Is Transgression Represented As A Positive Action In The Narrative Of Matthew Lewis’s The Monk?

This assignment will look at narrative transgression in Matthew Lewis’s 18^th Century Gothic Novel, The Monk (1796). The novel was written towards the end of the eighteenth century, during the French Revolution. This is reflected throughout the narrative of the novel, mainly through the characters actions which further the narrative. There was a lot of unease in Europe at the time the novel was written amongst nobility, with the fear that the same thing would happen to them. Lewis was an MP; so it would have been of concern to him. As a result one of the major themes of The Monk is transgression, and Lewis explores the effect it has on society. Religion and sexuality are the main themes in the novel, and the assignment will look at how the characters conform to the cultural expectations of those themes, and how their transgression, if present, affects their narrative. Ambrosio and Matilda, the protagonist and antagonist will be explored thoroughly, with minor characters also being investigated.

The character of Matilda, or Rosario, is the ultimate transgressor in The Monk. She transgresses both sexually and religiously. Whether this is seen as a positive outcome for her depends on whether what the devil says at the end of the novel, “It was I who threw Matilda in your way”[1] is true or not. Given that the devil also claims Ambrosio was to be found innocent by his prosecutors despite such evidence against him, it is probable that this is merely a lie to further torment Ambrosio.

Matilda’s gender transgression has a startling effect on Ambrosio, “Amazed, embarrassed and irresolute, he found himself incapable of pronouncing a syllable, and remained in silence gazing upon Matilda;” (p. 46). By revealing her female form she gains power over Ambrosio, and is able to manipulate him to do what she wants.

Furthermore her religious transgression gives her control over a “daemon” (p. 204) which appears to give her the power for anything she wants,

Matilda…spoke in a loud and commanding tone, and her gestures declared that she was threatening him with her vengeance. Her menaces had the desired effect: the spirit sank upon his knee, and with a submissive air presented to her a branch of myrtle (p. 204).

This enables her to give Ambrosio what he wants; Antonia, and further strengthens her power over him.

There will be debate over Matilda’s fate. Both she and Ambrosio cut deals with the devil and we see that Ambrosio suffers for doing so. However in his article, “Transgendering in Matthew Lewis’s The Monk” Brewer[2] argues that because he was afraid of religious transgression he only asked the daemon to “save me! Snatch me from hence!” (p. 320) whereas Matilda was more confident, and by wishing for “the power of procuring every bliss which can make life delicious” (p. 314) she would be able to lead a life of luxury. This would suggest that through religious and sexual transgression Matilda would come out of the novel in a better position than any other character. It is also worth noting that she is the only character to transgress both sexually and religiously of her own free will.

The central character of The Monk, Ambrosio, was raised in the monastery since he was a baby, and “in order to break his spirit, the monks terrified his young mind with all the horrors with which superstition could furnish them” (p. 204). This would have left Ambrosio too terrified to entertain any unholy thoughts, which built up over time unleashed themselves all at once as soon as Matilda gives him an outlet to do so. Had he not been treated so harshly by the monks he may not have been as compelled to transgress in adulthood.

Ambrosio transgresses both sexually and religiously. In breaking his vow of chastity with Matilda, Ambrosio weakens his resolve and this causes him to “forget his vows, his sanctity, and his fame: he remembered nothing but the pleasure and opportunity.” (p. 69) this leaves Ambrosio open to sin. Every time Ambrosio transgresses he feels regret and remorse, “Scarcely had he succeeded in his design than he shuddered at himself and the means by which it was effected. The very excess of his former eagerness to possess Antonia now contributed to inspire him with disgust.” (p. 281) This sexual deviance backfires on him and he finds himself taken by the inquisition to be punished.

Ambrosio also transgresses religiously, by making a pact with the devil, “He signed the fatal contract, and gave it hastily into the evil spirits hands.”(p. 320) This is the act that seals his fate and results in a prolonged death. This could be seen as an argument against transgression, however it could be argued that seeing as he is not committed to the pact, and does it out of fear rather than desire, and he is punished for taking transgression lightly.

The opposing fates of Ambrosio and Matilda counter balance the argument for transgression, however only Matilda is fully behind the transgression, and she manipulates Ambrosio into his actions, suggesting that transgressing through choice reaps benefits, but it is something to be taken seriously. Characters that only broke one boundary still appear to have better conclusions than those who stayed within their boundaries.

The opposite of Ambrosio is the Mother St. Agatha. She is so regressed that she insists on following the laws as strictly as possible, “The laws of our order are strict and severe; they have fallen into disuse of late, but the crime of Agnes shows me the necessity of their revival.”(p. 38) and condemns Agnes to death. Her lack of transgression however is her downfall, as she is killed horrifically in the riots, “…the rioters still exercised their impotent rage upon her lifeless body. They beat it, trod upon it, and ill used it, til it became no more than a mass of flesh, unsightly, shapeless, and disgusting.” (p. 261) Although it later emerges that Agnes had not been killed, her outward regression resulted in her death.

Agnes breaks her religious vows, and tries to elope with her lover Raymond. This sees her punished by being placed in a chamber underground, where following an illness to the nun responsible for feeding her she transgress into “a creature stretched upon a bed of straw, so wretched, so emaciated, so pale, that he doubted to think her woman” (p. 270) as she is near death, this could be Lewis saying that in death gender and guidelines are broken, and that transgression is natural, as is argued by Brewer[3]. Both her religious and sexual transgressions work for her in the end as she is reunited with Raymond and ends up marrying him. The cost of all this, the death of their child, could be seen as a warning against transgression, but the finality of their marriage at the end would disprove this.

An important character who does not appear to transgress is Lorenzo. At the start of a novel he dreams of a monster attacking Antonia, which many interpret as a foreshadowing of Ambrosio’s rape and murder of her. However in his article, “A Dreadful Dreadful Dream…” D.L. Macdonald argues that “The monster may represent an unacknowledged side of Lorenzo himself…The monsters fall into the abyss may represent Lorenzo’s repudiation of this side of himself.”[4] Macdonald’s argument is convincing, and explains what happens to Lorenzo at the conclusion of the novel.

In shunning the darker side of his sexuality, Lorenzo is patient and waits for Antonia, which results in Ambrosio taking advantage and ultimately leads to her death. Lorenzo gets married to another former nun in the end, but Lewis states “his sentiments partook not of the ardent character which had marked his affection for Antonia.” (p. 306) Had Lorenzo acted on his natural urges and transgressed sexually, he and Antonia may have been together.

Antonia is completely unaware of her sexuality, and as a result she does not notice the danger when Ambrosio makes an attempt to seduce her, “She knew not that there was more impropriety in conversing with him in one room than another. She thought herself equally secure of his principles and her own, and having replaced herself upon the sofa, she began to prattle at him with her usual ease and vivacity.”(p. 191) Had Antonia been more aware of human transgressions, instead of being protected from them, she may not have suffered the same fate.

Despite fears of a revolution, The Monk does not entirely condemn transgression. Ultimately the character of Matilda show’s that transgression when well planned can be a benefit. However we are shown through Ambrosio that rushing into unchartered territory can be fatal. The narrative shows that uncontrolled transgression can lead to rioting, yet at the same time those not willing to transgress are punished for their passiveness, and their actions do not further the narrative. The novel itself was considered transgressive at the time due to its explicit depiction of sex and violence. Lewis would have been aware of this as he was writing which suggests that Lewis sees transgression as a positive act, as long as it is deliberate and thought out. Matilda and her fate mirror this verdict. The Monk shows transgression as something that happens naturally, as highlighted by Brewer, and it is something that we have to learn to control, rather than unleash.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bibliography

 

Brewer, William D., ‘Transgendering in Matthew Lewis’s The Monk’, Gothic Studies, Volume 6 Issue 2 (2004), p192-207

Cooper, Andrew L., ‘Gothic Threats: The Role of Danger in the Critical Evaluation of The Monk and The Mysteries of Udolpho.’, Gothic Studies, Volume 8 Issue 2 (2006), p18-51

Lewis, Matthew, The Monk (Wordsworth Editions Limited, 2009)

Macdonald, D.L., ‘’A Dreadful Dreadful Dream’ Transvaluation, Realisation, and Literalization of Clarissa in The Monk’, Gothic Studies, Volume 6 Issue 2 (2004), p157-171

Messier, Vartan P., ‘The Conservative, The Transgressive, and the Reactionary: Ann Radcliffe’s The Italian as a Response to Matthew Lewis’ The Monk’, Atenea, Volume 25 Issue 2 (2005), p37-48

Nelson, Victoria, ‘Faux Catholic: A Gothic Subgenre from Monk Lewis to Dan Brown’, Boundary 2, Volume 34 Issue 3 (2007), p87-107

Robertson, Ben P., ‘In The Name Of Matilda: Female Transgression and Romantic Conceit’, Names (American Name Society), Volume 53 Issue 3 (2005), p169-201

[1] Matthew Lewis, The Monk (Wordsworth Editions Limited, 2009), p 322

[2] William D. Brewer, ‘Transgendering in Matthew Lewis’s The Monk’, Gothic Studies, Volume 6 Issue 2 (2004), 192-207, p. 202

[3] William D. Brewer, ‘Transgendering in Matthew Lewis’s The Monk’, Gothic Studies, Volume 6 Issue 2 (2004), 192-207, p. 199

[4] D.L. Macdonald, ‘’A Dreadful Dreadful Dream’ Transvaluation, Realisation, and Literalization of Clarissa in The Monk’, Gothic Studies, Volume 6 Issue 2 (2004), 157-171, p. 157-158

Poe, Lovecraft, and The Movies: Part VII

The Masque of the Red Death is a 1964 film starring Vincent Price as the evil Prince Prospero. The Poe story is a mere five pages long, so expanding that into a ninety minute film required the writer of the screen play to insert some new elements into the narrative. The narrative here is interpolated, the new material required to make a film of the master narrative joins seamlessly with the information we are given by Poe. The vast majority of this additional material focuses on Prospero and portrays him as a truly evil Devil worshipper. Played by the ‘suavely menacing’[1] Vincent Price, from the opening, Prospero is portrayed as a despicable person. Roger Corman makes his adaptation of Poe’s tale a commentary for the purpose of film. Corman has to alter the narrative to give us a protagonist in order to keep the story interesting for the audience. In the short story, Poe refrains from passing judgement on the Prince. Although the idea of isolating yourself from your people in order to survive while they suffer would seem evil, Poe does not imply this is the case. Nor does he state the opposite, saying only that Prospero gathers a thousand people from his court and ‘retired to the deep seclusion of one of the castellated abbeys.’ (p. 269). The opening scene sees him ride into a village neighbouring his castle, and threatening to kill two of the villagers that oppose him, before ordering for the entire village to be ‘burnt to the ground’ after discovering someone suffering from the red death. Prospero offers no sanctuary to the villagers and simply leaves them to burn in their own homes. This is one area in which the film betters the book. Lovecraft said ‘Poe excels in incidents and broad narrative effects rather than in character drawing.’[2] Vincent Price makes Prince Prospero his own, creating a truly horrible character that creates emotion in the audience. When he finally gets what he deserves, the audience cheers his demise. As the credits roll however, the audience is challenged to ‘look inside himself,’[3] recalling a technique visible in Poe’s prose, leaving an uncomfortable feeling in the audience as they leave the cinema.

One of the main tactics used by the director to create fear is to carefully choose the characters which are placed in danger. Throughout the film, it is women and children who are placed in danger more frequently than their male counterparts. It is usually the scorn of Prospero himself that is the cause of their anguish. When Prospero learns that his wife has betrayed him he orders one of his trained hawks to attack her until she bleeds to death in front of the congregation at the party. This is just one of many scenes where Prospero is built up to be seen as evil as possible. Although it is argued ‘discerning writers often evoke the fear response through the power of suggestion rather than with graphic descriptions’[4], this is difficult to pull off on the big screen, and the violence committed against Prospero’s wife is certainly graphic. However it works to great effect in this instance as it is the only real scene of violence in the film, and contrasted to the other graphically tame crimes in the film it leaves a lasting impression. This results in the audience feeling ‘drawn into the violence, we want it to be over because it lingers too long.’[5] However the scene does not last forever; and herein lies one of the problems with horror on screen ‘to see, to endure, such a shocking spectacle of violence enables us to overcome the horror, to enjoy it and expel it in a moral sense’[6]. Actually seeing these events is scary at the time, but films have helped us become desensitised to such horrors. Coming at the start of the final act of the film, it raises the fear level amongst the viewer as they know events are building to a crescendo.

 

Suspense is used to great effect at the end of the film. The Red Death appears at Prospero’s masquerade ball, and after a lengthy scene of the prince trying to catch up with him, they have a confrontation in the black room. Prospero is lead to believe that he is the only one who will survive by the personified Red Death, however when he is told that he too shall perish, he panics. Not knowing the face of death becomes too much for Prospero, and he rips the mask off his tormentor, only to reveal his own face. This is an interesting technique, as though it is not used in the hypotext, it runs with the common theme of Poe’s work that forces the audience to look at themselves and their own reactions to the narrative.

 

Film has a tendency of aging quicker than literature. Prose creates an individual image in each of our own minds. Film has to rely on special effects, cinematic techniques and even the quality of the print to create an image. The Masque of the Red Death has unfortunately aged faster on film than it ever could in print. Though The Mist is relatively young compared to the aforementioned, it is hard not to imagine it also ageing to its detriment in decades to come. There is nothing stopping either film from being enjoyed decades after release, movies such as The Exorcist[7] and The Shining[8] are still regarded by some as scary despite being released over thirty years ago. Yet social fears change over time, and as image in film is definitive, it is harder to reapply changing fears to the same text. As popular as Vincent Price was in the horror genre, his acting, whilst remaining sinister at points, has an exaggerated style that could garner more laughter than fear from a modern audience. The same can be said of the special effects in The Mist. These effects will not be as advanced in decades to come, and may look unrealistic to an audience in future decades. Again this would result in the audience failing to take them seriously. Both films use techniques popular in horror; the isolation of the shoppers and Propsero’s revellers, and the threat of something which we have no control over and little understanding of. However the fear created by these texts can be taken away over time a lot quicker than the fear instilled in us by writers such as Poe, Lovecraft and King.

 

[1] Peter B. Flint, ‘Vincent Price, Noted Actor Of Dark Roles, Dies at 82’. New York Times, 27, 10 (1993), p. 23

[2] H.P. Lovecraft, Supernatural Horror In Literature. [Ebook] Amazon Media, Available at: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Supernatural-Horror-in-Literature-ebook/dp/B005IZD612/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1334933516&sr=1-3 [20/04/2012], p. 23

[3] Richard Badenhausen, ‘Fear and Trembling in Literature’. Studies in Short Fiction, 29, 4 (1992), p. 491

[4] John Edward Ames, ‘The art of terror: Tap into readers’ fears with 5 techniques for an emotionally rich story’. Writer, 123, 5 (2010), p.22

[5] Fred Botting, ‘Future Horror (the Redundancy of Gothic)’. Gothic Studies, 1, 2 (1999), p. 147

[6] Ibid.

[7] The Exorcist (1973) Film. Directed by WILLIAM FRIEDKIN, USA: Warner Bros. Pictures

[8] The Shining (1980) Film. Directed by STANLEY KUBRICK, USA: Warner Bros. Pictures

Poe, Lovecraft, and The Movies: Part V

The Call of the Cthulhu is truly effective as a piece of gothic horror as it makes ‘us feel the size of the universe we hang suspended in, and suggests shadowy forces that could destroy us all if they so much as grunted in their sleep.’[1] There is nowhere to hide from the creatures Lovecraft dreams up. Lovecraft gets this through in his writing by making constant references to the enormity of the universe. It has been said that

Novels and stories of horror which deal with ‘outside evil’ are often harder to take seriously; they are apt to be no more than boys adventure yarns in disguise, and in the end the nasty invaders from outer space are repelled.[2]

 

However this is far from the case in Lovecraft’s works, especially here. Cthulhu is far too large to be truly banished, and while he may be resting on the sea bed right now, he will never go away, and that thought is unsettling and likely to trouble the reader long after they have finished reading. This sentiment is echoed by the narrator in the chilling climax, ‘Who knows the end? What has risen may sink, and what has sunk may rise. Loathsomeness waits and dreams in the deep, and decay spreads over the tottering cities of men’ (p. 169). We are aware that what Lovecraft writes is fiction, but there is no evidence that disproves the existence of cosmic creatures beyond our wildest imagination, as unlikely as it seems. Although in the near century since Lovecraft was writing science has discovered and explained many things, we are still a long way away from knowing every species that lives in our oceans, let alone any that may dwell in the cosmos.

The focus of the narrative is the gradual discovery of evidence of ‘Great Old Ones who lived ages before there were any men, and who came to the young world out of the sky.’ (p. 153) Evans claims ‘much horror literature is predicated upon feelings of insecurity brought about by cultural change’ and by the idea that our ‘cultural forms are… under assault by forces beyond our control’[3], and this is especially true here. (100)

 

This story in particular relates to Cthulhu, who early on is described from a statuette as being ‘a pulpy, tentacled head surmounted a grotesque and scaly body with rudimentary wings; but it was the general outline of the whole which made it so shockingly frightful.’(p. 141). Lovecraft builds suspense throughout by only giving us glimpses of what Cthulhu looks like. When a young man has dreams containing visions of Cthulhu, he is unable to make complete sense of them, but described it as ‘a gigantic thing “miles high” which walked or lumbered about.’ (p. 144) It is difficult for the human mind to comprehend something that high moving around, and that is part of the horror of Lovecraft’s tales. We don’t know quite what they are, or where they come from, but we do know that there is no way of escaping them if they were real, which is terrifying. In Call of The Cthulhu, one particular line sums up Lovecraft’s talent for inspiring horror in his audience when referring to the creature in the title; ‘It was nightmare itself, and to see it was to die. But it made men dream so they knew enough to keep away’ (p. 151). The word nightmare is evocative as nightmares are something that we have all experienced, and the theme of sleep is continued when claiming it makes men keep away by sending messages in their dreams. The fact that Cthulhu itself warns men to stay away almost shows that it has a perverse pity for humans. Martin Smith claims that a psychology patient of his, ‘prompted by the desire to find out, he over-reaches dies as a consequence of his discovery while other innocent people suffer and are killed throughout the course of his demise.’[4] This is extremely relevant here. All of these events are driven by our narrators’ desire for knowledge regardless of the effect that it has on anyone else, causing the reader to fear for other characters.

 

Lovecraft was also ‘struck by ‘the horror of wrong geometry’’[5] something that is used throughout Call of the Cthulhu. There is a slow build throughout the story as much like with Cthulhu itself; we are given hints at what is to come through the dreams of various characters. One in particular ‘talked of his dreams in strangely poetic fashion; making me see with terrible vividness the damp Cyclopean city of slimy green stone – whose geometry, he oddly said, was all wrong’ (p. 158). Lovecraft, who ‘would open the door…but only a crack’[6] hasn’t described the city in any great detail, because the character in his tale can’t. This recalls the technique used by Poe in The Black Cat[7], holding back information so the reader is forced to imagine the most terrifying scenario possible, but Lovecraft has taken it one step further. By not describing the city because it is impossible to do so, it becomes even scarier for the reader, as it makes it also impossible for them to visualise it, and as Lovecraft himself said ‘the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown’[8] (p. 2). Despite building up a fear of geometry throughout the tale, its pay off at the end is anticlimactic. Upon fleeing from Cthulhu, one sailor ‘was swallowed up by an angle of masonry which shouldn’t have been there; an angle which was acute, but behaved as if it were obtuse’ (p. 167). This particular incident is not mentioned again but for that one sentence. The narrative continues at high speed as Cthulhu chases those that have disturbed his slumber and the reader is left with no time to dwell upon such a horrific accident. Placed earlier in the story and under different circumstances, the implication of such an event would place a much stronger fear in the reader.

The writings of Lovecraft can be summed up in one sentence; ‘H.P. Lovecraft made his horrors convincing simply by pretending they were too horrible to describe.’[9] However doing this would be a great disservice to the man. He has a way with words that allows him to burn strong images into the reader’s brain, despite telling them little. Both Dagon and The Call of The Cthulhu are part of a folklore created by Lovecraft that remains popular to this day. Critics have dismissed him, claiming ‘a good horror writer is a good character writer. This flies in the face of Lovecraft, who never created a single engaging character.’[10] It has already become apparent that Poe’s characters are not amongst the greatest in literature, and this is certainly true of Lovecraft too. Strong characterisation has helped writers create fear in contemporary literature, but that is no reason to dismiss Lovecraft or Poe.

Due to the timeless fear of things we don’t understand, a lot of Lovecraft’s work is ‘prescient – he created a text to which a sub-text would be added years later by events in the real world.’[11] Modern terrorism and historical events since Lovecraft finished writing such as the space race can be applied retrospectively to his work and work as a sub-text. Terrorism is a culture that we don’t really comprehend, much like the cults who worship Cthulhu, and the space race was cosmic exploration, something that Lovecraft was very afraid of, as evidenced by the fact that his ‘Great Ones’ came from the stars. Lovecraft’s writings embody universal fears that are unlikely to ever go away. As man explores more of the universe, his stories instil a more terrifying feeling. Advanced telescopes mean we can see far out into space now. How long will it be before we stumble upon something from Lovecraft’s literary nightmares?

[1] Stephen King, Danse Macabre (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1991), p. 80

[2] Ibid.

[3] Timothy H. Evans, ‘A Last Defense against the Dark: Folklore, Horror, and the Uses of Tradition in the Works of H. P. Lovecraft’. Journal of Folklore Research, 42, 1 (2005), p. 100

 

[4] Martin Smith, ‘Making a monster? Nineteenth-century British horror novels and their relevance to the counselling process’. Psychodynamic Counselling, 6, 3 (2000), p. 322

[5] Jack Morgan, The Biology of Horror: Gothic Literature and Film (USA: Southern Illinois University Press, 2002), p. 194

[6] Stephen King, Danse Macabre (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1991), p. 135

[7] Edgar Allan Poe, The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe (London: Penguin Books, 1982), p. 223-230

[8] H.P. Lovecraft, Supernatural Horror In Literature. [Ebook] Amazon Media, Available at: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Supernatural-Horror-in-Literature-ebook/dp/B005IZD612/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1334933516&sr=1-3 [20/04/2012], p. 2

[9] John Edward Ames, ‘The art of terror: Tap into readers’ fears with 5 techniques for an emotionally rich story’. Writer, 123, 5 (2010), p.23

[10] G.W. Thomas ‘Scare the heck out of your readers—and other horror-writing tips.’ Writer, 121, 4 (2008), p. 15

[11] Don Herron , ‘Stephen King: The Good, The Bad, And The Academic’, in Bloom’s Modern Critical Views: Stephen King Updated Edition, ed. Harold Bloom (New York: Chelsea House, 2007), p. 34

 

Poe, Lovecraft, and The Movies: Part III

In The Black Cat our narrator ‘refuses even to acknowledge a disengagement from the human race’[1] This is the source of terror in the tale, the detachment our narrator shows throughout does not affect our opinion on events. Lovecraft claims the best horror authors are ‘always acting as a vivid and detached chronicler rather than as a teacher, sympathiser, or vendor of opinion.’[2] Poe clearly understood this, and extended that detachment to the narrator. When writing from a first person perspective it is difficult not to create a character whose views and characteristics affect the readers’ mind-set. The opening describes how as a child our narrator’s ‘tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to make me the jest of my companions.’ (p. 223), and later he claims ‘I blush, I burn, I shudder’ (p. 224), as he writes of gouging out Pluto’s eye. The ‘fear of damaging or losing one’s eyes is a terrible fear of childhood’[3], and this plays into this story with the narrator depriving his first cat Pluto of one of his eyes. The fact that atrocity is committed to a domesticated animal increases the horror created in the mind of the reader. However as the narrator’s mental health diminishes in the narrative, so does the amount of guilt he shows for his deeds. By the time he buries an axe in his wife’s skull, he gives very little input regarding his feelings as he reflects on the horror he has been through going as far to say ‘I soundly and tranquilly slept; aye, slept even with the burden of murder upon my soul’ (p. 229) with no sense of remorse.

This story is the perfect example of Poe refusing to blame evil on an outside force but instead placing responsibility on man. The protagonist of the story commits murder for no reason other than an irrational hatred for his victim. There is a definite air of insanity surrounding the murderer, something that is also a big theme in the work of Lovecraft. It has been said that Poe’s tales, ‘characteristically short and impatient, tend to plunge into the dreamscape straight away’[4] and this story is a perfect example. Poe’s narrator holds up the black cat as a source of external evil, causing us to empathise with the narrator, before finally at the conclusion ‘the trapped reader finally must face himself in the same way as the imprisoned and condemned narrator.’[5] We have been sympathetic throughout, convinced that this cat is evil, when in fact it is not. Our narrator is insane, and there is ‘no externally influential force, no abstract definition of evil to direct the characters.’[6]

The insanity of our narrator is clear as ‘fear is comprised of tangible worries, like the fear of death, which rational creatures can distance through various strategies and thus remain sane’[7], and by placing the focus of his fear onto the cat that troubles him so much in the story, he is projecting his fears onto a household pet which is not distanced from him at all. His inability to cope with this grows larger as the story goes on, to the point that he later projects his fear onto another cat after he has disposed of the first. His inability to rationalise what it is he is so scared of causes him to lose his sanity, and leads to the terrible events in the story, and his casual attitude to the atrocities he has committed as he retells the story to the reader. It is in part this attitude that makes the story seem so real. Indeed that is part of the appeal of Poe. His writing displays the quality of ‘the Fantastic made Real, instead of being accepted simply as fantastic.’[8]

Poe uses the uncanny to great effect throughout the story, focusing mainly on the cats. After the narrator murders the first cat, and burns his home to the ground he is confronted with a horrible image left on one of the walls. On this wall our narrator sees ‘as if graven in bas-relief upon the white surface, the figure of a gigantic cat.’ (p. 225) His italicisation of the word cat emphasises the fear caused by this image and helps pass that fear onto the reader. The image of the cat is familiar, yet unfamiliar because of its size, and this use of the uncanny allows the reader to experience the same fear of the cat that the narrator felt whenever he witnessed it. Later in the story a second black cat enters the life of the narrator. This cat is almost identical to the previous, even deprived of one of its eyes like Pluto before it. However this cat has ‘a large, although indefinite splotch of white, covering nearly the whole region of the breast.’ (p. 226) Whereas Pluto was black all over. The uncanny element of the cat is introduced here, but Poe increases the terror related to this second cat as the white splotch begins to resemble ‘the GALLOWS!’ (p. 227), and it is the combination of the uncanny and the imagery conjured up by a cat with gallows on its breast that causes the reader to empathise with our narrator, and fear an innocent cat.

[1] Richard Badenhausen, ‘Fear and Trembling in Literature’. Studies in Short Fiction, 29, 4 (1992), p. 490

[2] H.P. Lovecraft, Supernatural Horror In Literature. [Ebook] Amazon Media, Available at: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Supernatural-Horror-in-Literature-ebook/dp/B005IZD612/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1334933516&sr=1-3 [20/04/2012], p. 20

[3] Sigmund Freud, The Uncanny in Art and Literature, (London: Penguin Classics, 2003), p. 7

[4] Jack Morgan, The Biology of Horror: Gothic Literature and Film (USA: Southern Illinois University Press, 2002), p. 217

[5] Richard Badenhausen, ‘Fear and Trembling in Literature’. Studies in Short Fiction, 29, 4 (1992), p. 497

[6] Chuck Miller and Tim Underwood (eds), Bare Bones: Conversations on Terror With Stephen King (New York: Warner Books, 1989), p. 7

[7] Richard Badenhausen, ‘Fear and Trembling in Literature’. Studies in Short Fiction, 29, 4 (1992), p. 492

[8] Chuck Miller and Tim Underwood (eds), Bare Bones: Conversations on Terror With Stephen King (New York: Warner Books, 1989), p. 11