dalissy @dalissy - Tumblr Blog

visionsofnightfall

Edinburgh yesterday.

alexmilton_photo

vampyraen

godzilla-reads

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, book covers

whosafraidofvirginiawoolf

'You speak like a heroine,' said Montoni, contemptuously; 'we shall see whether you can suffer like one.'

The Mysteries of Udolpho, Ann Radcliffe

annariadne

“his countenance became fixed, and, touched as it now was by the silver whiteness of the moon-light, he resembled one of those marble statues of a monument, which seem to bend, in hopeless sorrow, over the ashes of the dead” ― Ann Radcliffe, The Mysteries of Udolpho

cotarded

the biggest mystery of udolpho so far is when the fuck are we going to get there

helenvaughans

this is what’s so crazy to me when people try to moralize about gothic literature. like all of you people complaining about porn brained-ness in bronte novels are making the EXACT SAME ARGUMENTS that old misogynist victorian white men were when the books were first published!!!!!!

aliteraryprincess

Okay, I've got to jump in here to defend Jane Austen.

Northanger Abbey is not just a novel "making fun of gothic lit girlies." Is she satirizing the 18th-century Gothic novel and the obsession surrounding it? Yes. However, she is also satirizing the obnoxious moralists who claimed that women weren't able to tell the difference between real life and Gothic literature. The whole point is that no one would ever act like Catherine Morland. Northanger Abbey is part of a tradition of women's literature that tackles this topic (see The Female Quixote [1752] by Charlotte Lennox and The Doctor's Wife [1864] by Mary Elizabeth Braddon for earlier and later examples). Austen spends a great deal of the book defending novels (which were all considered a lower form of literature, not just Gothic novels). Let's not forget this fantastic passage:

Yes, novels; for I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with novel-writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very performances, to the number of which they are themselves adding—joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely ever permitting them to be read by their own heroine, who, if she accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages with disgust. Alas! If the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she expect protection and regard? I cannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. Let us not desert one another; we are an injured body. Although our productions have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has been so much decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many as our readers. And while the abilities of the nine-hundredth abridger of the History of England, or of the man who collects and publishes in a volume some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior, with a paper from the Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne, are eulogized by a thousand pens—there seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them. “I am no novel-reader—I seldom look into novels—Do not imagine that I often read novels—It is really very well for a novel.” Such is the common cant. “And what are you reading, Miss——?” “Oh! It is only a novel!” replies the young lady, while she lays down her book with affected indifference, or momentary shame. “It is only Cecilia, or Camilla, or Belinda”; or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language. (chapter 7, emphasis mine)

In short, the points of this post all stand, but don't lump my girl Austen in with obnoxious haters she was specifically making fun of.

colorfuldream

Austen knew and was friends with Gothic authors. She heavily referenced The Mysteries of Udolpho (whose author she liked) and praised it. In no way are Gothic novels made fun of. She parodies them, yes, but it's all in good fun. She's harsher on The Monk, which y'know fair enough, but Northanger Abbey was more busy shitting on men like John Fucking Thorpe and his dear snake sister Isabella than harping on literature. The love interest and his sister both like Gothic literature. The two Tilneys both engage with it and Catherine. Henry does have a bit where he uses it to tease Catherine but it's more of a jab at her tendency to romanticize the world than one towards the genre. Austen is merely being silly by using Gothic tropes in a realistic setting. It's humorous! She scatters them a bit everywhere, Catherine's daydreams, the characters liking Gothic novels, the Tilney property and backstory... It's very respectful. There is no contempt there.

Not to get into it but your reading on Catherine is uncharitable. Catherine is a sheltered naive girl who does spend too much time in her head but is ultimately a sweet, kind woman that Austen does not look down upon either. Her flaw is her sheltered mindset that leads her to act a bit foolishly (which is why the Tilney siblings like her mind you) and allows gold-diggers and fake people into her life. Her flaws do not have much to do with her love for Gothic literature.

Catherine is absolutely realistic for women who have been like her. To others, she may seem stupid or exaggerated but if you know what it's like to not have much real life experience and too much book experience, you know. Her worst moment is embarrassing but not an outrageous slight that she must repent from. She only snooped a little too much and said something insensitive to her crush. Said crush mended things immediately and was mortified when his father slighted her and put her into danger. Sure, admitting that you think your crush's dad killed his mother is bad, so is looking into her private quarter, but the "oh shit they can't be together now" moment is when Tilney Senior realizes she isn't a rich heiress and treats her like shit. That is the third act break-up (not really a break-up but you guys see what I mean). It's Catherine's bluntness, her non-heroine quality, that prevents her mistake from being unforgivable. She's not a Gothic heroine which not only drives part of the humor—another good chunk derived from John Thorpe's misplaced ego—but also makes her endearing. Very much not a parody of some kind of deluded woman. At most, she's a tad immature. The very fact that she can indeed differentiate between the real world and Gothic tropes but is stuck in a situation full of clichés is what criticizes moralists. Her reaction to being wrong, immediate embarrassment and apologies, are what should lead the reader to see that she's harmless, that her obsession is just as harmless, and that women won't become cruel fools from reading too much. Once the narrative confronts her to how her obsession led to being insensitive, that's it. That's the criticism. Austen is at most reminding her readers not to treat others as a series of tropes and to be mindful of their feelings. Like, Catherine is shown to be in the right about Henry's father. He is a terrible person who treats his family terribly. She assumed the worst (murder) not only because of her novels but also because she comes from a good family—on top of him sucking up to her rather than showing his true face. She can't fathom him being abusive! She filled that gap with what she knows from her books. It's something real people do. It isn't about how no one acts like Catherine but about how no one should act like her. Fiction ≠ reality but it sure affects people.