The scholarly distrust that Kramnick mentions and that Lynch complicates has become an object of scholarly concern in the last two decades. In her 2003 book Touching Feeling, Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick reintroduces Paul Ricoeur’s “hermeneutics of suspicion,” observing that this style of criticism resembles paranoia and that the use of it is now “widely understood as a mandatory injunction rather than a possibility among other possibilities.”Perhaps because many of us consider it mandatory, scholars have had difficulty defining this mode of scholarly critique or describing what other methods readers employ. Michael Warner, prompted by Sedgwick’s essay, attempts to delineate what critical reading is and what it is not, concluding that our immersion in critical reading has meant that “whatever worlds are organized around frameworks of reading other than critical protocols remain, for the most part, terra incognita.It is this largely unmapped territory that I explore in my dissertation. I will compare responses to the same novels—and often the same features of those novels—from scholars working in the last few decades, earlier scholars, periodical critics, and amateur critics, which will make their different techniques and affective protocols apparent. The current affective protocols of the hermeneutics of suspicion have been most thoroughly demonstrated by Rita Felski, whose 2015 book The Limits of Critique arrived after I began this project but has been essential in helping me explain some of the problems I see with today’s critical practices. Felski uses the term “critical mood” to describe the suspicious orientation of most scholars toward texts that has pervaded otherwise disparate methodologies and become so dominant that it obscures or invalidates other attitudes and methods.
Felski writes that in the opinion of many humanistic scholars, “To refuse critique . . . is to sink into the mire of complacency, credulity,grow bag gardening and conservatism.”She acknowledges that this critical mood allows for pleasure of the disciplinary sort that Lynch describes, but she objects to the way it disallows receptivity to “the multifarious and many-shaded moods of texts,” as a suspicious critic is “fearful of being tricked or taken in. Locked into a cycle of punitive scrutiny and self-scrutiny, she cuts herself off from a swathe of intellectual and experiential possibility.”It is worth emphasizing that for groups that are routinely attacked by ideologies and policies, suspicion is self-preservation, especially considering the ways that literature informs our awareness of the world. But Felski’s point that this affective orientation limits scholars is important. In my dissertation, by devoting attention to the emotional qualities of numerous responses, both professional and nonprofessional, older and newer, I hope to suggest alternatives to the dominant scholarly attitude. For reasons I will address later, I am not attempting to offer a historicist account of emotion and criticism in this dissertation. However, I will briefly discuss some of the ideas of eighteenth-century philosophers and critics that influenced the reception of gothic novels. British eighteenth-century writers were actively engaged in defining and describing both emotions and taste, which they often treated as subjective phenomena that could nonetheless be assessed according to standards of appropriateness. For some, these standards were universal, deriving from God and humans’ common sensory makeup For others, they were social, established by what was beneficial to society or what had been consistently judged by others over hundreds of years .Many eighteenth century British writers shared an interest in moderation and were invested in disciplining excess, which helped create a cultural atmosphere in which many gothic novels would be judged as inappropriate for their extremes of character and situation, and even more so for their extravagant portrayals of feeling. To illustrate how these eighteenth-century judgments of appropriateness in art and emotion have been applied to literature and the slipperiness of this application, we can consider Adela Pinch’s analysis of a passage from Henry Home, Lord Kames.
Kames, the author of a thorough eighteenth-century treatment of aesthetics, discusses the need for writers to consider propriety when representing a characters’ feelings. For Pinch, this is an issue specific to eighteenth-century conceptions of emotion, but a similar problem in judging literary emotion continues beyond that historical period. For example, in 1968 critic Northrop Frye writes of Radcliffe’s heroines, “We may wonder why any literary convention should have produced these absurd creatures, drizzling like a Scotch mist and fainting at every crisis in the plot.”And in 2009, a Goodreads reviewer writes to Radcliffe’s Emily, “STOP CRYING YOU STUPID WHINY BITCH.”When critics judge the failure of emotional portrayals, these judgments often sound like indictments of the emotional people portrayed. This sort of judgment of literary feeling was vigorously exercised in the eighteenth century, as periodical critics, moralists, authors, and the general public argued about the effects of new fictional forms. William Warner writes that in the early debate about novels, “the novel reader is characterized as a susceptible female whose moral life is at risk” due to the dangerous pleasures she supposedly received from early amatory fictionBy the mid eighteenth century, Warner argues, the works of Henry Fielding and Samuel Richardson participated in a project of elevating the status the novel, and as the perceived cultural threat of novels in general diminished, critics and authors shifted focus to the emotional and moral value of particular kinds of novels.Those who wrote about gothic fiction in its early years often drew on this discourse to make claims for the emotional and moral benefits of these works or to condemn the novels for their dangers. In 1773, poet Anna Letitia Barbauld and her husband, John Aiken, describe the emotional conflict of reading narratives of terror, in which the pain induced by the miseries described is rivaled by the pain of suspense. However, they find that the exceptions are “well-wrought scenes of artificial terror which are formed by a sublime and vigorous imagination.”These sorts of fictional terror, of which The Castle of Otranto is “a very spirited modern attempt,” “elevate the soul” and provide pleasure through the combination of the terrible and the marvelous.Similarly, these writers recommend works that evoke pity with a delicate hand, in which authors lighten scenes of suffering with “strokes of pleasantry and mirth,” as excessive exposure to distress can “render us insensible to every thing” and even make people incapable of feeling pity for real people.
The novels of Ann Radcliffe, published later, would accord to these rules, but Matthew Lewis’s Monk would violate them, which helps explain their very different contemporary reception. Barbauld and Aiken’s concern about desensitization would take a more urgent form in William Wordsworth’s 1802 preface to Lyrical Ballads. Wordsworth decries the emotional danger of modern life, which “blunt[s] the discriminating powers of the mind” and “produces a craving for extraordinary incident” that is satisfied by “frantic novels” that many scholars assume to be gothic.The horror that early critics express at the proliferation of poorly written, formulaic gothic novels in the 1790s, which I will discuss inchapter 1, is thus in part horror over the power of literature to shape and be shaped by the baser feelings of readers.E. J. Clery identifies 1797 as “the year in which reviewers and critics began to put a name to the category of fiction we now call Gothic or the fantastic, although the name varied: ‘modern Romance’; ‘the terrible school’; ‘the Terrorist System of Novel Writing’; ‘Terrorist Novel Writing’; ‘the hobgoblin-romance’.James Watt argues against the critical tendency to unify the genre because “‘Gothic’ fiction was far less a tradition with a generic identity and significance than a domain which was open to contest from the first, constituted or structured by the often antagonistic relations between different writers and works.”Though I contest Watt’s own contestation in my second chapter, I am less invested in judging the legitimacy of the generic categorization of gothic novels than in examining what this categorization implies for critics, especially in terms of quality and feeling. Thus, what matters most for the selection of books in this study is that critics have labeled them as gothic. Scholars of gothic fiction have argued that, above all, gothic is a genre defined by its emotional characteristics. Coral Ann Howells names “feeling as the distinctive attribute of Gothic—feeling as it is explored and enacted in the fictions themselves, and feeling as the primary response elicited from the reader.”George Haggerty even claims that “Gothic form . . . is affective form. It almost goes without saying that these works are primarily structured so as to elicit particular responses in the reader. Perhaps, however, plastic grow bag it is not so obvious that Gothic fiction therefore cannot have specific meaning . . . it is central to the nature of Gothic fiction that differing interpretations will seem equally valid.”Haggerty’s argument here inspires my approach in this dissertation, as I try to determine how readers’ situated interactions with the texts allow for different affective, evaluative, and interpretative possibilities. For example, a twenty-first-century reader who picks up The Monk because Stephen King recommended it will have a different experience than an eighteenth-century reader who saw an advertisement suggesting the novel would be like The Mysteries of Udolpho, and the audience for which either of those readers would write a review would shape their responses differently as well. Haggerty himself, however, turns his argument to different ends, writing that “Gothic works only become fully intelligible when we understand the extent of their affective rationale.”Haggerty and most other scholars of gothic and similarly emotionally dependent fiction turn either to the text itself or to its contemporary context in order to determine a novel’s “affective rationale,” investigating the formal, structural, verbal, and conceptual ways that the text prompts certain responses. Barbara Benedict elucidates some of this affective rationale in her examination of how sentimental fiction “frames” feeling in a way that simultaneously encourages and discourages it. She argues, “The conventional language, pictorial diction, tonal instability, structural fragmentation, and multiple narrative voices work to externalize these interior experiences, to deprive them of authority, and to subordinate them within a social frame.”For example, she writes that Ann Radcliffe’s “disjunctive styles and structures . . . aestheticize emotional reactions with the discourse of spectatorship while they also exhibit control of sentimental excess.”Stephen Ahern thoroughly explores the contradictions that Benedict identifies, explaining that amatory, sentimental, and gothic fiction are all rooted in the unstable concept of sensibility and thus share “an ambivalence toward excess” which “arises from two fundamental yet conflicted imperatives: sensibility is an idealist discourse that is ineradicably rooted in physiological response, and sensibility is coded according to unstable categories of class and gender difference.”The effects of the portrayals of extreme emotion in sensibility narratives are unpredictable, he writes, “for overwrought descriptions of pathos can quickly descend into bathos if the audience . . . is unconvinced of the authenticity of the emotion expressed. Theatricality is a necessary condition of literary forms that find their truth in scenes of heightened emotion, but it is also a destabilizing force.”These scholars and many others have done valuable work in clarifying the emotional functions of gothic novels, but even though they acknowledge readers’ volatile responses to the mechanisms they describe, they still suggest that these novels evoke a fairly small range of emotions. For example, Napier’s analysis of gothic form leads her to conclude, “A successful response to the Gothic is based on instability: one must be pleased by what one dreads, take pleasure from distress, luxuriate in terror.”When scholars attempt to explain what kinds of responses the emotional conventions of fiction dictate, even when they allow for instability, they can end up suggesting that there are only a certain number of correct responses. Most scholarly accounts of feeling in literature do not recognize actual readers’ idiosyncrasies because they focus on what the construction of concepts and conventions enable. Even when the construction is built with internal contradictions, actual responses always exist in a more complicated world of influences beyond the text, and the cultural norms that may have caused contemporary readers to feel a certain way do not necessarily obtain for readers distant from the circumstances in which the text was written. Various scholars have explained the origins of the English gothic genre, its popularity, and its early critical reception as being attributable to a range of political, economic, philosophical, and social forces: anxieties about the French Revolution, foreign influences, or consumerism; dissatisfaction with Enlightenment rationality or women’s position in society; and worries about the preservation of middle-class sensibilities or the growing power of the lower classes, among others.This historical research allows us to situate gothic fiction in its contemporary context in several different ways, which is vital for my dissertation and scholarship on the gothic in general.