AMERICAN GOTHIC

American gothic fiction is a subgenre of gothic fiction. Elements specific to American Gothic include:
rationality versus the irrational, puritanism, guilt, the uncanny (das unheimliche), ab-humans, ghosts,
and monsters.

Analysis of major themes

The inability of many Gothic characters to overcome perversity by rational thought is quintessential
American Gothic.[1] It is not uncommon for a protagonist to be sucked into the realm of madness
because of his or her inclination towards the irrational. A tendency such as this flies in the face of
higher reason and seems to mock 18th-century Enlightenment thinking as outlined by Common Sense
and The Age of Reason. Also, one cannot ignore the contemporary Gothic themes of mechanism and
automation that rationalism and logic lead to.

Puritan imagery, particularly that of Hell, acted as potent brain candy for 19th-century authors like
Edgar Allan Poe and Nathaniel Hawthorne. The dark and nightmarish visions the Puritan culture of
condemnation, reinforced by shame and guilt, created a lasting impact on the collective
consciousness. Notions of predestination and original sin added to the doom and gloom of traditional
Puritan values. This perspective and its underlying hold on American society ripened the blossoming
of stories like Rachel Dyer (the first novel about the Salem witch trials), "The Pit and the Pendulum",
"Young Goodman Brown", and The Scarlet Letter.

The dungeons and endless corridors that are a hallmark of European Gothic are far removed from
American Gothic, in which castles are replaced with caves; early settlers were prone to fear linked to
the unexplored territory which surrounded, and in some cases, engulfed them. Fear of the unknown
stemming from environmental factors like darkness and vastness is notable in Charles Brockden
Brown's Edgar Huntly.

The emergence of the "ab-human" in American gothic fiction was closely coupled with the
emergence of Charles Darwin's theories of evolution. Ideas of evolution or devolution of a species,
new biological knowledge, and technological advancement created a fertile environment for many to
question their essential humanity. Parallels between humans and other living things on the planet
were made obvious by the aforementioned. This is manifest in stories like H.P. Lovecraft’s "The
Outsider" and Nicholson Baker's "Subsoil". Ghosts and monsters are closely related to this theme;
they function as the spiritual equivalent of the abhuman and may be evocative of unseen realities, as
in The Bostonians (Henry James).

Early American Gothic writers were particularly concerned with frontier wilderness anxiety and the
lasting effects of a Puritanical society. "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" by Washington Irving is perhaps
the most famous example of American Colonial-era Gothic fiction. Charles Brockden Brown was
deeply affected by these circumstances, as can be seen in Wieland. That novel inspired Logan by
John Neal, which is notable for rejecting British Gothic conventions in favor of distinctly American
materials.

Edgar Allan Poe, Nathaniel Hawthorne and Washington Irving are often grouped together. They
present impressive, albeit disturbing, portraits of the human experience. Poe accomplished this
through the window of a diseased and depressive fascination with the morose, Irving with the keen
charm of a masterful storyteller, and Hawthorne with familial bonds to past abominations like the
Salem Witch Trials which he addresses in "The Custom House."

Washington Irving (April 3, 1783 – November 28, 1859)

Nathaniel Hawthorne (July 4, 1804 – May 19, 1864)

Edgar Allan Poe (January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849)

Southern American Gothic

Southern Gothic established itself in the mid-20th century in response to the growing threats that
racism and segregation presented to the ‘stability’ of Southern American society. Many of the most
notable American authors of the 20th century write in this tradition. Though Southern Gothic does
not entirely exclude the supernatural, it concerns itself more with disturbed personalities, racism,
poverty, violence, moral corruption and ambiguity. Southern Gothic literature often deals with the
plight of those who are ostracized or oppressed by traditional Southern culture including black
people, women, and gay people. Southern Gothic encompasses a diverse group of writings. The
genre in the twentieth century was dominated by novelists such as William Faulkner, Eudora Welty,
Carson McCullers, Flannery O’Connor and Cormac McCarthy along with playwright Tennessee
Williams. It is also clearly a genre that Toni Morrison is writing in response to in Beloved. As Bjerre
neatly summarises: “The Southern Gothic brings to light the extent to which the idyllic vision of the
pastoral, agrarian South rests on massive repressions of the region’s historical realities: slavery,
racism, and patriarchy. Southern Gothic texts also mark a Freudian return of the repressed: the
region’s historical realities take concrete forms in the shape of ghosts that highlight all that has been
unsaid in the official version of southern history.
Move Over, Poe—The Real Godfather of Gothic Horror Was Nathaniel Hawthorne; The "Scarlet
Letter" author's short stories are like a Puritan "Twin Peaks"

JUN 8, 2021 ADAM FLEMING PETTY https://electricliterature.com/move-over-poe-the-real-

godfather-of-gothic-horror-was-nathaniel-hawthorne/
Nathaniel Hawthorne (July 4, 1804 – May 19, 1864)

Edgar Allan Poe (January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849)

Edgar Allan Poe is generally regarded as the OG of American literature. OG, of course, stands for
“Original Goth.” When it comes to the creepy, the weird, and the macabre, Poe takes his place as the
grandmaster of the whole black parade. Guillermo del Toro, serving as the series editor of the
Penguin Horror line, writes: “It is in Poe that we first find the sketches of modern horror while being
able to enjoy the traditional trappings of the Gothic tale. He speaks of plagues and castles and
ancient curses, but he is also morbidly attracted to the aberrant intellect, the mind of the outsider.”
Del Toro locates Poe as the American conduit for European strains of Gothicism and romanticism,
letting loose the fears of the Old World upon the New.

But viewing the emergence of the American Gothic as a transatlantic phenomenon misses more
homegrown explorations into the bizarre. A century before H.P. Lovecraft (inspired by Hawthorne’s
novel The House of the Seven Gables) depicted New England as a realm of terror and dread,
Nathaniel Hawthorne was on the case, mining the region’s history for insights into the mind’s darker
corners. Chiefly remembered today for The Scarlet Letter, that bane of high school curricula,
Hawthorne’s highest achievements are actually found in his short stories. There, he examines the
supposed innocence of the early American character, finding the darkness that lies beneath.

At roughly the same time that Poe was publishing stories in magazines and periodicals, Hawthorne
did the same. (The House of the Seven Gables is unmistakably Gothic, but it was published after Poe
established himself as the face of the genre.) Indeed, Poe himself took notice of Hawthorne’s talents.
In a review, Poe wrote that “Mr. Hawthorne’s distinctive trait is invention, creation, imagination
originality—a trait which, in the literature of fiction, is positively worth all the rest.” Many of
Hawthorne’s finest stories were collected in Twice-Told Tales (1837), the first book he published
under his own name. (He published an earlier novel, Fanshawe, under a pseudonym, like a 21st
century writer self-pubbing an e-book.) As with The Scarlet Letter, many of his stories depict the early
Puritan colonies of New England, well before the United States was established as a country. You can
see why. Hawthorne was the descendant of New England Puritans, including his great-great-
grandfather, John, who served as a judge of the infamous Salem witch trials. Hawthorne’s familial
guilt over being involved in such a grotesque undertaking colors much of his work.

Unlike Poe, whose stories often feature lonesome individuals questing into the unknown,
Hawthorne’s tales focus on communities, and the destruction that secrets can visit upon them.
Emblematic of this approach is “The Minister’s Black Veil.” The story takes place in a New England
village during the early 17th century. Reverend Hooper, leader of the local church, arrives at the
building one Sunday morning. Hooper has never been very distinctive as a minister. He acquits his
duties quietly, without drawing attention to himself. But one day, without announcement or
explanation, he draws an inordinate amount of attention. He arrives at church wearing a black veil
over his face. The same kind of veil a mourning widow would wear.

Why does Hooper wear the veil? He refuses to say. But the parishioners note a change in his
personality. Before, his sermons were perfunctory, even dull. But once he wears the veil, his
sermonizing becomes a full-throated performance, one that enraptures the congregation. But
rumors continue to roil the community. Does Hooper feel guilty about some secret sin? Is that why
he wears the veil? If so, then he should simply confess the sin, and return to his normal, unveiled self.
But Hooper refuses. He gives no explanation as to the nature of the veil, not even to his wife. He
keeps the veil on for the rest of his life. When he dies, none dare remove it, and he is laid in the
ground with his face still veiled.

The black veil is a perfect Gothic detail. A symbol of mourning, and a feminine one at that, worn by
the male minister to the confoundment of the community. No explanation is given, neither by
Hooper nor the narrator, which allows the veil’s meaning to grow, resonating in different settings.
Perhaps Hooper is simply reminding his parishioners of the death that awaits them all, and the veil is
his way of making peace with it. Or maybe the veil represents Hooper’s depression, one that he
cannot otherwise express in his pious community. You could even say that Hooper, in donning the
feminine accoutrements of death, is expressing ambivalence about his own gender. Perhaps the
black veil is a kind of gothic drag performance, the only one available to Hooper in 18th-century New
England. Hooper, after all, fully comes to life once he covers his face with the black lace, expressing
aspects of himself that were previously—forgive the pun—veiled.

“Young Goodman Brown,” like The Scarlet Letter, takes place in a Puritan community in the late 17th
century, around the time of the historical Salem witch trials. But rather than a whole community
ostracizing a lone individual, this story finds the title character doubting the very nature of his
community, and consequently growing distant from it. One evening, Goodman Brown is taking a
stroll in the New England woods. There he meets a mysterious gentleman. The gentleman leads him
to a clearing, where, through the trees, Brown sees the leaping flames of a great fire. It is a witches’
Sabbath—the original Satanic panic. But gathered there are not just a few outcasts hexing the
townsfolk. Brown’s whole community chants before the flames, including his beloved wife Faith. Just
as Faith is about to drink from an accursed cup, Brown cries out. He finds himself in an empty wood,
with no fire roaring. Was the witches’ Sabbath a dream? That question goes unanswered. But the
damage has been done. After beholding such an infernal vision, Brown can no longer trust his
neighbors. He even grows distant from his wife, and eventually dies a lonesome death, estranged
from communal bonds.

“Young Goodman Brown” is among the first instances of a trope that has since become a mainstay of
American narrative art, from literature to film: the idyllic community with a seedy underbelly. All
across the country are quaint, pleasant towns, with tidy houses and gazebos. But such quaintness is a
mask. Within the houses, beneath the surface, roil dark passions and secret sins. In its European
form, gothic stories often locate the source of infectious darkness in the decadent aristocracy, from
Jane Eyre’s madwoman in the attic to the literally infectious Dracula of Bram Stoker fame. The early
United States, lacking such patrilineal aristocracy, often believed itself immune to contagions. But
Hawthorne, working against such naivete, finds the darkness within the community itself. The quaint
small town is not besieged from without by social or supernatural forces; it is infected from within,
by nothing more monstrous than the human heart.

You can trace a direct line from Hawthorne’s insight to the present day. Perhaps the greatest explorer
of the darkness beneath American shininess presently working is David Lynch. A Boomer who grew
up in the 1950s, in suburbs as pristine as Salem, Lynch peers below the perfectly manicured lawns to
find the horror writhing there. Blue Velvet’s Jeffrey Beaumont, as played by Kyle MacLachlan, is a
Goodman Brown of the 1980s. Visiting his hometown of Lumberton during a break from college,
Jeffrey finds himself enmeshed in a web of crime, sex and murder. Twin Peaks, where Laura Palmer is
murdered after getting trapped in local sordidness and cosmic struggle, resembles a retelling of
“Young Goodman Brown” in which Faith, Brown’s wife, is the main character. She confronts the
darkness of her hometown and, unlike the menfolk, endures it, coming out stronger in the end.

“The Birthmark” is one of Hawthorne’s most affecting stories. Its power flows from Hawthorne’s
facility at depicting Gothic darkness infecting one of the most intimate communal bonds of all: love.
Love shades into possession, as it often does in Gothic tales, but not as a result of outright
malevolence. There is no mustache-twirling villain to be found in the story. Instead we have a man
who believes he knows everything, only to lose it all.

Gothic and Romantic writers of Hawthorne’s time often depicted science as a malevolent force that
sought to drain the mystery from existence. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein is the most famous example,
of course. “The Birthmark” takes the basic dynamic of Frankenstein, that of creator and creation, and
places it in an affecting, deeply personal sphere.

Aylmer is a scientist who has mastered every branch of knowledge. His wife, Georgiana, is a beautiful
young woman, the love of his life. But her beauty is marred by one imperfection: a birthmark on her
left cheek, as if “a fairy at her birth hour had laid her hand upon the tiny infant’s cheek.” Aylmer
becomes obsessed with correcting the imperfection. He devotes all his learning to that end. He
devises a procedure for removing Georgiana’s birthmark. He succeeds, at which point Georgiana
immediately dies.

An obvious ending? A better description would be “inevitable.” “The Birthmark” is a gothic fairy tale,
and part of the appeal of fairy tales lies in knowing how they’ll end before they even start. Think of
Carmen Maria Machado’s “The Husband Stitch,” which has a strong affinity with “The Birthmark.”
What makes the story so affecting is that the reader knows that, as soon as the husband removes the
ribbon from the wife’s neck, her life will end. You read the story with your hands covering your eyes,
peering through fingers. It is the same with “The Birthmark.” You turn the pages of the story as
slowly as you can, prolonging the inevitable for as long as possible.

Hawthorne’s contribution to the Gothic mode, right when it was forming, consists of creating
believable, even mundane settings for horror to wreak havoc. Quaint communities, pleasant
churches. Simple backgrounds that offset the bizarre, making it pop. The approach makes him
something of a minimalist, which is ironic, since Gothicism is all about excess and spilling over
artificial boundaries. But it was highly effective, enabling him to create moods of dread and wonder
with just a few flourishes. Read today, his work seems eerily prescient when it comes to the fears
that still trouble American communities, innocent or—more likely—not.