Gothic Fiction Deep Dive

Once upon an evening I happened upon a book named Rebecca. So enchanted was I by the haunting secrets of an ancient mansion, intrigue hanging over it thick as fog, the feeling of something sinister lurking just around the corner, and above all the inevitable dreaminess of it all - that I knew I wanted more and more and more of the same.

My path laid out before me clear as day: the first one I read after Rebecca was Shirley Jackson's We Have Always Lived In The Castle. What a stunning, unreal experience of a book! It had all the elements of a classic gothic novel, including my favorite: the house a part of the ensemble star cast of characters, mystery slathered on all its walls like paint. Merricat and Constance were the most absurd and delightful narrators of this horror story in reverse. Donna Tartt rightly said about this book that it was a testimony of what can be accomplished in a novel. And so emboldened by my experience, I read The Haunting of Hill House. 

The bar had been raised high. 

But alas, 'high' was too high to be true, because I reached the final page of this book still waiting (a tad desperately, I might add) for it all to click right into place in my head. I couldn't understand what the fuss was all about! It seemed to me just like smoke without fire, honestly. Here, the house that I loved so much as the main character came to vex me. I was irritated by the build-ups leading nowhere and the utter lack of any explanation, for anything whatsoever. As it happened, this was in stark contrast with my feelings about the TV show, in which the titular house is a powerful plot device, but the haunting melancholy the standalone protagonist. 

Now it seemed that my gothic fiction tree was bearing some delicious fruit. I had reveled in the highs and wallowed in the lows; the only way to go was deeper still. I watched The Haunting of Bly Manor and The Fall of the House of Usher in quick succession, each with its own pitch darkness from the past spilling into the present. I wondered for a quick minute if it would do me well to turn to the fan favorites: why not add the Dracula feather to my gothic fiction hat? Ultimately though, I decided against it (dissuaded by my husband's bittersweet recollections and remonstrances), and moved on. 

Next, I listened to the audio narration of The Yellow Wallpaper. This one ended too soon for how much I was enjoying (and getting spooked by) it. Given the likenesses between this story and the doomed one in The Haunting of Hill House (the book), I liked this one lots better. Short-and-sweet over long-drawn-and-vague any day! 

I decided to go back to the page again, one last sojourn in this delightful journey. I picked up My Cousin Rachel, coming back full circle to Daphne du Maurier, but what started off as charm turned quickly into excruciating boredom! I slogged my way through the endless naivete of a besotted manchild. Precisely what of this book, I ask of those five-star ratings on Goodreads, was so deserving of praise? The plot seemed almost comical in its simplicity, and the passionate ramblings of love almost intolerable after the first five or six instances. And thus the pedestal built by Rebecca, upon which I placed du Maurier, came crumbling down. I wish I had enjoyed this book more. I really wanted to, and tried very hard to.

One thing that I guarantee though, this deep dive was one of my better decisions. It was so thoroughly enjoyable that I will venture to say that I might do one of these again soon; with a different genre - perhaps science fiction?