes place around him, aside from segments that tell tales from hundreds of years before him, little of himself is properly revealed and there are often times when his actions cause a bit of a stir within the bosom of the reader, making them put the book down and go ‘huh’. 

Gaiman writes the entire book with this element of mystery behind it; never just saying something like it is, but twisting it into some vague semblance of something, and it’s our primal need to know what we’re reading about that causes us to continue turning pages. There are a lot of different experiences to be had whilst reading this book, or indeed any of Gaiman’s prose, and it might be this teasing, string-along effect that turns many of his works into film and television adaptations. 

That or the incredible imagery that he manages to create within his books: some of the scenes in American Gods can get a little graphic and bizarre a la Videodrome, but the stories and the experience of reading them make up those moments of ‘uh um ee oh what’. 

After all, the book has won several awards and been made into a TV series starring Ian McShane, so it’s got to be doing something right! 

Author: Neil Gaiman 

Published: 2001, Headline Book Publishing

The Yellow Wallpaper

The first reading of Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s little literary masterpiece of a woman’s descent into madness puts us in mind of a genetic splice between Poe and Woolf. But in the hours you spend thinking about it after turning the last page, you realise that there is so much more going on. 

One of the most compelling works of feminist literature, The Yellow Wallpaper tells the story of a wife and mother who is forced into an isolated country holiday by her physician husband to cure a nervous breakdown. The nameless heroine, starved of intellectual stimulation, chronicles her feelings in secret as well as documents her feelings towards her bedroom’s repellent yellow wallpaper and her descent into madness as the patterns on it begin to consume her mind. 

Taken straight from her own experience, the story has a lot going on considering its length (a mere thirty-six pages long). On the surface, it reads as a Gothic horror complete with a nameless and faceless ‘unreliable’ narrator (unreliable as we quickly learns she’s going insane, though there’s an irony here that I’ll delve into later) a la Edgar Allen Poe. The short sentences and jagged paragraphs, never housing more than two or three sentences, are definitely not the lengthy and long-winded streams of consciousness that colour Woolf’s work, but still serve as a strong depiction of the heroine’s mind as well as tells entire stories and histories with few words. Through these techniques alone we are captivated and wrenched almost forcibly into a world seen through the heroine’s eyes. 

And this is where the true brilliance of the book comes through. The heroine becomes fixated on the wallpaper: hating it, being terrified of it, and then finally desperate to free the women trapped behind it that shake the patterns and make them move. Instantly, the wallpaper becomes a metaphor for marriage and the attitudes of a patriarchal society towards women. Victorian marriage and the demands on women to be wife, mother, and nothing more suddenly become the central villain of this chilling tale and there’s an eerie dramatic irony in the idea that this heroine (who is actually going mad and hallucinating) is simultaneously seeing the world for what it truly is: a structure of patriarchal inequality and female subjugation. Suddenly, everything you’ve read in the pages before takes on a different colour and a strong social commentary comes bursting out of the paper (to take an image from the story). 

Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s use of a popular mass-read genre, techniques reminiscent of other writers, and then brilliant use of metaphor makes The Yellow Wallpaper a wonderfully modern book as well as one that deals with themes that are relevant to this day. Everything from sexual to social attitudes are represented here, as well as perfect depictions of the relationships and attitudes between the sexes: not just men towards women, but also women towards women. It truly is a masterpiece that has not gotten the recognition that it deserves and I would strongly encourage people to change this by taking a mere hour out of their day to sit down and read it. 

Author: Charlotte Perkins Gilman 

Published: 1892

Anthology of Fear: 20 Haunting Stories for Winter Nights

There are times when you don’t want to read an entire 300-page intrigue, but yearn for something short; still packing that suspense and delivering a punch. I found this exact thing in a beautiful hardback little gem sitting precariously atop a pile of pre-loved novels in a Naremburn second-hand bookshop. 

The book: Anthology of Fear: 20 Haunting Stories for Winter Nights. It’s a gorgeous selection of chilling gothic horror stories from an undeniably captivating list of authors. The list looks a little something like this: Mary Braddon who, you’ll remember, wrote the delightfully intriguing Lady Audley’s Secret, Nathaniel Hawthorne who’s name cannot be brought up without attaching The Scarlet Letter, Washington Irving who brought us The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, W.W. Jacobs, M.R. James, J. Sheridan Le Fanu, Frederick Marryat, Edith Nesbit, Bram Stoker (no need to remind you what he’s famous for), and Edith Wharton. With such a strong list of credentials, the appeal of this anthology is, as I said, undeniable! 

Whilst the supernatural or paranormal, so ghosts and vamps and unholy agents are the recurrent theme of many of these tales, there is a good sense of variety on offer. From Jacobs’ terrifying tale of the magic monkey paw that grants three wishes in a most Faustian way, to Stoker’s horrid story of a gruesome revenge executed on man by a cat, Anthology of Fear does exactly what its title advertises; stringing up multiple tight threads of suspense and anxiety and then bringing them to perfect breaking point by either providing payoff or leaving the ending open for you to make up your own mind as to what happens. 

The balance between the various realms of Gothic, from the religious evil of devil-worshippers and corruption of purity in Hawthorne’s story through to the idea of villainous houses and traumatic landscapes, reminiscent of Du Maurier’s Jamaica Inn in Irving’s tale, and then the many paranormal horrors of ghosts and hauntings that colour the works of Braddon, Stoker, Wharton, James, and Nesbit make this book a continually enthralling read. 

Many of the Gothic tropes are explored; the fear of the foreign Other, corruption and decay of human decency and purity, the past haunting the present, destruction of innocence, even a little bit of homo-erotica, giving each of the stories this extra layer of depth, meaning, and complexity, so that they manage to accomplish a lot given that they are not very long. Whilst reading these stories, you are strung through an array of emotions and it’s very telling of the level of talent that these authors have that these stories can steer you through such emotional turbulence in so short a space of time. 

This book is filled with everything from pirates, to vampires, to werewolves, ghosts, manifestations of Death, extreme devices of human torture, witchcraft, and unholy unions, all accompanied by striking imagery and an ever-present feeling that the worst is yet to come. I absolutely loved it!

The Thirty-Nine Steps

Written by John Buchan in 1915 and made into a classic spy thriller by the Master of Suspense himself, Alfred Hitchcock, The Thirty-Nine Steps contains all the traditional tropes of the good spy thriller. 

Whilst it’s a short book and written in probably the most simplest of ways, it does not fail to pique reader interest and build up some storage of suspense and anticipation of what is going to happen next. 

After returning to England from years in South Africa, Richard Hannay quickly grows to find London life dull and uninspiring. That is until a murder is committed in his apartment. Tagged as the obvious suspect, Richard goes on the run in the Highlands of his native Scotland in an attempt to delay his pursuers and gain time to decipher the true mystery surrounding the murdered man. 

It’s a classic wrong-man story set against the looming threat of war filled with strong doses of paranoia, action, violence, and the ever-present chase. 

Quite like the dime store detective thrillers and minute volumes of pulp fiction that would flourish in the 1930s, the book is a reflection of Buchan’s own distrust of German culture as well as an exhibition of a classic trope in Gothic literature: fear of the foreign Other. 

As a literary piece sitting within a genre, it’s a modern work of Gothic fiction where deserted moors have replaced gloomy castles, the pursued damsel has been traded for the wrongly-accused man, and the villain is no longer an evil king or lord but a pack of German spies, and by extension an entire country. This is the central appeal of The Thirty-Nine Steps; what reader does not love a bit of detective thriller and modern gothic? 

However, whilst where it sits within the realms of genre makes this book a little complex and intriguing, I cannot honestly say that I found it particularly exciting. For a start, the writing is very simple and is written almost entirely without any real tone or voice within the text. It’s written in the first person register from the point of view of Richard Hannay, but it’s a book where I feel that we don’t get a good sense of the protagonist’s character. 

Aside from one or two lines that clearly give the man a voice and personality, the entire narrative is told with a certain recounting passivity, which leeches a lot of the excitement and drama out of it. So by the climax, whilst I was still interested to see what happened in the end, I wasn’t afire with anticipation; I could have easily just put the book down. 

The events that are described are rather exciting, but if there’s no real fire in words and sentence structure, then I’m just reading words on a page and not entering the world they are meant to be inviting me into. 

Filled with action, suspense, violence, drama, and a few moments of fresh comedy, The Thirty-Nine Steps is a fine novel in terms of genre: it does tick all the boxes for a spy thriller and modern gothic, but ultimately there is something lacking in the tone and simplicity with which it is written and that served as a downer.