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Introduction

‘Why are you so weird?’ According to Patrick McGrath, this is the question he and David Cronenberg asked each other on the set of Spider, the 2002 adaptation of McGrath’s novel of the same name.¹ The answer to this question is beyond the scope of this book. The persistence of the ‘weird’ in McGrath’s writing, however, is central to its discussion of his work in relation to the Gothic tradition. In a recent interview following the publication of his most recent novel, Trauma, he claimed that he did not want to be labelled as a Gothic writer.² However, when a new critical edition of Daphne du Maurier’s short stories was published in 2008, recent critical recognition of her Gothic sensibility was marked by the fact that it was McGrath who was invited to write an introduction.³ In spite of his reluctance, he remains the contemporary literary novelist preeminently associated with the Gothic; indeed, one reviewer has suggested that ‘he may be the best Gothic novelist ever’.⁴ When invited to write an essay on the nature of Gothic for Cristoph Grunenberg’s Gothic (a glossy compilation of material from different art forms) he entitled it ‘Transgression and Decay’, suggesting that these are the features that define the Gothic in its representation of what Freud identified as ‘the death wish’.⁵ Recognizing the political potential of Gothic’s transgressive tendency, he acknowledges its ‘impulse to identify specific conditions and power relations that foster what we experience as evil’, and claims that ‘Gothic allows us to manage the nightmares of a world in which control seems increasingly tenuous’.⁶

No longer do scholars identify Gothic as a historically defined novel genre, located at the end of the eighteenth century; instead, they tend to see it as a mode of writing intrinsic in all its variations to the rise of modernity.⁷ As Fred Botting points out in his introduction to the English Association’s 2001 collection of essays, entitled, problematically it would seem, The Gothic: ‘These days it seems increasingly difficult to speak of “the Gothic” with any assurance.’ The term, he goes on to suggest, continues to spread, generating a variety of qualifying adjectives (‘postcolonial Gothic’ and ‘queer Gothic’, for example, alongside such historically specific terms as ‘Victorian Gothic’). This diffusion continues to ‘“Gothicize” a host of different sites, from a Gothic imagination to a Gothic nature, from body, desire and unconscious to science and technology’.⁸ Transgression inevitably implies boundaries; in Gothic, boundaries are transgressed. More disturbingly, they are often shown to be unstable with monstrosity, horror or terror lurking in their liminal spaces. Such a concern with the permeability of boundaries, it has been suggested, manifests a deep anxiety about the coherence of the modern subject.⁹ Indeed, Gothic writers deliberately exploit the fear of the ‘Other’ encroaching upon the apparent safety of the post-Enlightenment world and the stability of the post-Enlightenment subject in order to achieve their effects.¹⁰

McGrath’s discomfort with the label ‘Gothic novelist’ raises a number of interesting questions. In contemporary writing, where are the limits of Gothic? How do we now define this mode, and how indeed does a writer like McGrath make and remake Gothic writing? This book examines the evolution of his writing, considering each text in turn while identifying continuing threads and establishing connections with the Gothic tradition in which he initially placed himself. Words, images and themes in the early work find expression of increasing complexity in the later novels. As his career has progressed, there has been a shift of emphasis so that the flamboyant parody of the early work gives way to a more subtle intertextuality in its representation of transgression and decay, themes that continue to inform his work. Richard Davenport-Hines’s magisterial and interdisciplinary Gothic: 400 Years of Excess, Horror, Evil and Ruin (1998) makes this judgement on McGrath’s work up to that date:

McGrath is a dandyish stylist who depicts tumult, evil, monstrosity, disease, madness, horror and death with hallucinatory menace. Like many early Goth novelists, his narratives often lead the reader into discoveries of danger within what had seemed safe. He is pitiless about human confusion and sometimes painterly in the way of David Lynch. While McGrath’s most relentlessly Gothic work seems frivolous or ephemeral pastiche, he achieves superb effects when the Gothicism is relaxed.¹¹

Without acknowledging that the early, more overtly parodic, work is ‘frivolous or ephemeral pastiche’, this book argues that the change of emphasis in the later works achieves a different kind of Gothicism. Whereas the early work is clearly influenced by a postmodern preoccupation with play and parody, the 1996 novel Asylum takes the fiction in a different direction. Adopting some of the conventions of realism while continuing to make use of the unreliable and complicit first-person narrator, it presents a text the surface of which appears to be anti-Gothic but with depths that probe disturbingly the boundary between sanity and madness. In Martha Peake (2000), realism and postmodern parodic Gothic are played off against each other in a novel that signals the shift into the twenty-first century and into the narratives of America that constitute the later work.

In a 2001 interview, McGrath identified the novelist John Hawkes as a key formative influence on his work. Asked what his literary references were, he replied:

They change all the time, depending what I’m thinking about in my work. When I got to New York in 1981, I was just starting to write, and that’s when I found Hawkes’s work. It was a sort of … flash. I thought this is – particularly Travesty – this is what the novel should be. Psychologically dark, a tight, elegant structure, deeply disturbing, first person narration, slim.¹²

McGrath seems to have found twentieth-century echoes of Poe in Hawkes’s work. He likens Travesty’s tale of a speeding car, narrated by its mad driver, who is bent on the destruction of his passengers and himself, to Poe’s ‘The Cask of Amontillado’: in both the reader is trapped in the mind of the narrator and in the book itself.¹³ When McGrath co-edited with Bradford Morrow a collection of short stories, The New Gothic, in 1991, Hawkes was a contributor. This volume pays tribute in its introduction to Poe for turning the Gothic inward ‘to explore extreme states of psychological disturbance’.¹⁴

Published just over a decade later than The Literature of Terror, David Punter’s ground-breaking critical work, The New Gothic may be regarded as a seminal collection, its appearance coinciding with growing momentum in academic interest in the Gothic.¹⁵ It set out to bring together contemporary short stories that, in the editors’ judgement, demonstrated that Gothic had survived in mutated forms and was flourishing in the late twentieth century; their preface acknowledges the ‘fascinating’ Gothic tradition and offers the reader stories ‘no longer shackled by the conventional props of the genre’, but nonetheless ‘strongly manifest[ing] the [G]othic sensibility’.¹⁶ Almost twenty years later, its list of British and American contributors makes for interesting reading. There are some names that are more associated with experimental fiction: in addition to Hawkes, Martin Amis and Jeanette Winterson are both represented here. There are also those whose reputation has developed as serious literary writers with a Gothic sensibility: Angela Carter, Emma Tennant and Janice Galloway. Then there are those who have enjoyed a growing reputation for popular Gothic writing: Scott Bradfield, for example, and, more famously, Anne Rice, whose vampire novels have enjoyed great commercial success.

McGrath himself does not enjoy the commercial popularity of Anne Rice or her spectacularly successful contemporary exponent of Gothic horror, Stephen King (who wrote an unfilmed screenplay of McGrath’s novel Asylum).¹⁷ He is also less easy to categorize than some of the other inheritors of the Gothic tradition. Although vampirism figures in his fiction, it is not a central theme, as it is in the work of Rice or other noted writers of the sub-genre, like Poppy Z. Brite. His horror tends to be more insidious and more psychological than King’s or that of writers like Clive Barker or Dean Koontz; his terrors are less immediate than those in the fiction of Shirley Jackson or Ramsey Campbell. He has not as yet embraced the zombie. In contrast, McGrath’s fiction tests the boundaries of what we recognize as ‘Gothic’ and, far from abandoning ‘the conventional props of the Gothic’, he tends to use them in creative and parodic ways, as did fellow contributor to The New Gothic Angela Carter. Her story ‘The Lady of the House of Love’ (in a 1979 collection of rewritten folk tales, The Bloody Chamber), for example, presents a poignant portrait of a female vampire which exposes the tawdry artificiality of those very props.

Until recently, parody (like Gothic) has been considered a debased mode of writing. It is only since the early 1990s that work by critics such as Linda Hutcheon, Margaret Rose and Simon Dentith has claimed some sophistication for parodic writing, arguing that, in foregrounding its own textuality, parody represents part of a complex cultural dialogue.¹⁸ In the later fiction, ghosts of ‘the props of the genre’ manifest themselves in different and more subtle representations of decay and transgression. In McGrath’s work, an inclination towards Gothic excess remains in tension with a sceptical and ironic sensibility.

McGrath is well read in Gothic literature. He has acknowledged the influence of a host of writers, most notably Herman Melville, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Robert Louis Stevenson, Emily Brontë, Joseph Conrad and Bram Stoker as well as Edgar Allan Poe.¹⁹ He is familiar with a tradition that has explored ways of giving shape to the forbidden, the unspeakable, the secret and the haunted. In its representation of transgression and decay the Gothic shows disorder and dismemberment, both physical and mental. It is balanced precariously between tragedy and comedy; its embrace of excess means that many Gothic tales are, in the words of Chris Baldick, ‘already halfway to sending themselves up’.²⁰ McGrath’s narrative technique in the earlier novels carries many of the markers of the postmodern; the double coding inherent in parody is, as Linda Hutcheon has pointed out, linked to the ironic stance of postmodernism.²¹ A number of critics have pointed out the postmodern impulse in Gothic writing. Andrew Smith suggests that ‘postmodernism seems to be peculiarly suited to the Gothic because it questions the notion that one inhabits a coherent or otherwise abstractly rational world’.²² For Allan Lloyd Smith, ‘what underlyingly links the Gothic with the postmodern is an aesthetic of anxiety and perplexity, as similar responses to the confusing new order – or should that be the new disorder?’²³ The dialectic between order and disorder and the power dynamics of the struggle between them characterize all McGrath’s fiction, from the earliest darkly comic parodies in the short stories and the novel The Grotesque through to the story of his psychiatrist narrator Charlie Weir’s inner conflict in the 2008 novel, Trauma.

Writing about the work of a living author presents several challenges. Although criticism since Barthes can never again use biographical information naively to validate readings of texts, the status of such information needs to be considered. McGrath is extraordinarily generous with his time and has been willing to give numerous interviews over the years, in which the same questions have been posed to him in various forms about the impulses behind his work. He is also reflective about the creative process and willing to comment on material that he has consciously employed.²⁴ In the following pages due weight has been given to his views as they have been expressed in various contexts. His engagement with the Gothic tradition, one informed by current critical debates, is distinctive and conscious. What he has to say, however, has been set alongside other readings of his work. A contextualization of the fiction in relation to literary traditions, the contemporary cultural and social context and McGrath’s own sense of a writing identity all inform this book. Critical approaches from Gothic studies that seem to be appropriate and helpful in particular instances have been adopted, rather than a tightly focused theoretical lens.²⁵

Certain key critical concepts have emerged from the recent evolution of Gothic studies. Two terms that appear repeatedly in the studies of the last twenty years are ‘the uncanny’ and ‘the abject’; both concepts provide interesting perspectives on McGrath’s fiction. Psychoanalytic critics have turned to Freud’s influential essay, ‘The Uncanny’, in order to theorize the unsettling affect generated by the Gothic. Although Freud’s terms ‘heimlich’ and ‘unheimlich’ do not translate comfortably into English, their pairing emphasizes the interrelatedness of the familiar and the unfamiliar, the circular effect whereby what is found to be strange and alienating is also recognized as already known. Thus, the boundary between the homely (heimlich) and the unhomely or uncanny (unheimlich) is radically unstable. As Nicholas Royle suggests: ‘The uncanny has to do with a strangeness of framing and borders, an experience of liminality.’²⁶ Thus, the ‘transgression’ that so preoccupies McGrath is imbued with the uncanny. Even those critics who identify the limitations of psychoanalytic approaches to the Gothic find this term useful in discussing the ways in which Gothic gives shape to that which may not be directly spoken in a culture. Historical studies have helped to illuminate the cultural and historical inflection of the uncanny.²⁷

The same is true of Kristeva’s concept of the abject, a concept also concerned with boundaries, which many scholars have found invaluable in discussing the effects of horror. Although McGrath may not easily be categorized as a horror writer, his identification of ‘decay’ as a key element in the Gothic means that its presence may be felt in his fiction, sometimes in surprising contexts. Kristeva’s 1982 book Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection has been seen to have particular relevance to Gothic writing by a number of critics. Horror and revulsion, she argues, are an echo of our early anxieties, surrounding the separation from the mother, that involve insecurity about materiality and the borders of the self. Abjection within the Gothic text frequently signifies both fear concerning the breakdown of culturally constructed boundaries of identity at a particular historical moment, and an attempt to shore them up. Oral abjection, one of the three broad categories of the abject (along with waste and sexual difference), is perhaps the most clearly marked by cultural difference through social taboo. What is considered edible in one culture may not be thought fit for eating in another; the almost (but not quite) universal taboo on cannibalism is made thematic in some of McGrath’s early fiction and remains as a haunting presence (as it does in so many Gothic texts) through traces of vampirism. As Nicholas Royle reminds us, for Freud cannibalism is ‘the taboo desire par excellence’ and ‘psychoanalysis gets started, in so far as it can and must get started, only on the base of a theory of cannibalism’.²⁸

The abject writ large in social terms, Kristeva suggests, is that which:

disturbs identity, system, order. What does not respect borders, positions, rules. The in-between, the ambiguous, the composite. The traitor, the liar, the criminal with a good conscience, the shameless rapist, the killer who claims he is a saviour … Any crime, because it draws attention to the fragility of the law, is abject, but premeditated crime, cunning murder, hypocritical revenge are even more so because they heighten the display of such fragility.²⁹

Jerrold E. Hogle and Robert Miles have shown how Kristevan theory may be used to explore the way in which representations of the abject in some Gothic texts relate to discourses and cultural values at a particular historical moment.³⁰ This approach, as Hogle points out, allows us to ‘connect psychological repression with the cultural ways of constructing coherent senses of “self” that initially made and still make the very concept of repression conceivable’.³¹ Kristeva’s concept of the abject thereby becomes a way of defining how shared constructions of ‘otherness’ derive from shared cultural values: you may know a culture by what it ‘throws off’.

In exploring what is abjected in drawing the boundaries of dominant cultures, Gothic criticism of the last twenty-five years has often been concerned with three elements identified by David Punter as lying at the heart of Gothic writing: the concept of paranoia, the notion of the barbaric and the nature of the taboo – ‘aspects of the terrifying to which Gothic constantly, and hauntedly, returns’.³² The ongoing debate in Gothic studies about psychoanalysis and historicity (and whether or not they are mutually exclusive) provides a frame work for the discussion of McGrath’s fiction, which characteristically pre-empts a psychoanalytic reading. It does this by questioning – both implicitly and explicitly – the validity of psychoanalysis as a mastering discourse while offering a postmodern critique of history and histories. Indeed, McGrath is a particularly interesting writer to consider in the light of this debate in Gothic criticism, which became crystallized following the intervention of Chris Baldick and Robert Mighall in 2000. Their argument is summed up in their opening salvo: ‘In our view, Gothic Criticism has abandoned any credible historical grasp upon its object, which it has tended to reinvent in the image of its own projected intellectual goals of psychological “depth” and political “subversion”.’³³ They are particularly critical of the depth model of psychoanalytic criticism that analyses the text in order to uncover deep-seated – and usually bourgeois – anxieties. Anne Williams has noted how many Freudian readings of Gothic tend to be reductive, and unsophisticated, resembling ‘a kind of Freudian Easter Egg Hunt’ for lurking complexes and delusions.³⁴ For William Patrick Day, Gothicism and Freudianism are different but related responses to ‘the problems of selfhood and identity, sexuality and pleasure, fear and anxiety as they manifest themselves in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries’. ‘The Gothic’, he suggests, ‘arises out of the immediate needs of the reading public to escape from conventional life and articulate and define the turbu lence of their psychic existence. We may see Freud as the intellectual counterpart of this process.’³⁵ Psychoanalysis itself has been acknowledged by a number of critics as a Gothic discourse. Alexandra Warwick’s essay in the recent Routledge Companion to Gothic, for example, suggests that, just as ‘Freud’s theories of the structure and processes of the psyche have been used more than any other to read the Gothic … it is equally plausible to reverse the terms of the analogy, and to use the Gothic to read his work.’ ‘If Gothic’, she continues, ‘can be thought of as interrogating the anxiety of the influence of the past on the present, then Freud’s work can also be defined in these terms, persistently concerned with the question of what is dead, what survives and how things are revived.’³⁶

Not only is McGrath well read in Gothic fiction, he is also well informed about Freudian psychology (an interest originating in his background as the son of an eminent psychiatrist).³⁷ In two of his novels (Asylum and Trauma) McGrath makes psychiatry (the medical cousin of psychoanalysis) thematic, pointing to its ambiguous status as a mastering discourse. Indeed, medicine itself is represented Gothically in McGrath’s fiction; the doctor in McGrath is a Gothic figure, from physically monstrous Cadwallader in ‘Blood and Water’ to the deeply flawed Dr Haggard. It is, however, a historicized medicine, in which the assumed omniscience of the medical man is undermined by the limits of his historical location. Indeed, all of McGrath’s novels, even those overtly playing with the monstrous and parodic, are firmly rooted in time and place. The past weighs heavily on his characters, returning often to haunt them, and on his narratives, challenging his contemporary readers to reflect on its legacy.

Madness – a recurrent theme in the fiction and explicitly addressed in Spider and Asylum – is always specifically located and contextualized. Moreover, mental disorder is rendered in McGrath’s fiction through ordered and elegant prose, so that reading about such extremes of human experience becomes a matter of aesthetics. His skill in tackling the technical challenges of representing madness is related to his capacity to negotiate the finely balanced boundaries between intertextuality, irony and pastiche. Often, when the reader assumes that the techniques of realism are being utilized, the ground is at its most treacherous; in some respects, Asylum is more Gothic than The Grotesque. His first-person narrators inevitably give their own perspectives: through the voices of Dennis Cleg in Spider and Edward Haggard in Dr Haggard’s Disease, the reader is seduced into seeing the world through the eyes of the mentally disturbed. Some times in the telling of others’ stories these narrators by implication tell their own (Gin Rathbone in Port Mungo and Peter Cleave in Asylum, for example). McGrath sometimes adopts the cool scientific tones of the medical practitioner in order to expose the shakiness of the foundations of such purportedly objective discourse. Through the voices of Peter Cleave, of the anonymous narrator of ‘Ground Zero’ (the last story in Ghost Town) and, most recently, of Charlie Weir in Trauma, psychiatry is shown to be more deeply involved with its subjects than it would claim – or than the reader finds comfortable.

McGrath’s fiction is charted chronologically in this book for two reasons. For those interested in a particular text, this will provide focused discussion; more importantly, perhaps, this approach demonstrates the ways in which themes and tropes in the earlier fiction have found more complex and subtle expression in the later work, as the exploration of the haunting effects of history (both personal and public) takes a transatlantic turn. Chapter 1 explores the early short stories, identifying tropes and themes that signal a parodic engagement with other Gothic writing, some of which surface again in the later fiction. Clearly, homage is being paid to various antecedents in these tales where the past and future are more in evidence than the present. Edgar Allan Poe haunts the pages of many: in the decadent or decayed mansions of ‘Marmilion’ and ‘Blood and Water’ and the live entombment of the narrator of ‘The Smell’, for example. The colonial Gothic of writers like Somerset Maugham and H. Rider Haggard is echoed in stories like ‘The Lost Explorer’ and ‘The Black Hand of the Raj’ and ‘Blood Disease’. The transgression of boundaries characteristic of all Gothic fiction manifests itself either horrifically or comically (and sometimes both) in all the stories. Crime takes a funny turn in ‘The Arnold Crombeck Story’, and perverse bodies of unstable identity are in evidence in ‘The Angel’, ‘Blood and Water’ and ‘The Skewer’; cannibalism makes an appearance in ‘The Boot’s Tale’ and, more obliquely, ‘Blood Disease’. Some of the more eccentric features of earlier Gothic fiction and film are in evidence: monkeys (in the tradition of Sheridan LeFanu’s short story ‘Green Tea’) make a sinister and enigmatic appearance, both in ‘Blood Disease’ and in ‘Marmilion’; hands – either disembodied (as in ‘Hand of a Wanker’ or attached to the wrong part of the anatomy (as in ‘The Black Hand of the Raj’) – take on their own agency. Apocalyptic themes are approached through body horror and black comedy in ‘The Boot’s Tale’ and ‘The E(rot)ic Potato’. In these early tales, too, figures that will recur in the later fiction make their first appearance: the orthodox medical man (in the peripheral figure of the surgeon, Mr Piker-Smith,³⁸ in ‘The Lost Explorer’ and the gross and ill-fated figure of Dr Cadwallader in ‘Blood and Water’) and the psychoanalyst, in various manifestations, in ‘The Skewer’. The tortured artist who becomes a central figure in Asylum and Port Mungo is the focus in ‘Lush Triumph ant’. This is a story set in New York, a location even more decadently realized in ‘The Angel’ and one to which McGrath was to return in his later fiction. The latter story exemplifies the vexed relationship Gothic has always had with religion and which also surfaces in different ways in ‘Ambrose Syme’, with its murderous paedophilic priest, and ‘Hand of a Wanker’, a tale of Babylon on the Hudson. The preoccupation with perverse and unstable bodies that will surface again in the later fiction provides the thematic focus for ‘The Angel’ and ‘Blood and Water’. McGrath’s first novel, The Grotesque (1989), is also discussed in chapter 1, with particular reference to its self-conscious pastiche of the Gothic.

Chapter 2 considers the three novels of the 1990s, Spider (1990), Dr Haggard’s Disease (1993) and Asylum (1996), which explore madness from different perspectives. McGrath has explained:

In my first stories I sort of stumbled into the first-person narrator which turned into the unreliable narrator. What I’d actually done was reinvent the wheel, but at the time I didn’t know that and it felt like an exciting breakthrough. After that it was a short step to creating narrators whose unreliability is a psychological dysfunction.³⁹

These novels are less playful than the stories and darkly haunted by Gothic in their representation of taboo and transgression. All are set in a murky and eccentric mid twentieth-century England. This retrospective emphasis provides a setting through which McGrath, himself a child of the 1950s, draws on his own background to provide the stuff of fiction. A childhood spent on the estate of Broadmoor, one of Britain’s high-security mental hospitals, and a father happy to share anecdotes from his work as its chief psychiatrist at the dinner table meant that he had plenty of material.⁴⁰ The third of these novels is, as its title suggests, set in such a hospital. It is in this novel that the figure of the artist appears again, this time as a patient and convicted killer.

McGrath was to devote an entire novel to the artist in Port Mungo (2004), which is one of the novels discussed in chapter 3. This chapter considers the first three works from the twenty-first century, Martha Peake (2000) and Ghost Town (2005) as well as Port Mungo. In this period of his fiction, issues of historicity, national and personal identity and the figure of the artist become central concerns. Martha Peake takes a final self-reflexive look at earlier period Gothic as a way of enacting the abandonment of a culturally haunted England in favour of the New World, a movement that parallels McGrath’s own departure for North America after university. As the later fiction shows, however, haunting is not confined to the Old World. The weight of history and how it has been constructed continue to make themselves felt in the present of this fiction. These novels and stories continue to probe the haunting of the past and, in so doing, are themselves haunted by ghosts of the Gothic. In the Afterword, McGrath’s repudiation of the term ‘Gothic’ is considered in relation to his most recent novel, Trauma, together with the implications for his future work.