This article investigates the role of the corridor in Gothic fiction and horror
film from the late eighteenth century to the present day. It seeks to establish
this transitional space as a crucial locus, by tracing the rise of the corridor
as a distinct mode of architectural distribution in domestic and public
buildings since the eighteenth century. The article tracks pivotal appearances
of the corridor in fiction and film, and in the final phase argues that it has
become associated with a specific emotional tenor, less to do with amplified
fear and horror and more with emotions of Angst or dread.
At the time of their publication, Joanna Baillie‘s dramas were considered to be works of genius in their sustained and powerful fixation on one of the several possible human passions. In their very focus on these intense emotions, however, the plays actually reified the dangers inherent in the extremes of human passion. In other words, by fixing her attention on the passions, Baillie revealed that the emotions she was supposedly focused on often masked other, even more powerful desires. Thus, in Orra fear is the result of the heroines hatred of male dominance, while in De Monfort hatred is shown to be the symptom of incestuous love. But what has not been noticed about Baillie‘s plays is their almost obsessive interest in dead, abjected male bodies. Both plays present a very gothic vision of the indestructible patriarchy, an uncanny phallic power that cannot die, that persistently resurrects and feeds on itself or the legends that it has constructed.
Smith explores how Stoker‘s novel raises some complex questions about love through its use of a male love-struck narrator, who appears to be caught in a Female Gothic plot which casts him as its hero. In the novel ‘love’ becomes increasingly sinister as it turns into a destabilising and dangerously irrational emotion that ultimately aligns love with feelings of justified horror. Jewel (1903, revised 1912) thus develops a male reading of a Female Gothic plot in which the idea of female empowerment becomes defined as horrific. However, this idea of a pathologised love, Smith argues, is not unique to Stoker and can be linked to Freud‘s account of love, which reveals how issues relating to male authority appear within psychoanalytical debates about emotion at the time.
This article approaches a range of contemporary Scottish fiction: Iain Banks‘s Complicity and A Song of Stone, Irvine Welsh‘s Filth, Michel Faber‘s Under the Skin, James Robertson‘s Joseph Knight, Alan Guthrie‘s Savage Night and selected stories from Alan Bissett‘s Scottish Gothic anthology, Damage Land. The theme the article traces is pity, whether seen in a national or historical context, or as part of a wider panoply of what one might think of as ‘Gothic emotions’. The main contention is that it is possible that we reduce the scope of Gothic when we think of it as merely conducing to terror; whether we think of the earliest Gothic novels or of contemporary writing, there are often other feelings being stirred, a wider range of sensibilities being explored.
Trauma realities defy easy access to comprehension and thus require alternative discourses to understand them. This article looks at Pat Barkers employment of the Gothic tropes in the examination and explication of war trauma in her Regeneration trilogy. More pertinently, it scrutinizes the complex relation between Gothicized landscapes and trauma by analyzing three specific sites – Craiglockhart War Hospital, trenches and England as ‘Blighty’ – in the Regeneration trilogy. This article shows traumas destabilizing impact by examining how landscapes become imprinted with trauma. The physical disempowerment of landscapes is further complemented by a psychological disempowerment by examining traumatized patient-soldiers mindscapes and dreamscapes. It further examines how Barker employs tropes of haunting, dreams and nightmares, staple Gothic emotions of fear, terror and horror, Freuds Unheimlich to dispossess the owners control and locates trauma realities lurking therein. Thus Barkers Regeneration narrative bears witness to the phantom realities of war trauma by privileging the uncanny personal histories of traumatized soldiers.
Bodies dis(re)membered: Gothic and the transplant imaginary
science fiction, so why not call this book Transplantation Fantastic? Science fiction, Gothic, and horror are, after all, overlapping forms of Fantastika, to use John Clute’s term. 18 Why employ the more abstruse ‘Gothic’ which, despite its thriving critical field, is more cryptic for a wider readership? Firstly, I suggest that the concept of a Gothic ‘mode’ is valuable shorthand for a specific combination of disturbed emotion, claustrophobic space, and disjointed temporality, a constellation of characteristics which can be especially useful in describing challenging
Cartesian meditation through which I become aware of my own existence in this landscape. This feels instead like receiving something from the nature of this place, something uncanny that takes me over like a mood.
‘They descend upon us without reason, stay without permission and leave without cause’, is how philosopher Jane Howarth describes moods (113). In discussing how emotion terms are ascribed to Nature – angry skies, melancholy seasons, joyful brooks – Howarth says it is Nature that is expressive of these emotions; it has no feelings or intentions
attempted murder of her lover.
The connection of Darwinism to realism pioneered by Beer and Levine has become so well established that it has perhaps obscured just how sensational Darwin's major theoretical works were. The books that comprised the fleshing-out of the ‘Abstract’ (Darwin 1859 : 1) of On the Origin of Species – The Variation of Animals and Plants Under Domestication (1867), The Descent of Man, and Selection in Relation to Sex ( 1871 ) and The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals ( 1872 ) – were inherently shocking
Uncanny assemblage and embodied scripts in tissue recipient horror
express the sense that another person dwells within them may well acquire medical labels that draw on monstrous imagery, such as “Frankenstein syndrome”’. 10 For such practitioners, a book such as this, emphasising morbid imagery, must seem perverse. Relatively few organ recipients feel the extreme form of this distress. In one survey of 47 heart transplant recipients in Vienna, for example, only 6 per cent of heart recipients felt their personality had been changed by the received tissue. 11 Yet research also suggests that recipients’ emotions can be more complex
Transnational harvest horror and racial vulnerability at the turn of the millennium
at the door are guards come to take him for surgical extraction: ‘Om ( looking suddenly grey ) You’re right – it could be the guards!’ (p. 49). Dread is made palpable with relentless, repetitive knocking and Om’s visibly crumbling resolve. ‘How could I have done this to myself?’ (p. 51). He sinks to the floor, tries to hide in the refrigerator, curls into a foetal position (p. 53).
The play explores other emotions of the preoperative period in addition to anticipatory mourning. Om is conscious of stigma attached to the sale and urges secrecy, and these appeals