𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓 𝕲𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖈 𝕾𝖎𝖌𝖓𝖘 𝔖𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢 𝔖𝔭𝔞𝔠𝔢𝔰 Essential in creating gothic atmosphere and unsettling the reader, gothic narratives are traditionally set in the ‘strange’ – places that are unfamiliar and faraway. Think crumbling castles, ancestral homes, religious dwellings, and long ago. Think places distant in time and space. 𝔖𝔴𝔬𝔬𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔖𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔰 The stereotypical gothic heroine is inquisitive and brave, and voraciously reads. She has beauty and purity and is thus a target. Whether a victim to fashion (those tight-laced corsets) or the female condition (I hope my tone is clear here), her defence in danger is the delicate swoon. Though she is likely to suffer, she is usually saved. 𝔖𝔲𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔖𝔞𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰 Whether saviour to a swooning heroine (see above) or on adventures all their own, the gothic favours the anti-hero for its male lead. Often intellectual, perhaps academic, for him the human condition is heavy to bear. This long-suffering figure is flawed and doomed and may just reveal the monstrous in man. 𝔖𝔥𝔞𝔡𝔬𝔴𝔶 𝔖𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯𝔰 Though gothic villains are slow to uncloak themselves, their mould has since been truly set. The shadowy stranger epitomises the fear of ‘other’. Often autocrat, aristocrat, male, and undefined ‘foreign’, he is a man out truly for himself. 𝔖𝔲𝔤𝔤𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔖𝔭𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔯𝔢𝔰 All sorts of creatures make their home in gothic literature. There are ghosts, spirits, and apparitions; demons, the devil, and the dead returned; vampires, zombies, and apparent monsters. The supernatural may be metaphorical – a tool for subversion. It is frequently suggested as one thing and revealed to be otherwise, if there at all. 𝔖𝔲𝔯𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔖𝔲𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔰𝔢 The gothic tone is of fear: terror or horror, and halted breath. It is dread that creeps and suspicion that grows. Suspense builds in uncanny spaces, where everything is unnerving and nothing is as it seems. Often at odds with logic, rational thought is invited to leave as heightened senses are startled by the wind. 𝔖𝔩𝔢𝔢𝔭𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔖𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔰 Just as the narrative fiction aims to unsettle the mind of the reader, gothic protagonists are similarly disturbed. Nighttime casts shadows on certainty. Sleep, if achieved, is addled with nightmares. Waking hours, in turn, are similarly plagued. The concept of reality is toyed with as sanity and truth can no longer be presumed.

‘𝕭𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖐 𝕿𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝕮𝖍𝖗𝖞𝖘𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖘 𝕺𝖕𝖊𝖓 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝕰𝖝𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙 𝕸𝖞 𝕰𝖒𝖇𝖗𝖞𝖔𝖓𝖎𝖈 𝕾𝖔𝖚𝖑’ 𝖇𝖞 𝕰. 𝖁𝖊𝖌𝖛𝖆𝖗𝖞 A lesser demon in bespoke Pashmina boasting bone buttons And antler cufflinks The tailored suit shows the edges Of his skeleton Jutting and dangerously shaped An angel unaware of hierarchy Itches beneath the hair shirt That hides his ragged wounds Bare feet leaving bloody prints The name of his god is tattooed On the inside of his lower lip They meet in a calendar Which does not mark the week of creation The deep grey sky and the ash grey earth remember The war they have both forgotten Integrity Dishonesty The corrupt and the clean The sacred and the profane © Words by E. Vegvary, 2020.

In a letter to John Hamilton Reynolds (1818), Keats wrote: “ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔤𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔤 𝔰𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 ℑ 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔦𝔭 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔇𝔞𝔪𝔬𝔰𝔢𝔩 ℜ𝔞𝔡𝔠𝔩𝔦𝔣𝔣𝔢 – ℑ’𝔩𝔩 𝔠𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔤𝔯𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔬 𝔶𝔬𝔲, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔯-𝔣𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔶𝔬𝔲, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔦𝔪𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔰𝔢-𝔯𝔬𝔠𝔨 𝔶𝔬𝔲, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔯𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔬𝔲𝔰-𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔬𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔲𝔡𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲.” 1819 Keats wrote to his brother, George: “𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔦𝔣𝔱𝔥 𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔬𝔣 𝔇𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔢 𝔭𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔢𝔰 𝔪𝔢 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢 – 𝔦𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔦𝔫 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔠𝔥 𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔰 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔓𝔞𝔲𝔩𝔬 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔉𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔰𝔠𝔞 – ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔡 𝔭𝔞𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔡𝔞𝔶𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔞 𝔩𝔬𝔴 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔦𝔡𝔰𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔪 ℑ 𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔪𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔟𝔢𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔯𝔢𝔤𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔬𝔣 ℌ𝔢𝔩𝔩. 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔪 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔡𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔣𝔲𝔩 𝔢𝔫𝔧𝔬𝔶𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔰 ℑ 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔥𝔞𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔪𝔶 𝔩𝔦𝔣𝔢 – ℑ 𝔣𝔩𝔬𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔞𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔱𝔪𝔬𝔰𝔭𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔰 𝔦𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔠𝔯𝔦𝔟𝔢𝔡 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔞 𝔟𝔢𝔞𝔲𝔱𝔦𝔣𝔲𝔩 𝔣𝔦𝔤𝔲𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔴𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔭𝔰 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔧𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔦𝔱 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔪’𝔡 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔞𝔫 𝔞𝔤𝔢 – 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔪𝔦𝔡𝔰𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔠𝔬𝔩𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 ℑ 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔪…” In his last known letter, Keats wrote to his former housemate, Charles Armitage Brown. Dated the 30th of November, 1820, Keats wrote from Rome, where he had gone to convalesce from tuberculosis. His friend and his fiancée awaited him in England, not knowing that he was never to return. “𝔗𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔡𝔦𝔣𝔣𝔦𝔠𝔲𝔩𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔩𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔴𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔞 𝔩𝔢𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯. 𝔐𝔶 𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔪𝔞𝔠𝔥 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔲𝔢𝔰 𝔰𝔬 𝔟𝔞𝔡, 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 ℑ 𝔣𝔢𝔢𝔩 𝔦𝔱 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔰𝔢 𝔬𝔫 𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔟𝔬𝔬𝔨 – 𝔶𝔢𝔱 ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔪𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔟𝔢𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔫 ℑ 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔔𝔲𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔢. 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔫 ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔞𝔣𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔬𝔣 𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔢 𝔦𝔫 𝔈𝔫𝔤𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔡. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔞𝔫 𝔥𝔞𝔟𝔦𝔱𝔲𝔞𝔩 𝔣𝔢𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔬𝔣 𝔪𝔶 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔩 𝔩𝔦𝔣𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔭𝔞𝔰𝔱, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞 𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔱𝔥𝔲𝔪𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔢𝔵𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢.” On Friday the 23rd of February, 1821, John Keats passed away in Rome