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Here Be Monsters
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frantic_mice recced my fic Unforgivable (if you follow the link, READ THE WARNINGS), and she said very clever things. Between that and the talking in the comments, I’m suddenly missing literary analysis like whoa! It has been months since I analysed a book, and it’s a month until I get to go to UEA and be an English student, with all the blathering about literature that entails.
For God’s sake, I wrote an email to a friend composed entirely of haiku today. Clearly I need to get my English-nerd on.
So I’m posting this essay. I wrote it for a writing competition, so I could include non-fiction. I didn’t win the competition, but I think this is pretty good meta; I’m almost certain it’s what got me into UEA. Do be aware this wasn’t written for LJ originally!
It’s all about monsters in fiction, though. Because it’s themed, rather than character-based, I never got to Voldemort: but don’t be afraid to bring him up in the comments! Or the Master (the Buffyverse one or the Whoverse one!), or Angelus, or Davros. Come, fannish friends, and tell me about books.
Oh, and if you don't want to read my Teal Deer about the portrayal of monsters in fiction, and how it varies from Gothic novels to children's novels to modern YA, check out the bibliography. Those books are AWESOME.
The Wizard of Oz by Frank L Baum
Ironside by Holly Black
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett
Hollow Kingdom by Clare Dunkle
Eight Days of Luke by Diana Wynne Jones
Fire and Hemlock by Diana Wynne Jones
Blood and Chocolate by Annette Curtis Klause
Hex by Rhiannon Lassiter
Hex: Shadows by Rhiannon Lassiter
Hex: Ghosts by Rhiannon Lassiter
Wicked by Gregory Maguire
Maddigan’s Fantasia by Margaret Mahy
Touk’s Kingdom from The Knot in the Grain by Robin McKinley
The Harry Potter series by J K Rowling
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
Dracula by Bram Stoker
Tanglewreck by Jeanette Winterson
Flora Segunda by Ysabeau Wilce
Poison by Chris Wooding
Here Be Monsters
Or there be monsters, rather. We tend to like monsters rather far away, across the inked caps of mountains on tea-coloured maps. Exotic, unusual, and too far away to do anything murderous.
What exactly is a monster? Like pornography, monstrousness is easy to recognise but hard to define. The word ‘monster’ is used often in everyday life, especially by the tabloids when describing serial killers. The ‘monster’ may not even be convicted, but a mugshot and a description of how they don’t have many friends says a great deal.
The automatic response might be to snort at this hyperbole, but it actually exposes a lot of how we feel about monsters. The people described such – killers, oddballs, loners – are feared and hated, but they’re also held in contempt. They’re outside ‘normal’, respectable society. Tabloids often align themselves against the threat du jour – immigrants, juvenile delinquents, benefit fraud – and monsters are threats.
The most obvious example of real-life monsters is witches. Witches were usually spinsters; single women, by virtue of being outside the institution of marriage, were considered a threat. Free-thinkers and social outcasts were the most likely to be branded a witch. Witchcraft was considered monstrous. Magic is different from miracles, not because of its effects but because of the source; magic comes from the Devil and therefore defies God. The truth of why these women were persecuted is perhaps revealed by this. Marriage was a vital part of community and church cohesion, and to be outside of it was dangerous. Spinsters challenged the social order; as witches challenged the church.
Marriage and monsters do not get along. Jane Eyre is arguably a monster story, like so many other Victorian Gothic novels. Its monster, Bertha, makes Jane’s marriage impossible and damns Rochester for a bigamist. Dracula threatens Jonathan and Mina, and society in general, by his sexuality and utter resistance to traditional marriage – the three brides of Dracula, not to mention the three-in-a-bed scene, show this. Obviously vampirism – penetration that produces blood – has a strong sexual connotation, and the language used to describe it is visceral. The implication of a sort of infidelity (particularly by Lucy) harms the marriages. Besides, there is a strong suggestion Jonathan Harker has not slept with Mina, and therefore consummated the marriage, until after the Count’s death. Then the act represents the victory of marriage and the social order over the monster.
Monsters are the unknown; it’s part of why we fear them. If something is described as a ‘monster’ that usually means it’s uncategorisable, rather than part of the familiar supernatural round of werewolves and vampires. This is part of why I consider Count Dracula to be a monster, but not later vampires. Dracula was the first of his breed; later vampires were recognised by readers. We understand them and they are not so frightening; after all, Dracula taught us how to kill a vampire. When a monster is known, it is no longer a monster; Timon in Maddigan’s Fantasia, or even Frankenstein’s Monster on meeting the blind woman, show that.
I’ve already mentioned how many Victorian novels deal with monsters, Dracula and Frankenstein being the most famous. I think this is partly because of the times: the Victorian era was a time of discovery. Monsters represent both discovery and the unknown, and many monster stories show a society afraid of what its progress will discover. Frankenstein’s Monster is the embodiment of scientific discovery, of pushing back boundaries. Hex, in which a breed of people with a mental connection to computers is outcast, is perhaps an updated version. The Count is another example of discovery. Jonathan first meets him in a foreign land, having crossed physical boundaries to meet him. Dracula follows him back, and successfully attacks in Whitby. It is not until they meet in London, Jonathan’s home turf, that Dracula is killed. Once again the foreign and unknown is dangerous.
Monsters are associated with the unknown, and yet they are often the embodiment of revelation. Doctor Frankenstein, for all he created a monster, describes the moment of revelation as he saw lightning strike a tree in glorious terms. In Hex: Ghosts, the monsters bring in a new era by virtue of their abilities.
Finding a monster is in itself a revelation: the idea of discovering the monster in some dark room is played out over and over again, from Jane Eyre’s Bertha and Dracula’s brides right through to the Harry Potters. Those novels show the link again: every meeting with a monster leads to discoveries – Fluffy, the spiders, the basilisk, and Sirius Black all reveal secrets or clues.
Monsters are equated with truth in many stories. Fairies, for instance, are often portrayed as incapable of lying; Kaye in Ironside has to have a human friend do it for her. Poison in Poison rails against fairy treachery, as does Polly in Fire and Hemlock – yet both defeat it, by listening more carefully, because the fairies cannot lie outright. Flora Segunda features a ‘monster’ named Valefor – though he deceives, he is at pains to point out that he omits truths rather than ever lie outright. This is a redeeming feature of monsters; a variety of strangeness that is not frightening.
Yet it’s also perhaps another feature of how they threaten society; polite lies are anathema to monsters. Marak in Hollow Kingdom points out the ridiculousness of social lying on his first appearance. Timon in Maddigan’s Fantasia is a monster – and also the only character who cannot do deceiving tricks as part of the circus’ act. He tries to deceive like a human, hiding his monstrous side by covering his scaly hand with a cloth. The moment his monstrousness is revealed is also a moment of heroism – he is trying to save Garland from falling to her death.
I’ve already mentioned that the modern breed of vampires is not monstrous in my eyes. They are familiar. They are also cultured. Modern vampire novels tend to include vampires that are either leather-clad and gorgeous – still sexualised, but in a society in which that sexuality is not such a threat – or cultured, listening to classical music and sipping fine wine (or perhaps another deep red liquid).
Monsters are not cultured. The word itself brings to mind ugliness and otherness. They are primitive, even. This is perhaps another hangover from the Victorians – the unknown, beyond frontiers, is also the primitive. Monsters live in the woods while handsome princes inhabit rarefied palaces. The monsters in Hex show the contradiction of the primitive and the new discovery – though they are the pinnacle of technology, we see right from the start that they live a hand-to-mouth existence. Doctor Frankenstein’s ambition was to create a strong, beautiful being; a Renaissance ideal of the perfect man. Instead he produced the Monster. The Monster’s lack of cultivation, as well as his physical appearance, marks his utter separation from that ideal.
Monsters are invariably isolated. Wicked by Gregory Maguire features its heroine Elphaba as the monster; she is paralleled with Glinda the good witch. Glinda, the blond fairytale princess, is part of polite society even at her most isolated, while Elphaba spends her entire life set apart. In this she echoes Frankenstein’s Monster, but there is one crucial difference between the Victorian and modern monster. Frankenstein’s creation was cruelly abandoned, and spends much of his short life trying to connect with humans; he is a victim as much as a monster. Elphaba is isolated by her green skin, and has a neglectful childhood – but she chooses her splendid isolation even as she makes friends. She remains outside society by choice. She becomes a terrorist, living entirely alone, not even knowing who the rest of her organisation are, as she fights a despotic leader. Outside society and fighting it, revealing its flaws, she is a classic monster. There’s a certain similarity to Frankenstein later, as she lives in a castle and tries to create her flying monkeys.
Heathcliff is perhaps just another Victorian monster – he is certainly isolated and uncultured. Those novels produced so many monsters. Jane Eyre, the monster hiding in the attic; Wuthering Heights, the monster brooding in the farmhouse; Frankenstein, the monster roaming the countryside; Dracula, the monster living in the castle. In every case, the monster died.
Is this doomed to be the monster’s fate? They are a threat and a challenge to conventional society – sometimes just by virtue of being outside it. So what are we to do with them?
Originally, literature had a strong answer to this. The monster repelled and scared humans – the monster had to go. They died, and so did any who had significant contact with them. Jane Eyre is a romance and Rochester had to survive: but even so, the fire that destroys the monster blinds him. In Frankenstein, the only human to survive seeing the Monster was the blind woman. It all comes back to the myth of the Gorgon: none can lay eyes on the monster’s face and live.
Other books – especially children’s books – have a more hopeful approach. The Secret Garden is another Gothic novel with a monster, in the form of Colin Craven – a boy who frightens the servants, and torments others because he’s tormented himself. It’s actually a very similar book to Jane Eyre in many ways. A young girl, having recently come to live in a rambling manor house, hears strange sounds. The servants pretend they’ve heard nothing. And then it turns out that locked in the darkness, living in a hidden room, is the monster!
Bertha dies in flames. Colin learns to walk. These are very different endings. And I think it’s because of the reactions of their heroines. Faced with intrigue, Mary has the bravery and initiative to find the monster for herself. And on that discovery, instead of running, she speaks to the ill monster. She learns, and she takes the monster into the light – a place he’s never been.
Granted, the two situations are not exact parallels. Jane runs partly because she’s learned her fiancé is already married, and speaking to Bertha wouldn’t have worked; her illness is different from Colin’s. Still, the point stands – children, when faced with monsters, do not react as adults do. This is reflected in books. The reactions have also begun to evolve in more recent adult novels.
Yet another difference between general supernatural creatures such as vampires and true monsters is in the handling of romance. Vampires in particular are sexualised creatures; their apparently mystical ability to inspire lust glosses over many awkward problems of developing romance. Monsters, on the other hand – the scaly, the red-eyed, those with green or grey or yellow skin – usually repulse the heroes, at least initially. Monsters are not human, and they feel very differently from humans; they are not sanitised, as so many creatures are, by an angsty hatred of what they have become. Timon of Maddigan’s Fantasia was once human, but he is the exception; and even he has always had a monstrous, scaled relative.
Monsters are dangerous. However little they may deserve their condemnation, that much remains true. Certainly on their first appearance, monsters will tend to be unappealing, even if they don’t yet look horrifying: Timon is a blond, fairytale prince of a boy, yet when we first see him he is terrifying his little brother with tales of how “they’ll drip blood and leave echoes of people laughing.” Marak in Hollow Kingdom appears ready to kidnap Kate and take her to the underworld, like Hades’ kidnap of Persephone. Kaye in Ironside admits to stealing another girl’s mother. Colin Craven in The Secret Garden screams the house down. The powers of the monster, whatever they may be, are real and must be respected.
But though the powers of the monster may be dangerous, in my favourite monster novels that does not condemn them. The monstrous is valued, and even needed. In Hex: Ghosts, Raven, the most monstrous of her kind, saves the world with her abilities. Timon loses the evil influence that made him monstrous, which should have been good – yet the moment it happens, he screams in despair, because he’s holding onto Garland and she’s going to fall now that he’s only human.
Monstrous abilities are even occasionally described in positive terms, though this is unusual. Timon gives off a light at one point, that plays at Garland’s feet “like a friendly pet”. Kate gives birth to Marak’s baby near the end of Hollow Kingdom, and she’s unconsciously influenced the child to share his father’s beige hair. Marak is surprised: “I thought you hated my hair.” Kate’s response is, “I do. Well, I suppose it made an impression.” The benign strangeness of these monsters is possibly influenced by the fact that both of these books are romances.
Monster/human romance is complex, and perhaps not always possible. There has been an evolution in books; though death is no longer always the answer, love is sometimes too hard. In Blood and Chocolate, a werewolf and a human fall in love – but they separate, and long for each other for the rest of their lives. No one died, and yet the ending was another ‘the monster cannot live among humans’ tragedy.
Monster romance is more common now; this is arguably as much a reflection of modern concerns as monster murder was for the Victorians. Hollow Kingdom, in particular, is cross-cultural marriage to the extreme. The complications of modern families are amplified in Ironside’s fairy changeling – how do you tell your parents you’re adopted?
The modern monster romance is sometimes written as an almost Romeo and Juliet story. At other times, it’s about rejecting society’s values – Touk’s Kingdom, in which the heroine rejects the handsome prince to go back to her green-skinned, trusked troll, is a perfect example of this. Modern monsters are metaphors as much as they ever were.
The moment the human sees the monster for what they are is always frightening. Marak flips back his hood, Timon’s scaly hand is uncovered, Kaye drops her mask to stand there with green skin and black eyes. They ask for acceptance. What does the human do?
At first, the novel usually follows the Frankenstein pattern. Monsters are the unknown, and to be feared. The humans faced with them understand nothing of green skin, or frightening powers. What they do know – what we all know and empathise with – is the process of getting to know someone, of learning to trust them. And the slow evolution of a relationship triumphs in many modern novels, slowly defeating that first, instinctive flinch.
It is dangerous to get to know a monster; the fate of the little boy in Frankenstein shows us that. We cannot look at a green face and trust instinctively. Some monster novels begin with a monster who looks human; because the characters have already learnt to trust them, when the truth is revealed the monster is not abandoned. David in Eight Days of Luke defends Luke even after he sets a fire, even after his dark past is revealed, because he has already become friends with Luke, and empathises with him.
Love, it turns out, is indeed all you need. The Secret Garden’s Colin regains his health after spending days talking with Mistress Mary. In Tanglewreck, Silver saves her monster’s life using a rope of the love and understanding that has built up between them.
This doesn’t always happen. When Kaye reveals herself as a fairy, her mother says, “I don’t know what you are.” Boomer says of Timon, “he’s awful. He’s a monster… we don’t have to help monsters.” But in each case, the monster is not unknown. So Garland’s response to Boomer is “we help Fantasia monsters.” When Kaye returns, having rescued her mother’s human daughter, her mother is concerned for Kaye’s safety on her dangerous adventure. She tells her, “I know exactly what you are. You’re my girl.” The monsters are loved; Kaye is not her own child, but is claimed as her own nonetheless. The traditional advice with monsters is that they must not be allowed into your home: it’s why the folklore of the vampire’s invitation grew up, and is echoed in fairy folklore. And yet, the changeling is accepted by choice.
The archetype of all tales of monster romance is of course Beauty and the Beast, and the plot itself shares that message. The girl meets a monster; she learns who the monster is, and loves that individual; and his monstrousness drops away. Monsters must be met and understood as individuals if there’s to be any hope of a happy ending.
To allow the monster in is frightening, but the only other outcome, as Frankenstein shows so brutally, is death. Trusting the monster will save the human; David defended Luke from all comers, and Luke exhausted himself to save David’s life. Kate trusted Marak, and he saved her sister’s life. Garland trusted Timon, and he reached for her when she fell.
So here be monsters, after all. In the midst of the humans who choose them.
frantic_mice recced my fic Unforgivable (if you follow the link, READ THE WARNINGS), and she said very clever things. Between that and the talking in the comments, I’m suddenly missing literary analysis like whoa! It has been months since I analysed a book, and it’s a month until I get to go to UEA and be an English student, with all the blathering about literature that entails.For God’s sake, I wrote an email to a friend composed entirely of haiku today. Clearly I need to get my English-nerd on.
So I’m posting this essay. I wrote it for a writing competition, so I could include non-fiction. I didn’t win the competition, but I think this is pretty good meta; I’m almost certain it’s what got me into UEA. Do be aware this wasn’t written for LJ originally!
It’s all about monsters in fiction, though. Because it’s themed, rather than character-based, I never got to Voldemort: but don’t be afraid to bring him up in the comments! Or the Master (the Buffyverse one or the Whoverse one!), or Angelus, or Davros. Come, fannish friends, and tell me about books.
Oh, and if you don't want to read my Teal Deer about the portrayal of monsters in fiction, and how it varies from Gothic novels to children's novels to modern YA, check out the bibliography. Those books are AWESOME.
The Wizard of Oz by Frank L Baum
Ironside by Holly Black
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett
Hollow Kingdom by Clare Dunkle
Eight Days of Luke by Diana Wynne Jones
Fire and Hemlock by Diana Wynne Jones
Blood and Chocolate by Annette Curtis Klause
Hex by Rhiannon Lassiter
Hex: Shadows by Rhiannon Lassiter
Hex: Ghosts by Rhiannon Lassiter
Wicked by Gregory Maguire
Maddigan’s Fantasia by Margaret Mahy
Touk’s Kingdom from The Knot in the Grain by Robin McKinley
The Harry Potter series by J K Rowling
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
Dracula by Bram Stoker
Tanglewreck by Jeanette Winterson
Flora Segunda by Ysabeau Wilce
Poison by Chris Wooding
Here Be Monsters
Or there be monsters, rather. We tend to like monsters rather far away, across the inked caps of mountains on tea-coloured maps. Exotic, unusual, and too far away to do anything murderous.
What exactly is a monster? Like pornography, monstrousness is easy to recognise but hard to define. The word ‘monster’ is used often in everyday life, especially by the tabloids when describing serial killers. The ‘monster’ may not even be convicted, but a mugshot and a description of how they don’t have many friends says a great deal.
The automatic response might be to snort at this hyperbole, but it actually exposes a lot of how we feel about monsters. The people described such – killers, oddballs, loners – are feared and hated, but they’re also held in contempt. They’re outside ‘normal’, respectable society. Tabloids often align themselves against the threat du jour – immigrants, juvenile delinquents, benefit fraud – and monsters are threats.
The most obvious example of real-life monsters is witches. Witches were usually spinsters; single women, by virtue of being outside the institution of marriage, were considered a threat. Free-thinkers and social outcasts were the most likely to be branded a witch. Witchcraft was considered monstrous. Magic is different from miracles, not because of its effects but because of the source; magic comes from the Devil and therefore defies God. The truth of why these women were persecuted is perhaps revealed by this. Marriage was a vital part of community and church cohesion, and to be outside of it was dangerous. Spinsters challenged the social order; as witches challenged the church.
Marriage and monsters do not get along. Jane Eyre is arguably a monster story, like so many other Victorian Gothic novels. Its monster, Bertha, makes Jane’s marriage impossible and damns Rochester for a bigamist. Dracula threatens Jonathan and Mina, and society in general, by his sexuality and utter resistance to traditional marriage – the three brides of Dracula, not to mention the three-in-a-bed scene, show this. Obviously vampirism – penetration that produces blood – has a strong sexual connotation, and the language used to describe it is visceral. The implication of a sort of infidelity (particularly by Lucy) harms the marriages. Besides, there is a strong suggestion Jonathan Harker has not slept with Mina, and therefore consummated the marriage, until after the Count’s death. Then the act represents the victory of marriage and the social order over the monster.
Monsters are the unknown; it’s part of why we fear them. If something is described as a ‘monster’ that usually means it’s uncategorisable, rather than part of the familiar supernatural round of werewolves and vampires. This is part of why I consider Count Dracula to be a monster, but not later vampires. Dracula was the first of his breed; later vampires were recognised by readers. We understand them and they are not so frightening; after all, Dracula taught us how to kill a vampire. When a monster is known, it is no longer a monster; Timon in Maddigan’s Fantasia, or even Frankenstein’s Monster on meeting the blind woman, show that.
I’ve already mentioned how many Victorian novels deal with monsters, Dracula and Frankenstein being the most famous. I think this is partly because of the times: the Victorian era was a time of discovery. Monsters represent both discovery and the unknown, and many monster stories show a society afraid of what its progress will discover. Frankenstein’s Monster is the embodiment of scientific discovery, of pushing back boundaries. Hex, in which a breed of people with a mental connection to computers is outcast, is perhaps an updated version. The Count is another example of discovery. Jonathan first meets him in a foreign land, having crossed physical boundaries to meet him. Dracula follows him back, and successfully attacks in Whitby. It is not until they meet in London, Jonathan’s home turf, that Dracula is killed. Once again the foreign and unknown is dangerous.
Monsters are associated with the unknown, and yet they are often the embodiment of revelation. Doctor Frankenstein, for all he created a monster, describes the moment of revelation as he saw lightning strike a tree in glorious terms. In Hex: Ghosts, the monsters bring in a new era by virtue of their abilities.
Finding a monster is in itself a revelation: the idea of discovering the monster in some dark room is played out over and over again, from Jane Eyre’s Bertha and Dracula’s brides right through to the Harry Potters. Those novels show the link again: every meeting with a monster leads to discoveries – Fluffy, the spiders, the basilisk, and Sirius Black all reveal secrets or clues.
Monsters are equated with truth in many stories. Fairies, for instance, are often portrayed as incapable of lying; Kaye in Ironside has to have a human friend do it for her. Poison in Poison rails against fairy treachery, as does Polly in Fire and Hemlock – yet both defeat it, by listening more carefully, because the fairies cannot lie outright. Flora Segunda features a ‘monster’ named Valefor – though he deceives, he is at pains to point out that he omits truths rather than ever lie outright. This is a redeeming feature of monsters; a variety of strangeness that is not frightening.
Yet it’s also perhaps another feature of how they threaten society; polite lies are anathema to monsters. Marak in Hollow Kingdom points out the ridiculousness of social lying on his first appearance. Timon in Maddigan’s Fantasia is a monster – and also the only character who cannot do deceiving tricks as part of the circus’ act. He tries to deceive like a human, hiding his monstrous side by covering his scaly hand with a cloth. The moment his monstrousness is revealed is also a moment of heroism – he is trying to save Garland from falling to her death.
I’ve already mentioned that the modern breed of vampires is not monstrous in my eyes. They are familiar. They are also cultured. Modern vampire novels tend to include vampires that are either leather-clad and gorgeous – still sexualised, but in a society in which that sexuality is not such a threat – or cultured, listening to classical music and sipping fine wine (or perhaps another deep red liquid).
Monsters are not cultured. The word itself brings to mind ugliness and otherness. They are primitive, even. This is perhaps another hangover from the Victorians – the unknown, beyond frontiers, is also the primitive. Monsters live in the woods while handsome princes inhabit rarefied palaces. The monsters in Hex show the contradiction of the primitive and the new discovery – though they are the pinnacle of technology, we see right from the start that they live a hand-to-mouth existence. Doctor Frankenstein’s ambition was to create a strong, beautiful being; a Renaissance ideal of the perfect man. Instead he produced the Monster. The Monster’s lack of cultivation, as well as his physical appearance, marks his utter separation from that ideal.
Monsters are invariably isolated. Wicked by Gregory Maguire features its heroine Elphaba as the monster; she is paralleled with Glinda the good witch. Glinda, the blond fairytale princess, is part of polite society even at her most isolated, while Elphaba spends her entire life set apart. In this she echoes Frankenstein’s Monster, but there is one crucial difference between the Victorian and modern monster. Frankenstein’s creation was cruelly abandoned, and spends much of his short life trying to connect with humans; he is a victim as much as a monster. Elphaba is isolated by her green skin, and has a neglectful childhood – but she chooses her splendid isolation even as she makes friends. She remains outside society by choice. She becomes a terrorist, living entirely alone, not even knowing who the rest of her organisation are, as she fights a despotic leader. Outside society and fighting it, revealing its flaws, she is a classic monster. There’s a certain similarity to Frankenstein later, as she lives in a castle and tries to create her flying monkeys.
Heathcliff is perhaps just another Victorian monster – he is certainly isolated and uncultured. Those novels produced so many monsters. Jane Eyre, the monster hiding in the attic; Wuthering Heights, the monster brooding in the farmhouse; Frankenstein, the monster roaming the countryside; Dracula, the monster living in the castle. In every case, the monster died.
Is this doomed to be the monster’s fate? They are a threat and a challenge to conventional society – sometimes just by virtue of being outside it. So what are we to do with them?
Originally, literature had a strong answer to this. The monster repelled and scared humans – the monster had to go. They died, and so did any who had significant contact with them. Jane Eyre is a romance and Rochester had to survive: but even so, the fire that destroys the monster blinds him. In Frankenstein, the only human to survive seeing the Monster was the blind woman. It all comes back to the myth of the Gorgon: none can lay eyes on the monster’s face and live.
Other books – especially children’s books – have a more hopeful approach. The Secret Garden is another Gothic novel with a monster, in the form of Colin Craven – a boy who frightens the servants, and torments others because he’s tormented himself. It’s actually a very similar book to Jane Eyre in many ways. A young girl, having recently come to live in a rambling manor house, hears strange sounds. The servants pretend they’ve heard nothing. And then it turns out that locked in the darkness, living in a hidden room, is the monster!
Bertha dies in flames. Colin learns to walk. These are very different endings. And I think it’s because of the reactions of their heroines. Faced with intrigue, Mary has the bravery and initiative to find the monster for herself. And on that discovery, instead of running, she speaks to the ill monster. She learns, and she takes the monster into the light – a place he’s never been.
Granted, the two situations are not exact parallels. Jane runs partly because she’s learned her fiancé is already married, and speaking to Bertha wouldn’t have worked; her illness is different from Colin’s. Still, the point stands – children, when faced with monsters, do not react as adults do. This is reflected in books. The reactions have also begun to evolve in more recent adult novels.
Yet another difference between general supernatural creatures such as vampires and true monsters is in the handling of romance. Vampires in particular are sexualised creatures; their apparently mystical ability to inspire lust glosses over many awkward problems of developing romance. Monsters, on the other hand – the scaly, the red-eyed, those with green or grey or yellow skin – usually repulse the heroes, at least initially. Monsters are not human, and they feel very differently from humans; they are not sanitised, as so many creatures are, by an angsty hatred of what they have become. Timon of Maddigan’s Fantasia was once human, but he is the exception; and even he has always had a monstrous, scaled relative.
Monsters are dangerous. However little they may deserve their condemnation, that much remains true. Certainly on their first appearance, monsters will tend to be unappealing, even if they don’t yet look horrifying: Timon is a blond, fairytale prince of a boy, yet when we first see him he is terrifying his little brother with tales of how “they’ll drip blood and leave echoes of people laughing.” Marak in Hollow Kingdom appears ready to kidnap Kate and take her to the underworld, like Hades’ kidnap of Persephone. Kaye in Ironside admits to stealing another girl’s mother. Colin Craven in The Secret Garden screams the house down. The powers of the monster, whatever they may be, are real and must be respected.
But though the powers of the monster may be dangerous, in my favourite monster novels that does not condemn them. The monstrous is valued, and even needed. In Hex: Ghosts, Raven, the most monstrous of her kind, saves the world with her abilities. Timon loses the evil influence that made him monstrous, which should have been good – yet the moment it happens, he screams in despair, because he’s holding onto Garland and she’s going to fall now that he’s only human.
Monstrous abilities are even occasionally described in positive terms, though this is unusual. Timon gives off a light at one point, that plays at Garland’s feet “like a friendly pet”. Kate gives birth to Marak’s baby near the end of Hollow Kingdom, and she’s unconsciously influenced the child to share his father’s beige hair. Marak is surprised: “I thought you hated my hair.” Kate’s response is, “I do. Well, I suppose it made an impression.” The benign strangeness of these monsters is possibly influenced by the fact that both of these books are romances.
Monster/human romance is complex, and perhaps not always possible. There has been an evolution in books; though death is no longer always the answer, love is sometimes too hard. In Blood and Chocolate, a werewolf and a human fall in love – but they separate, and long for each other for the rest of their lives. No one died, and yet the ending was another ‘the monster cannot live among humans’ tragedy.
Monster romance is more common now; this is arguably as much a reflection of modern concerns as monster murder was for the Victorians. Hollow Kingdom, in particular, is cross-cultural marriage to the extreme. The complications of modern families are amplified in Ironside’s fairy changeling – how do you tell your parents you’re adopted?
The modern monster romance is sometimes written as an almost Romeo and Juliet story. At other times, it’s about rejecting society’s values – Touk’s Kingdom, in which the heroine rejects the handsome prince to go back to her green-skinned, trusked troll, is a perfect example of this. Modern monsters are metaphors as much as they ever were.
The moment the human sees the monster for what they are is always frightening. Marak flips back his hood, Timon’s scaly hand is uncovered, Kaye drops her mask to stand there with green skin and black eyes. They ask for acceptance. What does the human do?
At first, the novel usually follows the Frankenstein pattern. Monsters are the unknown, and to be feared. The humans faced with them understand nothing of green skin, or frightening powers. What they do know – what we all know and empathise with – is the process of getting to know someone, of learning to trust them. And the slow evolution of a relationship triumphs in many modern novels, slowly defeating that first, instinctive flinch.
It is dangerous to get to know a monster; the fate of the little boy in Frankenstein shows us that. We cannot look at a green face and trust instinctively. Some monster novels begin with a monster who looks human; because the characters have already learnt to trust them, when the truth is revealed the monster is not abandoned. David in Eight Days of Luke defends Luke even after he sets a fire, even after his dark past is revealed, because he has already become friends with Luke, and empathises with him.
Love, it turns out, is indeed all you need. The Secret Garden’s Colin regains his health after spending days talking with Mistress Mary. In Tanglewreck, Silver saves her monster’s life using a rope of the love and understanding that has built up between them.
This doesn’t always happen. When Kaye reveals herself as a fairy, her mother says, “I don’t know what you are.” Boomer says of Timon, “he’s awful. He’s a monster… we don’t have to help monsters.” But in each case, the monster is not unknown. So Garland’s response to Boomer is “we help Fantasia monsters.” When Kaye returns, having rescued her mother’s human daughter, her mother is concerned for Kaye’s safety on her dangerous adventure. She tells her, “I know exactly what you are. You’re my girl.” The monsters are loved; Kaye is not her own child, but is claimed as her own nonetheless. The traditional advice with monsters is that they must not be allowed into your home: it’s why the folklore of the vampire’s invitation grew up, and is echoed in fairy folklore. And yet, the changeling is accepted by choice.
The archetype of all tales of monster romance is of course Beauty and the Beast, and the plot itself shares that message. The girl meets a monster; she learns who the monster is, and loves that individual; and his monstrousness drops away. Monsters must be met and understood as individuals if there’s to be any hope of a happy ending.
To allow the monster in is frightening, but the only other outcome, as Frankenstein shows so brutally, is death. Trusting the monster will save the human; David defended Luke from all comers, and Luke exhausted himself to save David’s life. Kate trusted Marak, and he saved her sister’s life. Garland trusted Timon, and he reached for her when she fell.
So here be monsters, after all. In the midst of the humans who choose them.