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H229 Narrative Fiction 1
Lecture 6 1995
Last week's text was the first of a group in the middle of this course unit which seem to require a psychological explanation for their existence. Some of their aspects, it seems, can only be understood in a context which takes account of an excess of desire, and by a mode of interpretation like that we apply to mental phenomena like dreams and other accidental or unintentional individual behaviour, as well as to collective cultural productions like jokes, myths, legends, folk-tales, nursery rhymes, and fairy stories. Last week I mentioned Freud's paper on 'Creative writers and day-dreaming,' in the connexion between the play of the growing child, and those fantasies which replace infantile play—including the fantasies of the creative writer. (Incidentally, if you want to read that paper, one of the [probably] many places in which it has been reprinted is the first collection by David Lodge of Twentieth Century Literary Criticism.) [1] And I quoted Freud as saying that the writer '... builds castles in the air and creates what are called day-dreams.' [2] And of course this is precisely—one could almost (but not quite) say 'literally'—what Horace Walpole did: he built The Castle of Otranto in the air as a fantasy to satisfy some desire or desires of which he was probably unconscious. And he did also literally build something, in that it is said that he made his house at Strawberry Hill Twickenham into 'a little Gothic castle.' 3
Walpole was the fourth son of Sir Robert Walpole, who was the first earl of Oxford, and who completed his first term as Prime Minister in the year in which Horace was born, 1717. He was Prime Minister again throughout the years 1721-42, that is during the whole of the period of Horace Walpole's youth and younger manhood. If you consider what it might have been like to have had an Earl and Prime Minister for a father, and if you think about that in connexion with the main trope of The Castle of Otranto, you have material for speculation as to the fundamental desires which the tale expresses. I suggest that the central images in the book are concerned with great size. The originary dream which was the source of the story material presented Walpole with an image which he found very powerful. You'll remember that he writes to a friend: 'on the uppermost bannister of a great staircase I saw a gigantic hand in armour.' And then, he goes on: 'In the evening I sat down and began to write, without knowing in the least what I intended to say or relate.' [4] The vision of the giant hand drives him directly into an automatic kind of writing, in the process of which he allows himself to be guided by unconscious desires.
In this story we read of other bits of a giant man: a foot and a leg, and also of weapons and armour of an appropriately gigantic size: the helmet with its huge plumes, and the sword which requires a hundred men to carry it. And consider also the prophecy which animates the story from the beginning, 'That the castle and lordship of Otranto should pass from the present family, whenever the real owner should be grown too large to inhabit it.' It seems to me that the concern at the centre of Walpole's fantasy is a worry about the lord of his castle being of great stature and also conversely about he himself not being big enough to succeed to his inheritance, so that the 'lordship' might pass from him. This last worry, as I see it, is connected with the expression of concern which runs through the whole story about the correctness of inheritance in the male line. I'm not suggesting that either Manfred—or Frederic for that matter—simply stand for the Prime Minster who was little Horace's father. What I am suggesting is the both the irascible Manfred and the distant but 'weak' Frederic, as well as the various bits of what apparently all turn out to be the giant Alfonso, all participate in Fatherhood, are displaced and fragmented aspects of a huge Primal Father. I am suggesting that patriarchy and filiation are the overdetermined subjects of this 'Gothic tale,' which are dealt with not only in their thematisation in the narrative, but also in their troping in the Gothic imagery which its most egregious characteristic.
Mary Shelley's Frankenstein also begins with a dream—which you will have read in the Author's Introduction to the Standard Novels edition, and you will also be aware that Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin Shelley had powerful parents. She knew her mother only by reputation, as Mary Wollstonecraft died in giving birth to William Godwin's daughter, but as her father brought her up, she knew him well, at least until she ran away with another powerful man at the age of sixteen. And perhaps Mary Shelley's story too has an undercurrent of meaning which has something to do with fathers.
Mary Shelley's Frankenstein is a shocking text, in more ways than one. In the first place, it deals with a major moral transgression in representing man usurping the position of the Creator in himself creating himself. (I remind you that, although I didn't use the word, we were discussing transgression last week in relation to The Castle of Otranto.) Like the Prometheus of Mary's subtitle, Frankenstein has defied God in creating life, and, like Prometheus, must be punished.
Secondly, it plays with another transgression, one in which Mary Shelley seems to have had a particular interest: incest. The other long narrative in The Mary Shelley Reader, Mathilda, is centrally concerned with this, in the form of the threat of incest between a father and a daughter, and one is led to speculate on the nature of the relationship between Mary and her powerful father, whom we shall meet again in the next week of the course as the author of Caleb Williams. In a letter, Mary Shelley 'acknowledged her own "excessive and romantic attachment"' to her father before she met her husband. [5] Indeed she wrote to her friend Jane Williams that 'Until I knew Shelley I may justly say that he [Godwin] was my God—& I remember many childish instances of the excess of attachment I bore for him.' [6] In Frankenstein there is the relationship between Victor and Elizabeth, who, in the first edition of 1818, are first cousins. (Incest was also referred to in The Castle of Otranto, and in our discussions of it.) Another impulse towards incest may be seen as suggested in some of the expressions Walton uses in relation to his sister. It is difficult, at this distance in time, to judge the degree of conventionality of his writing such things to her as: "I love you very tenderly." (OUP: 20) In addition, there his (sudden and unnatural?) warmth of feeling for Victor Frankenstein, as in: "… I begin to love him as a brother … I should have been happy to have possessed [him] as the brother of my heart." (OUP: 23)
Thirdly, it is shocking in the more literal sense that it has Gothic aspects which may literally have shocked its first readers: the collection of 'bones from charnel houses' for use in Victor's 'workshop of filthy creation,' the description of the disgusting appearance of the monster, the murders of the children, the hanging of the innocent Justine, and so on.
One of the more important theoretical issues to which I want to return again this week, and which will throw an different light, I think, on Mary Shelley's interest in incest, concerns the notion of intertextuality: the way in which texts of all kinds relate to each other.
I'd like to go back to remind you of the first, introductory lecture—I hope you've read it by now—in the Study Guide and Reader. [7] Vijay Mishra is dealing there, among other things, with what he calls 'levels of interpretation,' and he begins with the basic element in which narrative begins its existence: language. He moves up through the syntactic level, the level of sentence construction, to the level of the speech act, the level at which somebody says something to somebody else, and he points out that 'much discourse in any novel is intertextual, deriving from the conventions of the novel or from the clichés, the commonplaces of everyday life.' So the first kind of intertextuality is in relation to what Vijay calls the 'anonymous text of a culture.' To put it as plainly as I can, we are talking here about language, and saying that all 'speech acts,' all uses of language, are related to all other uses, in that they are all part of language as such.
In the 'lecture' Vijay then moves on through 'spatio-temporal categories' and ideological structures, to arrive at what he calls generic norms. 'By this [he means] modes of construction which are peculiar to the novel and ways in which novels diverge from hitherto normative modes of construction. One of the key categories [he has in mind, for example] is that of realism …' And I think this is a notion of intertextuality that is more pertinent to our studies. We're now talking about the ways in which different specific texts are related to each other. Part of this has to do with something which used to be one of the major fields of literary research, the extent to which one writer was thought to have influenced another. This interest has been overtaken by others, firstly because of the view that came to be taken that to speak of the intentions of particular authors was fallacious (and I'm thinking particularly of course of Wimsatt & Beardsley's paper called 'The intentional fallacy,' which many of you will have read); and then secondly because the idea of the author itself came to be seen as something like a non-category (and now of course I'm thinking of the famous papers by Roland Barthes and Michel Foucault called 'The death of the author' and 'What is an author?', respectively). [8, 9] Both of these papers were first published at about the same time—in the late 1960s—that Julia Kristeva was writing for the first time explicitly about the concept of 'intertextuality,' as I mentioned in my fourth lecture. [10] The decline in interest in the 'author' and the growth in interest in 'discourse' and 'text' are of course related to each other in inverse proportion.
Having said all that, however, I do in fact want to relate some specific texts and authors to each other, namely, texts by Mary Shelley and her Dad.
The first two texts whose relationship I want to consider are the two editions of Frankenstein of 1818 and 1831. You have the second in the Penguin edition of the Three Gothic Novels and the first is available in The Mary Shelley Reader. In the original edition, as I've mentioned, Victor and Elizabeth are first cousins, but in the revised edition of 1831 they are not related and Elizabeth is a founding. As this is the only gross difference between the two editions, it's as if Mary decided to repress this aspect. She writes in the Author's Introduction to the Standard Novels edition that the alterations are 'principally those of style. I have changed no portion of the story nor introduced any new ideas of circumstances.' [11] This is arguably not the case. The second edition takes more space to establish the chance discovery of Elizabeth Lavenza, in Italy. In the first edition, Frankenstein's father's sister marries an Italian and then dies, and the child comes back to England: so she is Victor Frankenstein's first cousin. In the second edition they are not related at all, although she is said to be 'my more than sister' (Penguin 293, repeated 294). Through this change she is allowed to be both less and more closely related. Victor Frankenstein often calls her 'cousin' in the second edition, which may be seen as an expression of his closeness to her, or possibly just as a failure to revise carefully enough. (My guess is the latter.) A second difference between the two editions is that Shelley gives more space to the precise development of Frankenstein's scientific interests. She does not mention the concept of galvanism in the first edition at all, but only in the second.
A second intertextuality I want to suggest you consider is that between Frankenstein and Caleb Williams. I suggest they are centrally concerned with injustice and with William Godwin's belief in the doctrine of perfectibility. You might note that both novels were published in their final revised versions in the same year, 1831, in the same series, the Standard Novels, published by Colburn & Bentley. Caleb Williams was No. 2 in the series, Frankenstein No. 9. David Punter points out the philosophical connexion when writing about Frankenstein in his book on The Literature of Terror. 12
Mary Shelley nominally subscribed to Godwin's belief in the eventual perfectibility of man, and any doctrine of the tabula rasa must suppose that, if circumstances were only right, perfection of the individual is a possibility.
Thirdly, there is the series of Frankenstein texts: the revisions handwritten on a copy of the edition of 1823, the play of 1823, the revised edition of 1931, and then the films, beginning with James Whale's of 1931, followed by The Bride of Frankenstein, Young Frankenstein, Flesh for Frankenstein, Son of Frankenstein, and Frankenstein meets Dracula, to mention only a few of the fifty or so films that Grant Stone says exist or have existed. [13] The series continues most recently in an episode of The Simpsons, in the 1993 made-for TV version, and in the Kenneth Branagh film called Mary Shelley's Frankenstein (1994), with Robert de Niro as the Monster. Also worthy of mention is Ken Russell's 1987 film called Gothic, mostly concerned with the circumstances in which Mary came to create the Frankenstein story, which she recounts in her Preface to the novel. Natasha Richardson plays Mary Shelley in the film and Julian Sands a camp Percy Bysshe Shelley. The most memorable aspect of the film as I recall it is the spectacle of a number of dead babies in different states of decomposition, reflecting the connexion between creation and decreation in Mary Shelley's own life. Not only did her mother die soon after her birth but her own children died in infancy, and the creation of life for her is associated with guilt and death—as it is of course in our text.
What is the reason for this intense visual interest in the Frankenstein fable in particular and in the Gothic, in the genre of 'horror,' and 'creature features' generally? Does it have something to do with the origins of the Gothic in the visual phenomenon of some of the architecture of the twelfth to the fourteenth centuries? As we discussed last week, 'Gothic literature' acquired its name from something that existed in the spatial and visual field, and was applied to visual and atmospheric effects in written narrative. It seems inevitable that when the cinema gets going, there is a transfer back again to the new visual medium.
The novel is intensely conceived as being written, however. The whole narrative is to be seen as epistolary, in that it is contained in a series of loving letters from Walton to his sister. [14] Shelley seems to have a strong desire for a naturalistic mode of narrative, to give the text a raison d'être. In Mathilda, the narrator begins by addressing herself to her friend Woodville, in a farewell letter, but soon explains to him that because she wants to write about him she will write her story as if she were addressing anyone. All the framed narratives in Frankenstein are motivated in similar ways. Moving from the inmost framing outwards, we understand the de Lacey story as being inside the monster's narrative, which is framed by Frankenstein's, which is conveyed by Walton's, which is in the narrative apparatus of Frankenstein, which is authored by Mary Shelley, who is initially in a writer's circle, the group who agree each to write a ghost story, then in the context of her father's writing, and finally in a sense inside an apparatus of literary or novelistic production, and also a series of modes or moments of reception.
With regard to the last point, it is interesting to reflect that Shelley's narrative was originally conceived and written for a group of men, including her husband, Lord Byron, and Byron's doctor, Polidori. I think that it is also relevant to see it as written to some extent also for her father, and we should consider this further in the context of reading Caleb Williams. Bennett & Robinson tell us that 'Mary Shelley valued her father's opinions of her work and welcomed his suggestions of subjects to write about.' [15] So, although Mary Shelley's novel is often studied by people working on women's writing, it is also directed at a male readership. I think the results of this tendency may be most clearly seen in the fate of the female 'monster.' There are a number of reasons why she could not be allowed to flourish, and one of them, I suggest, is this readership. The relationship between Mary's narrative and those of the others in the group (whether they came into existence or not) is another intertextual relationship.
We should also not overlook the obvious fact that Frankenstein came into existence partly as a response to a reading of 'some volumes of ghost stories, translated from the German into French,' and so was from the moment of its conception generically embedded. 16
Yet another intertextuality is to be found in the books which form the monster's education. You'll remember he finds a 'leathern portmanteau' containing Milton's Paradise Lost, a volume of Plutarch's Lives, and Goethe's Sorrows of Young Werther—Shelley's 'desert island' books, perhaps. The monster expatiates at some length on the effect of reading them. 17
And I must also mention again another narrative by Mary Shelley, one that Vijay Mishra deals with in his in third Chapter, on 'Gothic fragments and fragmented gothics.' Mary began Mathilda in August 1819, and completed it in Florence, according to the date in her MS, on 9 November of that year. Her fourth child, Percy Florence Shelley, was born on 12 November. Dr Mishra reads the meaning of the novel as being inseparable from 'her father's responses to her emotional crisis.' Very briefly, Mathilda's life is ruined by the obsessional love her father has for her. After their relationship comes to a climax and is resolved in some way that is not made clear, he kills himself; and the victim, Mathilda, comes to see herself as the person responsible—in much the same way as does Caleb Williams in Godwin's own novel. Dr Mishra makes the connexion between the death of the father in the story and a desire for parricide on the part of its author, and suggests that this may been a result of her real father's obdurate and unsympathetic attitude to her. When Mary wrote to him after the death of Clara in 1818 and then again after her first-born William died nine months later, Godwin wrote to her that the death was a 'trial of your constancy …' When, after William's death, she apparently wrote expressing a hope for a more sympathetic reaction on this occasion, he writes to tell her how much he himself has suffered because of her blaming him: 'Your letter of August 19 is very grievous to me [he writes], inasmuch as you represent me as increasing the degree of your uneasiness & depression.' We know what he wrote, not because his own letter has survived, but because Mary was in the habit of copying his letters out, sometimes adding 'postscripts or marginal notes.' It was in that same August of 1819 that Mary began the narrative of Mathilda and her obsessive relationship with her father and his death.
We have of course approached Frankenstein mainly through the line taken by Dr Mishra, in the context of the sublime and the postmodern, but there are of course many other ways of reading the novel. One of the most productive, I would think, has been to read it as a fable about technology, about the development of science and the creation of monsters that are no longer controllable by their creators. David Punter writes that '… the book embodies many local doubts about scientific progress; it emphasises, in a very modern way, the need for care and responsibility in matters scientific. [22] Creation is of course the central theme, the 'end' of Frankenstein. Prometheus (of the epigraph) creates humanity; a man (Victor Frankenstein) creates the Monster, who stands for humanity.
Another approach would see the story as throwing light on colonialism, and about the primitive. This is suggested, for example, by David Punter again, who writes that, in Frankenstein, '… there is an intense fear of the ugly, the unpredictable, the disruptive … the monster … is different …' [23] and: 'Frankenstein, at root, is a book about the rejection of the strange, at both social and psychological levels.' [24] I don't have time to do more than merely suggest that there is an encounter here not only with a nineteenth century notion of the 'noble savage,' but also with the primitive in both quasi-anthropological and psychological senses. And to point out that the Monster has 'yellow skin' which does not seem thick enough to properly cover the workings of the organs underneath it, 'lustrous black hair,' contrasting with 'teeth of a pearly whiteness,' and 'watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun-white sockets in which they were set,' and 'black lips.' [25] Among other things, I suggest that he is a collection of the emblems of xenophobia, the fear of the foreign.
The primitive, the native, the Other, is also the inferior, the subaltern, that which is rendered liable to colonisation by this ideological act of definition. The story of Frankenstein's creation of this monster may be read as an allegory of the creation for this purpose of providing an Other to occupy these positions. This is an idea which may be worthy of closer inspection in the context of reading Frankenstein. Intertextually, one might be led to think of The Tempest, and the nature of Caliban, and the psychology of colonialism 26
Finally, a few random points from other readers, beginning with duplication and doubling. Vijay Mishra sees the Monster as a 'floating signifier' in that he has no name as such, but is given many epithets, mainly by Frankenstein. Compare this linguistic way of putting it (in Mishra) to David Punter who writes that : '… the characteristics of the Promethean hero are divided by Mary Shelley between the scientist Frankenstein and the 'monster' which he creates.' [27] It is Frankenstein who defies God by creating life, but it is the monster who bears at least part of the punishment. In a book published just the year before Punter, Elizabeth MacAndrew writes in similar vein that 'Victor Frankenstein's degeneration from this state is carefully accounted for and is reflected in his monster. … two separate characters appear, an ordinary but basically good man who is confronted with this own evil self, a physical copy who is a spiritual contrast. … It is Victor Frankenstein's affinity to his monster that makes him interesting.' 28
One of the many links between Frankenstein and Caleb Williams, the next text we encounter in this course unit (although it was of course written before the present one), is the link between the Gothic and injustice. And I conclude with another quotation from David Punter's Literature of Terror.
'A great deal of Gothic is about injustice … The Wanderer and Frankenstein's monster are powerful symbols of that injustice … the society which generated and read Gothic fiction was one which was becoming aware of injustice … We can see it in the dawning consciousness of inequality in the relations between the sexes; in the romantic emphasis on the partiality and non-neutrality of reason as a guiding light for social behaviour; in the increasing awareness that there are parts of the psyche which do not appear to act according to rational criteria; in the constantly reiterated thought that, after all and despite so-called natural law, it is still often the sins of the fathers which are visited on their descendants.' 29
1 Lodge, David (ed.) 1972, 20th Century Literary Criticism: A Reader, Longman, London.
2 Freud 1908e [1907], 'Creative writers and day-dreaming,' SE 9: 143-53; this quotation: 144-5.
3 Harvey, Sir Paul (comp.) 1946 [1932], The Oxford Companion to English Literature, Third Edition, Clarendon Press, Oxford: 832.
4 The Yale Edition of Horace Walpole's Correspondence 1937-1980, 42 vols, ed. W. S. Lewis et al., Yale University Press, New Haven, vol. 1, 1937: 88-9; as cited in Mishra 1994a: 56.
5 The Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, two vols, ed. Betty T Bennett, Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore, II: 215; as quoted in The Mary Shelley Reader, ed. Betty T Bennett and Charles E. Robinson, Oxford University Press, 1990: 6.
6 Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley: I, 144; as quoted in Mishra 1994: 109-110.
7 Mishra, Vijay 1995, Narrative Fiction 1: Study Guide and Reader, Murdoch University: 11.
8 Wimsatt, W. K. & Monroe C. Beardsley 1954 [1946], 'The intentional fallacy,' The Verbal Icon: Studies in the Meaning of Poetry, University Press of Kentucky, Lexington, repr. Lodge, David (ed.) 1972, 20th Century Literary Criticism: A Reader, Longman, London: 334-345.
9 Barthes, Roland 1977 [1968], 'The death of the author', in Image-Music-Text, tr. Stephen Howard (tr. from 'La mort de l'auteur', Mantéia, 5, 1968), Fontana/Collins, London: 142-8; Foucault, Michel 1977, 'What is an author?' in Language, Counter-memory, Practice, trs. Donald F. Bouchard, Basil Blackwell, Oxford; Cornell University Press, Ithaca, New York: 113-138.
10 Intertextuality is '... an insight first introduced into literary theory by Bakhtin: any text is constructed as a mosaic of quotations; any text is the absorption and transformation of another. The notion of intertextuality replaces that of intersubjectivity, and poetic language is read as at least double. Kristeva, Julia 1986 [1969], 'Word, dialogue and novel' (first published in Shmeivtich [Semeiotike]: Recherches pour une sémanalyse, Seuil, Paris) The Kristeva Reader, ed. and introduction Toril Moi, Basil Blackwell, Oxford, 34-61; this quotation: 37. In her footnote at this point Kristeva refers the reader to another of her books: Kristeva, Julia 1974, La révolution du langage poétique, Seuil, Paris: 59-60.
11 Shelley, Mary 1968, Frankenstein, revised edition 1831 [orig. publ. 1818], in Three Gothic Novels, ed. Peter Fairclough, Penguin: 265.
12 Punter, David 1980, The Literature of Terror: A History of Gothic Fictions from 1765 to the Present Day, Longman, London & New York: 125.
13 Films with 'Frankenstein' in the title
Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein (aka Brain of Frankenstein, The) 1948
Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein 1948
Allen and Rossi Meet Dracula and Frankenstein 1974
Andy Warhol's Frankenstein (aka Carne Per Frankenstein) 1974
Andy Warhol's Frankenstein (aka Flesh For Frankenstein) 1974
Andy Warhol's Frankenstein 1974
Bride of Frankenstein 1935
Curse of Frankenstein, The 1957
Dracula Vs Frankenstein (1970) 1970
Dracula Vs Frankenstein (1971) 1971
Dracula Vs. Frankenstein (1970) (aka Dracula Contra Frankenstein) 1970
Dracula Vs. Frankenstein (1970) (aka Dracula Prisoner of Frankenstein) 1970
Dracula Vs. Frankenstein (1971) (aka Blood of Frankenstein) 1971
Evil of Frankenstein, The 1964
Frankenstein (1910) 1910
Frankenstein (1931) 1931
Frankenstein (1973) (TV) 1973
Frankenstein (1984) (TV) 1984
Frankenstein (1993) (TV) 1993
Frankenstein - 1970 1958
Frankenstein 90 1984
Frankenstein and the Monster from Hell 1974
Frankenstein Created Woman 1967
Frankenstein General Hospital 1988
Frankenstein Island 1981
Frankenstein Meets the Space Monster 1965
Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man 1943
Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed! 1970
Frankenstein Unbound 1990
Frankenstein's Great Aunt Tillie 1984
Frankenstein: The College Years (TV) 1991
Frankenstein: The True Story (TV) 1973
Ghost of Frankenstein, The 1942
Horror of Frankenstein, The 1970
House of Frankenstein 1944
I Was a Teenage Frankenstein 1957
Jesse James Meets Frankenstein's Daughter 1966
Lady Frankenstein 1971
Mary Shelley's Frankenstein 1994
Mostro di Frankenstein, Il 1920
Operation Terror (aka Dracula Vs. Frankenstein (1969)) 1969
Revenge of Frankenstein, The 1957
Son of Frankenstein 1939
Victor Frankenstein 1976
Vindicator, The (1986) (aka Frankenstein '88) 1986
Young Frankenstein 1974
14 Another impulse towards incest may be seen as suggested in some of the expressions Walton uses. It is difficult, at this distance in time, to judge the degree of conventionality of his writing such things as: "I love you very tenderly." (OUP: 20) In addition, there his (sudden and unnatural?) warmth of feeling for Victor Frankenstein, as in: "… I begin to love him as a brother … I should have been happy to have possessed [him] as the brother of my heart." (OUP: 23)
15 Introduction, The Mary Shelley Reader, ed. Betty T Bennett and Charles E. Robinson, OUP, 1990: 7.
16 Mary Shelley, Introduction to the 1831 edition of Frankenstein, The Mary Shelley Reader, OUP: 168.
17 In Chapter 15 in the Penguin version; in Vol. 2, Chapter 7, The Mary Shelley Reader, OUP: 94-6.
18 Mishra 1994: 108.
19 Mishra 1994: 158.
20 Mishra 1994: 108.
21 Mishra 1994: 108.
22 Punter 1980: 125.
23 ibid.
24 Punter 1980: 126.
25 Shelley 1968: 318.
26 Cf. Mannoni, Octave 1956 [1950], Prospero and Caliban: The Psychology of Colonialism, tr. Pamela Powesland, Methuen; republished University of Michigan Press, Ann Arbor, 1990.
27 Punter, David 1980, The Literature of Terror: A History of Gothic Fictions from 1765 to the Present Day, Longman, London & New York: 121-2.
28 MacAndrew, Elizabeth 1979, The Gothic Tradition in Fiction, Columbia University Press, New York: 79.
29 Punter 1980: 127.
Garry Gillard | New: 16 January, 2018 | Now: 20 December, 2018