As summer wends its way slowly toward autumn my reading becomes more gothic.It feels as natural as the progression of the seasons, I suppose.While waiting for the turn I’d been holding onto Carlos Ruiz Zafón’s The Shadow of the Wind.Not having read any Zafón before, I wasn’t sure what to expect.My copy had been blurbed by Stephen King, and I figured that was pretty high praise.I found the book through one of my web searches for the most gothic novels and this one takes a while, but I can see why it makes some of those lists.I wasn’t sure at first if it was intended to be comic or serious, but that combination is an imitation of life itself.We laugh, we cry, we shudder.
The story slowly builds, and I’ll address this further on Goodreads.What I want to consider here is the nature of place.Human beings—and I would argue animals as well—have a sense of place.Space becomes sacred through events both dramatic and quotidian.That’s why we make pilgrimages to places where our heroes lived.Just to be there.To think about it.To feel it.The Shadow of the Wind is a story of Barcelona during a time of war.There’s no escaping the moody sense of old Europe in this tale.In that sense religion is quite often casually mentioned.It’s part of place in a way many Americans overlook.The church bells I can hear everyday beg to differ, no matter how empty the pews may be.Zafón wants to share his gothic Barcelona with a story that leads to real shivers.
It would be a stretch to call this a horror novel, but it is in the sense that V. C. Andrews’ Flowers in the Attic is.It reminded me at several points of Wilkie Collins’ The Woman in White (my copy of which was destroyed in a flooded garage).Many lives, I suspect, have quiet gothic elements to them.I know that mine does.While there may be a little supernatural at work in The Shadow of the Wind, most of the action is believable.This is the way people behave.The way they treat, and mistreat one another.While the days are still hot around here, the angle of the sun in the sky doesn’t lie.We’re fast approaching the equinox from which we’ll slide into the long nights of winter.And reading, the more gothic the better, will help us make it through no matter where we are.
Since at least my middle school days I have been in search of the great Gothic novel. I can’t claim to have found it just yet, but I’ve read many notable samples along the way. Somehow Wilkie Collins’ The Woman in White remained completely unknown to me until earlier this year. The title was evocative enough to make me pick it up, daunting though its 600 pages might be. Like many novels of its period it was serialized, which likely accounts for its length. Honestly, it took a while to get into it fully. Once ensconced, however, it kept me reading for over a month. (I took some breaks for work and sleep.) I wouldn’t say it was my ideal of the great Gothic novel, but the character of Count Fosco is amazingly drawn and seriously compelling. As the huge man lets mice run over his massive body and treats birds with conscientious gentleness, he is plotting ruin to his fellow human beings to benefit himself. He is an accomplished egotist.
What makes the novel so profound to me is the question of identity. One of the characters in the novel, the eponymous woman in white, has a double in the love interest of the protagonist. Doubles are common in Gothic tales, but in this instance when the woman dies and others believe her double to be her the question of identity is raised. Who am I, really? In the day before DNA evidence, it was impressively difficult to prove you were who you said you were, if your appearance was altered. Emaciated, abused, and drugged, Laura doesn’t look like herself and even her own uncle doesn’t recognize her. In the end her identity is established by legal testimony alone, without benefit of any biological proof.
Identity has been on my mind lately. Especially on a national scale. Brexit and Trump were both movements fueled by distrust and distorted notions of national identity. In short, Britain and the United States, so the reasoning goes, should belong to white men. As Monty Burns famously said, “Well, for once the rich white man is in control!” I personally like a little color in my field of view. I value deeply those I’ve met whose experiences and skin tones don’t match my own pallor. I want our national identity to include more than just fifty shades of white where women are objects and men are some kind of noble studs. Back when I started to read this novel I had a grip on that view of reality. Now that I’ve finally finished it, I wonder who we really are.