The Gothic vs. The Romantic

After reading Tess of the d'Urbervilles, by Thomas Hardy, I've come to the realization that I favor Gothic literature far more than Romantic. Tess can hardly be considered Gothic in style, but it is, undeniably, much more Realistic than the past novels we've read in class.

While I like to consider myself Romantic in thought, I can't truthfully say that I really enjoy Romantic literature. And, if I have to read a piece of Romantic literature, I'd much rather pick up a book by an Anti-transcendentalist than a Transcendentalist.

Transcendentalism, to be quite blunt, puts me to sleep. Too much focus on the good and the beautiful makes an uninteresting story, and that's the truth. I can stomach a good Anti-transcendentalist, though. Edgar Allen Poe, of course, was brilliant. There is no lack of excitement in his writing. Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter was fantastic, as well.

The only exception to my general dislike of Romantic writers are the few poets who managed to win my favor. Not to sound clichè, but Emily Dickinson is easily my favorite poet. I'd even go so far as to say that I enjoy most Romantic poets, when I'm in the right mood.

But, I'm sorry to say, William Blake's work made me wish I was illiterate.

Now, I have nothing against all of these writers who, I'm sure, I have just caused to turn in their graves. In the words of James, I'm sure they're great people. And they, no doubt, had great talent. Their writing is exceptional. It's just that it's exceptional in a way that is horribly, horribly boring and makes me want to, quite literally, fall asleep.

On the other hand, I seem to be drawn to the Gothic, the Realistic, the Victorian. The darker the story, the more likely I am to enjoy it. My two favorite novels, without a doubt, are The Phantom of the Opera, by Gaston Leroux, and Wuthering Heights, by Emily Brontë. Wuthering Heights, I remember, had a particular tone to it. One of the most powerful passages in the book, I believe, is as follows:
"This time, I remembered I was lying in the oak closet, and I heard distinctly the gusty wind, and the driving of the snow; I heard, also, the fir bough repeat its teasing sound, and ascribed it to the right cause: but it annoyed me so much, that I resolved to silence it, if possible; and, I thought, I rose and endeavoured to unhasp the casement. The hook was soldered into the staple: a circumstance observed by me when awake, but forgotten. 'I must stop it, nevertheless!' I muttered, knocking my knuckles through the glass, and stretching an arm out to seize the importunate branch; instead of which, my fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand! The intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed, 'Let me in - let me in!' 'Who are you?' I asked, struggling, meanwhile, to disengage myself. 'Catherine Linton,' it replied, shiveringly (why did I think of LINTON? I had read EARNSHAW twenty times for Linton) - 'I'm come home: I'd lost my way on the moor!' As it spoke, I discerned, obscurely, a child's face looking through the window. Terror made me cruel; and, finding it useless to attempt shaking the creature off, I pulled its wrist on to the broken pane, and rubbed it to and fro till the blood ran down and soaked the bedclothes: still it wailed, 'Let me in!' and maintained its tenacious gripe, almost maddening me with fear. 'How can I!' I said at length. 'Let ME go, if you want me to let you in!' The fingers relaxed, I snatched mine through the hole, hurriedly piled the books up in a pyramid against it, and stopped my ears to exclude the lamentable prayer. I seemed to keep them closed above a quarter of an hour; yet, the instant I listened again, there was the doleful cry moaning on! 'Begone!' I shouted. 'I'll never let you in, not if you beg for twenty years.' 'It is twenty years,' mourned the voice: 'twenty years. I've been a waif for twenty years!' Thereat began a feeble scratching outside, and the pile of books moved as if thrust forward. I tried to jump up; but could not stir a limb; and so yelled aloud, in a frenzy of fright." (Brontë 25)
Twenty-five pages into the book, and I was appalled. Now, dear reader, don't get the wrong idea. I didn't enjoy the book simply because a man slit a child's wrist in his dream. It was the ability to read that horrifying, exquisite passage and savor the symbolism, the irony, the ramifications and to appreciate the electric emotion in the way the words were woven together. It was pure brilliance. That. Piognant, rich, superb. That is my lifeblood.