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What Haunts the Gothic - Theology’s Dark Shadow: The Monster as Ontological and Spiritual Crisis
If, once upon a time, we publically pretended to believe while privately we were sceptics…today we
publically tend to profess our sceptical, hedonistic, relaxed attitudes while privately, we remain
haunted by beliefs.
-
God in Pain, Slavoj Zizek1
As Jeffrey Cohen has observed we live in a time of monsters.2 Throughout culture and across
diverse media forms, the monster has proliferated, becoming seemingly ubiquitous across
film, television, comics, books and even music. As the figure of the monster has spread, the
body of criticism that accompanies monstrous figures has proliferated alongside it. However,
for all of the growth in the field of monster theory, there is a noticeable silence around one
vital area to understand and theorise the figure of the monster accurately, namely how the
monster embodies concerns around the theological and the ontological. Cohen sets the tone
for much of the discussion of monster theory, by initially categorising the monster as ‘pure
culture’3 – a phenomena to be considered solely within certain materialist discourses, and
analysed as such. Yet within the same section, Cohen also recognises the monsters complete
ontological liminality – as part of the complex ‘matrix of relations’4 that produce them
analysis must consider the very nature and properties of being.
As Jeffrey Cohen suggestively asks about the existence of monsters, ‘Surely they
must, for if they did not, how could we?’5 The aim of this paper will be to examine and
expose the silences in current theoretical work around the intersection of the monster and
literature and begin an exploration of monstrous ontology and monstrous theology. Existing
1
Slavoj Zizek and Boris Gunjevic, God in Pain, Inversions in Apocalypse, (Seven Stories Press, London, 2012)
Jeffrey Cohen, Monster Theory Reading Culture, (University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis, 1996)
3
ibid
4
ibid
5
Ibid pg. 20
2
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as they do on the ‘visible edge of the hermeneutic circle’6 the monster is a creature that
reflects ontological and ethical concerns about both the nature of the other and the status of
the subject. The monster is not simply a liminal figure within the Gothic, but an example that
seems to trouble philosophy, theology and critical theory. What follows exists in the
intersection of nineteenth century studies, the Gothic, philosophy, theology and critical
theory. Since the emergence of the Gothic as an identifiable, albeit somewhat amorphous
group of literary works, critical response has sought to understand and explain the merits and
popularity of the various texts. Through various critical lenses and models of analysis the
social, political and cultural discourse that had fed into the Gothic over the years have
systematically been explored by scholars over many decades.
However, it must be acknowledged that one element to these texts has been
profoundly neglected –namely the theological content and the philosophical importance of
this content to understanding these novels. In making such a claim for the Gothic this section
begins with a necessary review and critique of the prevailing strategies at work within gothic
criticism before articulating a model of Gothic analysis that rest upon philosophical theology.
In considering the purpose and aims of the Gothic in his now seminal study The Gothic
Flame, Devendra Varna summarises the Gothic mode as a ‘quest for the numinous,’7 – a
fundamentally anti-realist, more religiously inclined style. Whilst Varna’s work has been
subject to much needed criticism it would seem that the central point to his argument has
been discounted almost completely. This following section will seek to rearticulate the
centrality of this quest, positing a model of Gothic analysis based upon postmodern theology
– drawing forth the neglected theological discourses in the canonical Gothic and particularly
the monsters featured within. The challenge resides in avoiding the all too common mistake
6
ibid
Devendra P Varma, The Gothic Flame, Being a History of the Gothic Novel in England: It’s Origin,
Efflorescence, Disintegration, and Residuary Influences (London, Arthur Baker Press, 1957)
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of easy psychologism8 - whilst maintaining a historical grasp upon the Gothic as both a
historical period and literary group.
Thus a vital critical aim for those who wish to seriously engage with the Gothic form
will be to clear the way towards an understanding of the monstrous as a ‘site for religious
reflection…and a valid form of theological expression,’9 both within the period under
consideration and within current philosophical theology. Such a critical assessment of the
monster as a means of practising theology is it seems, seriously overdue. Despite the overtly
theological nature of much of the Gothic in terms of stylistic tropes, setting, theme and
language Gothic scholarship has been quiet to the point of silence upon this issue. What
critical moves there have been rest upon either a historicising analysis of anti-Catholicism,
particularly in the work of critics such as Diana Long Hoeveler10 or a nostalgic return to a
kind of medieval Romantic spirituality that texts of the nineteenth century seem to provide
little evidence for11. Whilst it should be acknowledged that there is great value in these
historical orientated studies, to theorise, (for example) Gothic Anti-Catholicism as solely a
political or social discourse is to ignore the causal role theology holds in the formation of
these discourses as well as ignoring a body of literature that stretches from Martin Luther to
Hegel and beyond. Whilst critics like Hoeveler and Angela Wright12 have identified the rise
8
For examples of this kind of criticism which makes frequent reference to the supposed “depth” or
“subversion” of Gothic literature see Kilgour (1995) Varna (1957) Williams (1995) Summers (1938) and Jackson
(1981). For examples of Gothic criticism that that conducts its analysis through emphasising the cultural
anxieties of a particular moment, see Arata (1996) as well as Hurley (1996). Whilst framing Gothic literature
this way has some notable achievements to its credit it leads to a serious lack of historical grasp upon its
intended object.
9
Timothy K Beal, Religion and Its Monsters (London, Routledge, 2002) pg. 3
10
See Diane Long Hoeveler, Gothic Riffs: Secularizing the Uncanny in the European Imaginary 1780-1820 (Ohio,
Ohio University Press, 2010) also The Gothic Ideology: Religious Hysteria and Anti-Catholicism in British Popular
Fiction, 1780-1880 (Cardiff, University of Wales Press, 2014)
11
As Chris Baldick and Robert Mighall point out in their essay ‘Gothic Criticism’ in A Companion To The Gothic
(2001) this seems to stem largely from Walpole’s forward to The Castle of Otranto (1764) and in twentieth
century scholarship a too close adherence to the influential work of Montague Summers, (see The Gothic
Quest: a History of the Gothic Novel [1938])
12
Angela Wright, Britain, franc and the Gothic 1764-1820: The Import of Terror (Cambridge, Cambridge
University Press, 2014)
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of nationalism and anti-Catholicism in contributing to the Gothic there seems to be all too
often a direct causation equated with strong correlation without examining what is often a
more diffuse set of cultural discourses and practises. To examine a theologically informed
trope (such as nationalistic anti-Catholicism) without a degree of theological reflection is to
ignore Marilyn Butler’s point that that ‘the arts do not exist faithfully to reproduce political
realities or real-life political arguments.’13 Whilst Hoeveler’s point about the correlation
between the rise of Gothic anti-Catholicism and a political discourse is valid, it completely
neglects the role that theological reasoning and discourse had in shaping the Protestant
bourgeoisie politics she correctly identifies. What is distinctly lacking at present is a
reworking of the monster in light of the theological imagination of the time, and a greater
interaction between modern theological, philosophical and critical thinking. It is here that a
turn to post-modern theology may prove useful as a means of re-approaching the canonical
gothic. Post-modern theology, rather than attempting the production of a systematic theology
or set of identifiable dogma allows for a degree of historicity whilst operating under the
assumption that the spiritual truths of the past have influence and impact in our understanding
of today. As Dutch post-modern theologian and critic, Mieke Bal expresses it, ‘the cultural
present is unthinkable, indeed unimaginable’14 without a degree of theological engagement.
Following her work the analysis of the monster here rests upon the premises that ‘Christianity
is a cultural structure that informs the cultural imaginary, whether one identifies with it in
terms of belief and practise or not.’15 As she goes on to argue, the study of history lies in the
ability not to reconstruct the past but to understand the present16 - a present that is still
indelibly shaped by the theological markers of past culture. A postmodern a/theological
13
Marilyn Butler, Romantics, Rebels and Reactionaries: English Literature and Its Background 1760-1830,
(Oxford, OUP, 1981)
14
Mieke Bal, ‘Postmodern theology as Cultural Analysis’ in The Blackwell Companion to Post-modern Theology
ed. Graham Ward (London, Blackwell Publishing, 2001) pg. 4
15
Ibid
16
Ibid pg. 5
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approach allows for an understanding of the discourses of theology at work in the canonical
nineteenth century text whilst at the same time resisting any closure of interpretation or the
more common periodization that work such as Hoeveler’s can be prone to. (tellingly, many
such works will include dates within their very titles – conveniently eliding the potential
longer term historical impact of their analysis.)
From the Miltonic theodicy of Frankenstein’s monster to the links to the Levitical
laws of purity in Dracula (1897) the nineteenth century Gothic text is one profoundly linked
to theology. However, an immediate criticism to this position might well point to the plurality
of theological positions throughout the nineteenth century as well as within the field of
theology today. How, for example might one profitably contrast the dour Calvinist writing of
Hogg’s Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner (1824) with the baroque catholic and
Eucharistic symbolism of Stoker’s Dracula (1897)? Whilst a perfectly rational concern, this
criticism falls into the same trap as the one that befalls Hoeveler’s argument. Theology serves
simultaneously as both cause and effect in social discourse – whilst Hoeveler’s work
appreciates the anti-Catholicism in the production of the early Gothic (a theological effect) it
fails to grasp the theological justification at work in the root causes of this same anti Catholic
sentiment. Perhaps the most famous example would be the reception of Matthew Lewis’s The
Monk (1796) – whilst critics rightly connect the almost parodic anti-Catholicism to the
political discourses of the time the relationship between the two is actually much more
complex. As Victor Sage points out, Protestant theology, whilst necessary inclined to a
degree of conservativism in order to perform any kind of social cohesion, is also notoriously
heterogeneous.17 For example, the devoutly Anglican Coleridge took issue with Lewis,
accusing him of blasphemy, not for his anti-Catholicism but for the novel’s use of scripture as
justification for seduction. As a result, Lewis was forced to censor his own text in order to
17
Victor Sage, Horror Fiction in the Protestant Tradition, (London, Macmillian Press, 1988) pg. xiv
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avoid the serious charge of “violation of the King’s peace.” Here we see the cause and effect
relationship in full – the theology that Lewis depended upon to exploit popular prejudice
simultaneously under wrote the law that made his text a politically dangerous one.18
In short, theological discourse acts as a ‘grid, holding individuals in a social
relationship with one another,’19 yet this should not be understood as a static arrangement.
Theology possesses a certain degree of conceptual elasticity – allowing for the unification of
disparate social groups – those that share certain theological beliefs – whilst at the same time
ensuring their continued isolation from others. The idea of theology having a real, though
shifting, cultural influence is visible throughout the whole of the nineteenth century – for
example Hogg’s Memoirs and Confessions draws not just on the homosociality of male
desire20 but on the real theological divisions that existed between the established episcopacy,
the Dissenting faiths and the radicalism of the fundamentalist Calvinism of the region. To
miss these theological markers is to reduce the scope, accuracy and insight of Gothic
criticism. Theological rhetoric, tropes and symbolism at work within the Gothic nineteenth
century text allowed for the novels to resonate with various audience members – titillating the
sensibilities of anti-Catholic Protestants whilst at the same time providing theological
reinforcement for their own sense of cultural identity and spiritual superiority.
Whilst recent theoretical work has neglected this aspect of monstrous literature, the
canonical Gothic text throughout the nineteenth century directly confronts theological issues.
The opening of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818) quotes from the definitive example of
theological literature, Paradise Lost, using as the novels epigraph: ‘Did I request thee, Maker,
To mold Me man? Did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me?’21 Quite deliberately,
18
Andre Parreaux, The Publication of the Monk; A Literary Event 1796-1798 (Paris, Marcel Didier, 1960)
Sage, Horror In the Protestant Tradition, pg. xv
20
Eve Sedgewick, Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial Desire
21
cite
19
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this epigraph and the monster’s own speech and thought is linked, as the monster repeatedly
echoes Miltonic and biblical language; ‘I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen
angel whom thy drivest from joy for no misdeed.’22 Shelley links Frankenstein’s monster to
not just a poetical or literary tradition, but also a theological one that extends as far back as
the book of Job, namely the theodicy question, the theological debate of the purpose and
justice of any kind of divine creator. As philosopher and theologian David Brown points out
in his work Tradition and Imagination (1999), theological orthodoxy has always been
creatively re-imagined outside of doctrine in response to the changes in circumstance brought
about through the progress of history. Seen this way, Shelley’s work is part of a long
established, broadly heterogeneous set of texts that seek to respond to the question of
theodicy outside of the strictures of theological dogma in a variety of ways across shifting
historical contexts – less a rejection of theological concerns but an ongoing and constant retelling. In the case of Frankenstein, Victor’s motivation is not simply framed as a rationalist
quest but rather an attempt to assume the position of a divine creator, not just engaging in
science, but redefining man’s place in the universe. Victor’s scientific obsession is one that
he sees as allowing himself to “ascend to the heavens”, to acquire “new and unlimited
power”, to “command the thunder of heavens” and “perform miracles.”23
This passage of the novel seems to recognise that Frankenstein has made a
fundamental, and in an important way, a deeply spiritual mistake, ‘I felt as if my soul were
grappling with a palpable enemy.’24 – Victor here is not committing merely an error of
science, but a sin of arrogance, reordering his view of creation to one that places him, rather
than any theological higher power as central. “I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown
powers and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation.” Crucially Frankenstein’s
22
Mary Shelley, Frankenstein, (London, Penguin Classics, 2012) pg. 233
Frankenstein pg. 46
24
ibid
23
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motivations are easily ascribable to the good – he is motivated by the death of his mother and
a desire to ensure an end to the pain of death. However, as Slavoj Zizek points out this good
which is ‘elevated above the natural good, the infinite, spiritual good, is ultimately the mask
of evil.’25 Victor’s intentions are beyond the realm of a strictly human good – and can thus
never produce the pleasing result he was aiming for. Small wonder then his creation’s
aesthetic appearance so repulses him.
The novel functions from this point on as an exercise in theodicy for Victor’s
unfortunate creation. The monster’s flaw is not a moral one, but rather an aesthetic one as
Victor forsakes what he has brought to life through its appearance alone, and it is this
perceived injustice that motivates much of the monster’s response when the two characters
come face to face for the first time:
‘You, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature, to whom thou art bound by ties
only dissoluble by the annihilation of one of us…How dare you sport thus with
life…You accuse me of murder and yet you would with a satisfied conscience destroy
your own creation. Oh praise the eternal justice of man!’
The monster’s language here is influenced by a combination of the Biblical language of
Matthew 27 (‘my God, My God, why have you forsaken me’) combined with the subjectivised
political liberalism of the early 1800s. Once again, Shelley reimagines theological language
and symbolism in the wake of the philosophical and literary innovations of the time. The
theological influences that Shelley works into the text show a much more distinctly
theologically pessimistic view than might have been expected from someone so close to
British Romanticism. For example, there is nothing inherently evil in Frankenstein’s creation
and thus Shelley’s monster does not necessarily go through the theological fall that Milton
25
Slavoj Zizek, Violence (2009)
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details in Paradise Lost. Rather, the monster is cast out by its maker – left not only physically
alone, but also spiritually forsaken without the security of any higher power. Frankenstein’s
monster is not simply an exercise in supressed maternal anxieties, or fears around the advent
of science or technology, but a prying away at terrifying religious uncertainties. The
theological message Shelley puts forward throughout Frankenstein, as a whole seems to be
rather uncompromisingly bleak about the role of man in relation to creation. As a product of
British Romanticism Victor Frankenstein seeks to combine the possibilities of rational
science with imaginative application to achieve something beyond the realm of the strictly
human. The result is that Victor brings forth a new kind of human – one left in alone in a
world where God is not present but where the replacement of deity is absented from his own
creation. This new man, brought into being is left without any kind of theological security,
expelled from the ontological realm of humanity and, at the novel’s conclusion ‘borne away
by the waves and lost in darkness and distance.’ As theologian Timothy Beal expresses it,
‘the horror of Frankenstein is a profoundly theological horror.’26
From the broader environment of literary Romanticism, the Gothic emerged as a
discursive space that co-opted both theological and philosophical notions to highlight the
difficulty in bringing them together. The Gothic monster emerges as a dark theological
creation brought to birth by the theological and philosophical ideas that the Romantic
movement hoped would bring salvation. Romanticism might have attempted to secure the
numinous, but the Gothic monster highlights the failure of this attempt and the necessity for
the continuing exploration of the theological
26
Timothy K Beal, Religion and It’s Monsters, (London, Routledge, 2002) pg. 3
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