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This chapter explains how the emotionally expressive motions of characters can reveal their unmet psychological needs, which cultural and economic conditions do not allow them to fully acknowledge. These movements and the environments in which they unfold evoke subgenres of the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century British novel including the marriage plot, the Gothic novel, the Victorian bildungsroman, and the sensation novel. These episodes featuring characters’ emotionally expressive motions invite us to understand these subgenres in a new light, as narratives that depict characters’ unfulfilled needs and respond to those of anticipated readers. The introduction situates this approach both with respect to recent work in novel studies and the earlier approaches of reader response theorists. The chapter also offers an extended interpretation of Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa, oriented around Clarissa’s expressive motions as she runs away from her family with Lovelace. This moment can be seen as the origin of episodes of getting lost.
Instances abound in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century novels where characters, particularly female characters, become lost, often moved by overwhelming emotion. Amanda Auerbach delves into the impact of these scenes on the character and the reader. On one level, 'getting lost' can realign a character's and our own sense of self and of social situation, while more broadly these instances reflect arcs within the overall narrative, highlighting easily-missed elements, sometimes even reflecting on our own experiences while reading. The emotions that move characters most powerfully often relate to their psychological needs, which the social conditions of their lives prevent them from meeting or fully acknowledging. These episodes appear across multiple novels in multiple subgenres, including the marriage plot, the gothic novel, the Victorian bildungsroman, and the sensation novel. These episodes collectively reveal how eighteenth- and nineteenth-century British novelistic subgenres developed to help women and working-class readers covertly satisfy their psychological needs.
Horace Walpole finishes his account of writing The Castle of Otranto (1764) with a wry look at its syntactics, confessing that late one night he “could not hold the pen to finish the sentence, but left Matilda and Isabella talking, in the middle of a paragraph.” A close look at the beginnings, middles, and ends not only of chapters but also of paragraphs and even sentences in this first gothic novel reveals syntactical passages behaving like subterranean passages. As readers, we often don’t know what’s coming until we turn the corner of the sentence and bump into it. The lack of quotation marks to distinguish dialogue (when quotation marks were entering into common use) repeatedly slides the reader down wrong turns; we mistake one speaker for another. Later editions would insert quotation marks, brightly lighting the syntactic interior. But what Walpole initiates for the gothic on the small level of typography and syntax as well as of atmosphere and plot is precisely the uneasiness of boundaries obscured and identities blurred. This chapter tracks the spatial implications of the shapes of sentences and the peculiarities of paragraphs in The Castle of Otranto to uncover a template of syntactical structures enacting gothic structures.
This essay examines Romantic-era circulating libraries as a case study in the ways that institutions rather than individual authors create literary subgenres. The argument draws upon sociologically oriented research in literary and media studies and draws analogies between the history of the novel and the history of cinema. The growth of circulating libraries in the late eighteenth century created new markets for popular fiction, and this in turn spurred the creation of novelistic subgenres and formulas such as the gothic novel, the historical novel, and the season novel as means to respond to readerly demand for new titles. Circulating library catalogues and the novels themselves provide evidence of the ways that novelistic titles and subtitles signal generic affiliation to readers through keywords.
In September 1968, regular British Vogue columnist Polly Devlin returned from a year working for the magazine’s sister publication in New York, and published a long article commenting on how, in her absence, the mood had changed.
This chapter considers nineteenth-century Irish Gothic literary production, beginning with the Romantic-era ‘trade Gothic’ and culminating in the ghost stories of the fin de siècle. Acknowledging the significance of the texts that have now become synonymous with ‘the Irish Gothic’, the argument nevertheless probes the primary position they have been accorded in Irish literary historiography, questioning the process of literary canonisation that has marginalised large swathes of Irish Gothic writing. It thus offers an analysis of lesser-known texts that highlight the diverse range and scope of Irish engagement with the Gothic mode, from the ‘first wave’ Gothics (1790s to early 1800s) that were often condemned as mere imitations of Ann Radcliffe, to mid-century periodical publications that demonstrate the continued influence of the Gothic mode in Ireland even after the demise of ‘the Gothic novel’. It furthermore queries the understanding of Irish Gothic as a predominantly Protestant literary mode written almost exclusively by men, exploring the rich body of Catholic Gothic texts as well as the central contribution made by women writers to the mode’s development.
The Gothic novel, at least prior to the Stonewall Resistance Riot of 1969, is profoundly reticent about the spectacle of direct homophobia, as reticent as it is about the spectacle of homosexuality. To approach the dialogue between the structuring principle of homophobia in the early Gothic novel and the novel's remarkable silence on the topic of male-male sexual relations, one must return to Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick's formative work in Between Men. This chapter describes two Gothic narratives from the long nineteenth-century Anglo-Irish tradition: Lewis's 1796 novel The Monk, and Sheridan Le Fanu's 1872 novella "Carmilla". If The Monk offers its readers a series of anachronistically understood metonyms that can be pressed to cohere in the legible figure of "the homosexual" Le Fanu's "Carmilla" offers a narrative of a young woman named Laura, who lives with her father in a remote castle in the Austrian province of Styria.
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