Machines for Living, Haunts of the Dead-Part One

A long time ago I watched the movie The Fountainhead (1949), starring Gary Cooper and Patricia Neal. The screenplay by Ayn Rand was based on her novel of the same name, published in 1943. It's kind of a ridiculous movie, mostly to do with the plot and the dialogue. Real people do not talk like the characters in this movie, in which every extended piece of dialogue becomes a speech of great weight and seriousness--a manifesto, a valediction, or some other kind of heavy, even bombastic, address. The acquittal near the end of the architect Howard Roark, played by Gary Cooper, is completely unbelievable. It carries the movie away into the territory of a bizarre Randian fantasy. Today I read that Barbara Stanwyck wanted the role of Dominique Francon for herself. If she had been cast in that role, The Fountainhead would have been a better movie. I'm certain of that, for Barbara Stanwyck is always worth watching. The plot and the dialogue wouldn't have been any better, though, because Ayn Rand was by accounts uncompromising in those respects. The movie had to be made by her design.

There is something about The Fountainhead that has never quite worked for me. It seems incongruous. What I'm talking about is an apparent inconsistency between the supposed conservatism of the screenwriter and the evident progressivism of her artist-hero. Roark was not intended to be a progressive-type hero. He is supposed to be an individualist against a prevailing and powerful collectivism and conformism. And yet he is determined and uncompromising (like his author and creator) in his modernistic rejection of older and traditional forms, including Gothic forms. He even goes so far as to blow up a housing development that is being constructed contrary to his design. He wants to strip his buildings of all ornament, to build them in effect on the model of Le Corbusier, the German Bauhaus, and other modernist European architects. If I understand Ayn Rand and her philosophy correctly, she could not have sympathized with European modernism in architecture. And in fact she didn't, according to quotations from her in Wikipedia, taken from an essay by Donald Leslie Johnson, published in 2005. I guess the blame for the European-modernist designs of Howard Roark was laid on production designer Edward Carrere. Ayn Rand's original model was Frank Lloyd Wright, who was neither a traditionalist nor a European-modernist. If his style of architecture had made it into The Fountainhead, I don't think there would have been an incongruity. The movie would still be kind of ridiculous, though.

A teller of weird tales referred to European modernism in a story of the 1940s. He was Robert A. Heinlein and it was "'--And He Built a Crooked House--'", which was published in Astounding Science-Fiction in February 1941. (Illustration by Hubert Rogers below.) Heinlein's story is about architecture and four dimensions of space. (It also mentions himself, to whom the author refers as "the Hermit.") I would hazard it was the first place most people who ever heard of the tesseract or hypercube actually read about that crazy shape. Heinlein's fictional architect, Quintus Teal (five is an odd number, a teal is a duck, so "Odd Duck"?), mentions Frank Lloyd Wright and "the Moderns," i.e., modernist architects. He even quotes (or paraphrases) Le Corbusier: "A house is a machine for living." Teal is full of complaints. He says of the Moderns:

all they've done is to abandon the Wedding Cake School in favor of the Service Station School, chucked away the gingerbread and slapped on some chromium, but at heart they are as conservative and traditional as a county courthouse.

The "Wedding Cake School" and "gingerbread" refer to nineteenth-century Gothic architecture, while the "Service Station School" and "chromium" parts presumably refer to the Art Deco or Art Moderne style of the early twentieth. The Chrysler Building in New York City is a quintessential Art Deco construction, but even it has gargoyles as on a Gothic cathedral of yore. Like Howard Roark, Quintus Teal is a visionary. One difference is that he doesn't sabotage his house. Instead, his house sabotages itself.

Heinlein was also a visionary. He perceived that there was a clash between architectural modernism and traditionalism before Ayn Rand did, or at least before her novel was published. His illustration of it was more visionary still, as he carried modernism into the ultra-futuristic territory of science fiction rather than the near-futuristic territory of the real world. I will add that "'--And He Built a Crooked House--'" is a very fun story to read, and it's very funny. You might get more entertainment out of it than you will out of almost two hours of The Fountainhead.

* * *

Modernist architecture was in the news recently when the Barack Obama Presidential Center was opened in Chicago. I say "modernist" but actually "Brutalist" is probably a better description of that construction. Modernism and Brutalism aren't the same thing, but Brutalism grew out of modernism. Brutalism is associated with fascist Italy under Mussolini, but Brutalism was also in the architecture of the U.S.S.R. and Eastern Europe under the communists. According to Wikipedia, "[t]he communist newspaper Daily Worker deemed The Fountainhead to be 'an openly fascist movie.'" I can't say one way or another, but if modernism is a progressivist style, Brutalism originated in modernism, and Brutalism is also a modernist-progressivist-fascist-communist style, then I'm not sure where the ideological lines are drawn when it comes to twentieth-century architecture. Anyway, the Brutalist Obama center looks like it could have come from behind the Iron Curtain. When I first saw pictures of it, I thought of a gun tower on the surface of the Death Star. So, if you go to Chicago and pay your fee, you will be able to witness the workings of this fully operational presidential center.

* * *

On the opposite end of the century from the founding of the Bauhaus, Tom Wolfe wrote a critique of it and modern architecture in general. His critique is called From Bauhaus to Our House, and it was published in book form in 1981. The people on the receiving end of his critique did not like his critique. Go figure. No word on the opinions of Howard Roark and Quintus Teal.

* * *

I was going to close with a gag cartoon that was in The New Yorker in the 1920s or so. Alas, my books are in storage. The cartoon is of Little Red Riding Hood approaching a Bauhaus-style house that looks like a wolf. I don't remember who was the cartoonist. "Little Red Riding Hood" and stories like it are Gothic, Romantic, or folkloric. Modernism, Brutalism, and futurism are more nearly science-fictional. So in that cartoon, the Gothic or Romantic past encounters the science-fictional present and future. Does the wolf of the present-future devour the Little Red Riding Hood of the past? Or does she escape for another day?

Text copyright 2026 Terence E. Hanley

A Meta-Entry

Early in the morning of Thursday, August 27, 2026, the number of visits to this blog went over 5,000,000. The rate of increase hasn't been exponential, but the number of visits is increasing very rapidly. I write on August 27. Right now there are more than 600,000 visits recorded for the month of August. By the end of the month, there may very well be over 700,000. That would be my highest monthly total ever.

Those total numbers are not reflective of the numbers for individual entries. For example, the entry entitled "Gothic Topics & Flannery O'Connor," which I posted on August 24, 2026, has had only 45 visits as of today. That's not very many. I take that low number to mean that my essay on Flannery O'Connor is not of interest to most people. That's not surprising. My blog is called "Tellers of Weird Tales." It's ostensibly about the artists and writers who contributed to "The Unique Magazine," secondarily about pulp fiction, pulp magazines, pulp writers, etc. Flannery O'Connor was none of those things and wrote none of those things. On the other hand, this is my blog, and I get to write about whatever I want.

I do write for myself, but I also write for the readers of this blog. I would like to offer you things in which you are interested. Low numbers mean something to me. When I see them, I think, "Well, that one isn't doing very well. Maybe I'd better write about something else." If I had to interpret these things, I would say that the high total numbers come from AI visits to my blog, while the much lower individual numbers are a record of visits made by real human beings. 

There are 130 members of this blog. I suspect that there are probably a couple of hundred or a few hundred regular or returning readers. Most of the entries in my blog from the past few months have had between 100 and 250 visits each. A couple come in below that range. A few are above it. The entry from this year with the most visits is "Catholic & Cosmic Horror" from January 10, 2026. It has 788 visits in all. All of that seems normal to me. The numbers that are not normal are the total numbers of visits per day, per month, and all time. Those numbers increased very rapidly once AI came on line. Before that, this blog was for human beings and the numbers were normal. Since then, it has become something for AI. That is my interpretation, as Blogger does not make a distinction between human and non-human visitors. With that being said, AI doesn't do anything it isn't prompted to do. Human beings are behind it. It's just that the real human beings who read my blog are not lazy and stupid--an assumption I make that I think you will like--while the people prompting AI to use my blog are in fact lazy and stupid. They are unwilling or incapable of thinking for themselves and so they have farmed out their thinking to a machine. That may be harsh, but sometimes harshness is called for.

The upshot of all of this is that the numbers of visits don't matter anymore. They used to, but not anymore. They have become a useless and meaningless measure. It used to be that I was encouraged by the numbers of visits. I used them as a measure of how well I was doing in this blog and how well my readers liked what I was doing (or not). Now it doesn't matter. I could be like TV shows or radio shows that have been on for a long time or are reaching the end of their run. I could just put up "encore performances" of what I have written before. I could write anything at all, endless nonsense or Lorem ipsum-type text. I could post links to cat videos. I could offer recipes or tips on hair and makeup. I could write sports drivel. I could do anything at all and there would still be visits to my blog. It just doesn't matter anymore.

I have hesitated going back to writing biographies because I know that now I would not be writing them for human beings to read. Instead, lazy and stupid people would use AI to mine information from my blog and use it for their own purposes. (To be fair, there were lazy and stupid people using what I write for their own purposes before AI came along, but at least they had to do the searching themselves.) I don't know how I might confound AI. I imagine that AI is good with simple facts and information. It may struggle with synthesis, analysis, and opinion, with complex ideas, and perhaps especially with real insight and leaps of imagination. And I wonder whether it may actually stumble over compound and complex sentences; maybe a semi-colon easily trips up an AI. If that's true, and if Cormac McCarthy were still living, then maybe he would start using them. Maybe they would become his best friend.

One solution to all of this is to go back to print. AI can still be used to mine information out of books in print, but it takes an additional step to do that. There are people being paid to take that additional step, though. It used to be that Google, which is behind Blogger, paid people to scan books that were held in libraries. Okay. The book still existed after it was scanned. Now I read that AI companies are buying large quantities of old and rare books, cutting off their bindings, scanning their pages, using text recognition software to convert them to digital formats, and throwing away what's left. The people paying for all of that should be drawn and quartered, or thrown off a cliff, or made to die by some other horrible and painful means, but they wouldn't do what they're doing if they couldn't make money off of it. And the reason they can make money off of it is because ordinary consumers will pay them for the information. This is, over and over again, the destruction of the library at Alexandria in which every person can equally and joyfully take part. This is, in short, democracy.

Another solution is for all of us, like Emily Dickinson, to put away what we write into a trunk, or, like Candide, to turn our backs on the craziness of the world and tend our own gardens. That only works, though, until the world in all of its craziness arrives at your garden gate.

So I'll keep writing for now, for myself, and for the few of you who are frontline readers, that is, real human beings with minds and interest and curiosity. If we can comfort ourselves at all, we can say that we're members of a small but prestigious club. It's not exclusive. Anyone can join. You just have to be willing to read and think for yourself and to stay away from the supposed thinking machine that may yet prove our master.

Text copyright 2026 Terence E. Hanley

Weird Fiction & Regional Fiction

Weird fiction can be seen as a type of regional fiction. Setting in weird fiction is important, as is a familial, cultural, or historical past tied to a specific place. Sometimes we don't know where a weird tale is taking place. That can be disconcerting. We don't know where to anchor our reading or understanding of such a tale, nor our feelings about it. Part of the effect of a weird tale is in making the reader feel disoriented or dislocated. It's better, I think, when that feeling of disorientation or dislocation has to do with the events and occurrences in a story rather than with its setting, location, or sense of place. I think it's better to feel connected to a real (or real-fictional) place but perhaps otherwise disconnected, at least for a time, as we read. We as readers don't do well when we're floating or in free fall, out of touch with anything solid. The Rentharpian Hills aren't a real place, nor is Arkham or Innsmouth, but each has the characteristics of a real place and all are believable in that way. If there are three things in a story, one or two of them can be fantastic, but at least one of them should be real and plausible, a thing that attaches it to someplace on planet Earth and a normal, recognizable experience. The reader should feel like he or she could go to that place, or to the edge of it. Whether he or she can proceed and a weird experience ensues is another story.

The same thing can be said--i.e., that it can be seen as a type of regional fiction--of Gothic or Romantic fiction, for example, William Faulkner's Mississippi. Faulkner even invented his own county--Yoknapatawpha County--the name of which reads like something the demigod Wilbur Whateley would cry from the top of Sentinel Hill.

In contrast, it doesn't make much sense to talk about a regional science fiction. There are science fiction authors who have set their stories in a specific real-fictional place. Tales from the White Hart by Arthur C. Clark (1957) comes to mind, but that's not a perfect example. As I write, I can't think of a science-fictional place or region that is equivalent to the weird-fictional place or region, the perfect example of which is H.P. Lovecraft's New England. (Ramsey Campbell's Severn Valley is another. We're reading his stories for our book club meeting this evening.) The whole point of science fiction is to be expansive, to move forward and reach outward, not to be confined, isolated, inward, shrunken, or backward-looking as in weird fiction; to seem real and to be as plausible as possible; to be freed from the past and not in search of origins, as Gothic or Romantic fiction is, if Ronald Schleifer is correct. In other words, science fiction strives to be novelistic. That is my sense anyway.

If there was an era of weird fiction in American, British, and Irish literature, it might have begun in the 1870s or '80s and to have come to a close in the late 1930s or around the time that World War II began. That roughly seventy-year period (i.e., threescore-and-ten-years, or the biblical allotment of a man's life) corresponds roughly to the era of regionalism or local color in literature, at least in the United States. If the war brought an end to the era of weird fiction, it may also have brought an end to the era of regionalism, possibly for some of the same reasons.

I have looked for dates inclusive of regionalism in America, but I haven't found any such thing. I think of that period as from the post-Civil War period or Reconstruction to the post-Great Depression, specifically to the years of World War II, the Cold War, and the more homogeneous, nationwide culture of the 1950s and after. The 1930s seem to have been the last decade in which Americans stayed within their own locality, state, or region and to have thought of their world in those terms. There are historians who have posited or believe in cycles in American history. I wonder if there have also been cycles of genre fiction, from weird fiction or fantasy to science fiction, then to weird fiction or fantasy and so on; or periods of Gothic-Romantic fiction, followed by periods of Realistic-Novelistic fiction, followed by, etc. But that's something for another day.

Four cover illustrations by women artists, the first by Käthe Kollwitz (1867-1945), the next three by Margaret Brundage (1900-1976). The first has great power. The figure in black is amorphous and unidentifiable. The artist has captured an incredible struggle. Put the next three together and they have some of the same visual and compositional elements as the first. However, they lack its power. These pictures are not illustrative of regional fiction, but maybe they show in some small way that weird fiction--and by extension all of genre fiction--did not exist in a cultural vacuum. Maybe they also show, again in some small way, that weird fiction is a diminutive of Gothic or Romantic fiction, or of fiction as a whole.

Text and caption copyright 2026 Terence E. Hanley

Gothic Topics & Flannery O'Connor

I have next to me a collection of essays on Flannery O'Connor from a series called Modern Critical Views, edited by Harold Bloom and published by Chelsea House in 1986. I would like to write about a couple of things from this book. I also have the cover to show, partly because it includes a picture of an automobile being driven by the Devil.

In "Rural Gothic" by Ronald Schleifer, the author writes: "The Gothic romance [. . .] seeks extremes." Flannery O'Connor herself wrote: "[I]t is the extreme situation that best reveals what we are essentially." Thus, the author of Gothic works exposes or subjects her characters to extremes, of violence, depravity, evil, grotesqueness, etc., so as to get to essences.

Mr. Schleifer continues: 

The Gothic romance, when it is serious, seeks essences; it seeks origins--both its own and its characters'. [. . .] Origins are always supernatural; they are always beyond what can be known in a rational, logical way. [. . .] Origins are always what O'Connor calls "mystery," the manifestation and apprehension of the Sacred within quotidian reality.

I would add that even in the weird tale that sets itself apart from the capital-S Sacred, there are sacred things, that is, supernatural things that stand above and outside of the ordinary and that evoke feelings of awe, mystery, wonder, and terror.

     The Gothic novel [Mr. Schleifer writes] presents precisely the need to discover origins [. . .]. The Gothic is a haunted literature [. . .], and what haunts it [. . .] is some supernatural origin, some inhuman silence, forces beyond the self-sufficiency of the daylight self.

I presume that to mean that, in contrast, the realistic novel does not concern itself with origins and that the novelistic self is self-sufficient or self-enclosed. If all of that is true, and if a fictional character is in search of his origins, then maybe the work in which he carries out his quest is more nearly Gothic and Romantic than it is realistic or novelistic. If that's the case, then Absalom, Absalom! by William Faulkner (1932) is quite obviously a Gothic work, and that is how it is classed. The quotations above are from pages 82 and 83.

* * *

I have just one quotation from "The Visionary Art of Flannery O'Connor" by Joyce Carol Oates. This quotation is applicable in ways that are broader than just for Ms. Oates' purposes within her essay. I have considered it in particular in regards to the recent case of an African-British academic at the University of Cambridge who was exploited by his employers and who presumably killed himself out of shame, disgrace, or humiliation once he was exposed as a liar and plagiarizer. There is a scandal in all of this, but the people who have pointed out and reported on the scandal are not in any way guilty, and the deceased is not the worst actor in his own scandal:

What is difficult, perhaps, is to see how the humanitarian impulse--when it is not spiritual--is an egoistic activity. O'Connor's imagination is like Dostoevsky's: politically reactionary, but spiritually fierce, combative, revolutionary. If the liberal, atheistic, man-centered society of modern times is dedicated to manipulating others in order to "save" them, to transform them into flattering images of their own egos, then there is no love involved--there is no true merging of selves [this presumably referring to the idea that "everything that rises must converge"], but only a manipulative aggression. (p. 46)

That deceased academic didn't know what he was walking into when he joined the university faculty. The university took him in, chewed him up in its exercise of "a manipulative aggression," and spat him back out again. It never cared about him. It only cared about itself, and he paid the price for that. They got to check a box and lost nothing. He lost everything and checked out of this life. The greatest tragedy, for the living, is that he left behind a wife and two children.

* * *

In one of these two essays, I came across a literary term that I had never encountered before. It's called the "pathetic fallacy." It's not as common as it used to be, but the pathetic fallacy is probably still in use. I would consider the pathetic fallacy to be a literary offense, for this world is not a Walt Disney cartoon. Flowers don't dance and sing under a smiling sun. Angry black clouds with furrowed brows do not puff up their cheeks and blow. Non-living things do not have feelings or emotions. They don't sympathize with or reflect the feelings of any character. They don't represent anything but themselves, least of all our own feelings and emotions. They don't take action. They are not in favor of or against any person or thing. By extension (maybe this is my corollary), animals are not evil. They are not forces nor instruments of punishment or retribution. Animals have their imperatives. Those imperatives do not include us. To them we may very well be obstacles to what they're trying to accomplish. We are merely objects in their environment. However, I recall the mountainous Watchers in William Hope Hodgson's brilliant and terribly flawed post-apocalyptic fantasy The Night Land (1912), and I realize that the pathetic fallacy can be disposed of if the imagination of the author is sufficiently great and the non-living thing is brought to horrifying life.

Harold Bloom's caption reads: "Flannery O'Connor looms ironically over the vehicle, driven by a Southern version of the Devil himself, in which, near the conclusion of The Violent Bear It Away, young Tarwater the prophet has just been carried away to his ordeal." Illustration by Robert C. Morris.

Original text copyright 2026 Terence E. Hanley

More on Regions & Gothics

An Indiana Gothic?

Even before my entry from the other day went up, I found what I think might be an Indiana Gothic. I have been doing some research on Jennings County, Indiana, the only Jennings County in America. It was named for our first governor, Jonathan Jennings (1784-1834). In my research I came across a book that I haven't read by an author everyone in Indiana has heard of. I would like to read this book now to see if it really could be a Gothic story, or at least have some Gothic elements.

Jennings County is the birthplace of author Jessamyn West (1902-1984). She was born in the county seat of Vernon, which is situated inside of a loop in the Muscatatuck River. That river has cut deeply into the local landscape: there are bluffs and very steep slopes along much of its length. On July 11, 1863, John Hunt Morgan and his raiders threatened Vernon, but they were put off by local militiamen and a small force of Union troops occupying those bluffs and slopes above the river. There wasn't any battle at Vernon as there had been at Corydon two days before. Morgan and his men retreated without any losses.

Jessamyn West wrote The Friendly Persuasion, a collection of interrelated short stories published in 1945. There was a film adaptation of her first book. It was released in 1956 as Friendly Persuasion. In the movie version, there is a battle at the river when Morgan's Raiders try to cross. We in Indiana know that to be a historical inaccuracy, but then there are lots of historical inaccuracies in movies. Anyone who has been along the Muscatatuck River knows, too, that it looks nothing like what is shown in the film. Hollywood movies are full of geographical inaccuracies as well.

Jessamyn West's first novel is called The Witch Diggers. It was published in 1951 and is also set in the author's native place except that Jennings County is fictionalized as Rock County. Like I said, I haven't read this book, but in reading reviews and descriptions of it, I have the impression that there are some dark, violent, grotesque, and possibly fanatic people and events in its pages, possibly including in the title characters, who dig innumerable holes in the ground looking for truth buried by the devil. It's hard to imagine a seemingly gentle soul and writer like Jessamyn West writing anything tinged with Gothics, but you never know. By the way, the witch diggers were based on real people of Jennings County of the nineteenth century.

Kentucky & Ohio Regionalists?

In thinking about American regionalism, I have also thought of some possible regionalists still living or recently departed. We think of regionalism as being a thing of the past, but there are probably still regionalist authors. One who has come to mind is Wendell Berry, who was born ninety-two years ago this month in Henry County, Kentucky. I think you could call Mr. Berry a regionalist, but he might also be called a state-alist (my new, awkward, and totally unpleasing word, in aesthetic terms) or localist, for he writes about Kentucky, moreover a specific place in Kentucky. Most recently, he published a novel called Marce Catlett (2025). I read a little about it last year and I thought, good for him. We need more of this hard work, dedication, and writerly devotion in American letters. Bobbie Ann Mason (b. 1940) is another Kentucky author who writes about the people and places of her native state.

Before Wendell Berry and Bobbie Ann Mason in Kentucky there was Jesse Stuart (1906-1984). And now I wonder if Hollis Summers (1916-1987), a Kentuckian, and Jack Matthews (1925-2013), an Ohioan, also wrote as localists, state-alists, or regionalists. I have read several of the late Mr. Matthews' books and many of his short stories, and I have found that many of them are about Columbus, where he was born; southeastern Ohio, where he lived, worked, taught, and went looking for rare books; or the area of Gallipolis, "the French City" where his father was born. (I believe Jack Matthews fictionalized Middleport, located upriver, as Brackenport in his late novel The Gambler's Nephew, published in 2011.) Earlier this year, I found some old newspapers at a secondhand shop across two rivers in Point Pleasant. I was pleased to find what I believe to be a picture of his father in a Gallipolis newspaper from the early 1940s. I'll close by writing that Jack Matthews and Hollis Summers were at Ohio University at the same time. What a time that must have been. But it has come to a close, as has this entry.

Happy Birthday to Wendell Berry.

Update (Sept. 2, 2026): I found out this morning that Wendell Erdman Berry, who was born on August 5, 1934, died on August 31, 2026, at age ninety-two. I send condolences to his family and friends and all of his many readers and admirers.

Text copyright 2026 Terence E. Hanley

Regional Gothic-Part Two

There is supposed to have been a Southern Gothic, but are there or have there been other regional Gothics? I don't know.

What got me started down this path is finding a novel originally published in 1968 and issued in a paperback edition in 1969. Entitled Expensive People, it's by Joyce Carol Oates (b. 1938), and the edition that I have is the Fawcett Crest Books edition from 1970, with good cover art by an unknown artist. The whole package--illustration, design, typeface, graphics, everything--beats the heck out of what is being published now. My advice to readers and book lovers everywhere is to secure these books now before they are gone forever.

The cover of Expensive People is good, but it's also inaccurate. For one, the woman is not a blonde. In fact (or fiction), she has dark hair. For another, I don't picture the boy as being that together or that good-looking. He's actually pretty messed up. The thing that actually got me to read this novel, though, is the cover blurb. It reads:

A TALE OF GOTHIC HORROR

One of the problems with everything that is called Gothic is that there isn't any fixed or sure definition of "Gothic." I'm pretty sure, though, that Expensive People is not "a tale of Gothic horror." On the other hand, we have become inured to things that were horrifying in 1968.

Expensive People is a good and very well-written book. Put it into the category of stories about horrible mothers. It actually has something in common with crime and detective novels of mid-century. Like a detective story, it is centered around a kind of femme fatale, and it is one in which an assumed identity is exposed at the end. I won't give anything away.

Published in 1968, Expensive People looked far into the future, to now in fact when troubled boys and young men go around shooting people. The first sentence in the book is a confessional: "I was a child murderer." It's also shocking and sensationalistic. I think that was the intent. Despite the subject matter, Expensive People is a very funny book, and Ms. Oates writes well in the voice of a boy and young man.

I have one quotation from Ms. Oates' novel, an insight that will go far in its service to us as human beings . . .

The narrator, named Richard, is taking an entrance examination for a fancy Eastern school. (I capitalize "Eastern" because I want people to capitalize "Midwestern.") The proctor is named Farrel:

He had no idea of my misery. It would have surprised him to think that I was a human creature with a soul.

      Shall I be so blunt? The obvious beginning, yes. Nada [Richard's mother] brought me here, Dean Nash led me to it, but for some reason it was Farrel, that small and indeed insignificant man, who made me realize a dizzying truth about human beings: they don't care.

     No, they don't care, and it means something irreparable to know that. Not just to be told it casually, or to be shouted down by a playmate, "Drop dead, will you?" No, I mean knowing it, feeling it, tasting it with all of your insides. (p. 47)

No, they don't care, and we all have to realize that.

Expensive People is set in the East, and it has all of the trappings and features of an Eastern. (If there are Westerns, why not Easterns?) If it's a Gothic tale, then it must be an example of Eastern Gothic. And if there is an Eastern Gothic, then there must be other regional Gothics.

By the way, there is a yellow Cadillac early in the pages of Expensive People. It's yellow and it's a Cadillac for a reason.

Late last year I wrote about the Hudson River, and so I perked up this year when I read a phrase, "Hudson Gothic," in an online review of When All Men Wore Hats: Susan Cheever on the Stories of John Cheever (2025). The review is called "The Father Behind the Fiction," and it's by Rand Richards Cooper. Mr. Cooper's article is on the website ARC, dated April 16, 2026, and is found by clicking here. That phrase, "Hudson Gothic," refers to John Cheever's short story "The Hartleys," from 1949, in which there is "drunken despair and recrimination," "horror," and "the gruesome death" of a seven-year-old girl. I'll mention Susan Cheever outside of her title so that I can put her name in boldface.

I was encouraged to read that phrase, "Hudson Gothic." I guess I'm not the only one who senses the presence of other regional Gothics.

My third piece of reading is from this summer when I read Peyton Place by Grace Metalious (1956). I'm probably the only person in America who has read Peyton Place during the past thirty years. That's okay. It's good to know what all of the hubbub was about more than twice that long ago. Anyway, Peyton Place is not an especially good book. It drags for many, many chapters before picking up some speed towards the middle or end of Book One. The climactic part of Book Two actually has real power and is probably the most well-written part of the novel. There are three shocking events set against the backdrop of a drought summer and a raging forest fire: first, a crazy woman whose husband was forced to leave town after raping his stepdaughter hangs herself in her employer's house, in the closet of the teenaged girl who stands in for the authoress; next, an old woman dies in her rocking chair on the back porch of her house while watching through a gap in the hedge as her neighbors have sex in the yard, all of this witnessed by a boy in hiding only a few feet away (before making his escape, he strangles her leashed cat; the whole sequence reminds me of one in Light in August by William Faulkner [1932] in which a young Joe Christmas hides behind a screen and squeezes stolen toothpaste into his mouth as a man and a woman make love on the other side); and finally, at a carnival held while the wooded hills burn, another teenaged girl, a friend of the first, gets caught in the machinery of a carnival ride and has her arm ripped off, her friends trying to save her by grabbing the hand that is no longer attached to her body. That third event sounds sensationalistic, if not exploitative, but it is actually sober and very affecting for the sensitive reader. One day the sudden, wholly unexpected, and instantaneous catastrophe will befall all of us.

I thought that the girl had been chopped up and killed by the machinery. I was so relieved to find out in Book Three that she had survived and had even borne a baby. She was happy. If becoming attached to fictional characters is the measure of a good book, then I guess that says something about Peyton Place and Grace Metalious' writing. Anyway, set in a small town in New Hampshire, Peyton Place must be considered a Gothic novel, at least in part and if there is such a thing, and so it, too, must fall into the category of Eastern Gothic. (There is even a gloomy and deserted castle.) Maybe we should start building lists of Eastern and other regional Gothics, that is to say Gothics that are not in the genres of weird fiction, supernatural horror, fantasy, or the girl-meets-house type of Gothic romance.

This two-part series is the first of my Gothic topics for the next week or two. Stay tuned. Or not.

In this semi-quincentennial of America, I have another quotation from Expensive People by Joyce Carol Oates. This one is for the writers of America, too, but don't be discouraged, O you hopeful and aspirational scribes:

. . . and one sign [. . .] caught my attention: a very American-looking man holding aloft a can of beer, with a puzzled expression, the caption being, Read a beer can tonight. Do you think I could have made up something so marvelous myself? Never, never! America outdoes all its writers, even its amateur writers! (pp. 75-76)

America outdoes all its writers. Knowing that--and I believe it's true--should give all of us great hope and cause to go on writing and recording what we can.

Original text copyright 2026 Terence E. Hanley

Regional Gothic-Part One

In the spring of 1935, Ellen Glasgow (1873-1945), a Southern author, spoke and wrote of what she called "Southern Gothic." She may very well have been the originator of that term. It seems to me to be a loose one. Sometimes I think every Southern author of the twentieth century was considered to be in that category, certainly William Faulkner (1897-1962), Carson McCullers (1917-1967), and Flannery O'Connor (1925-1964). In his vast study, Love and Death in the American Novel (Dell/Delta, revised edition, 1966), Leslie Fiedler wrote:

[. . . ] the American novel is pre-eminently a novel of terror (p. 26)

and:

It is the Gothic form that has been most fruitful in the hands of our best writers [. . .]. (p. 28)

In other words, in essence, American literature, or the mainstream of American literature, is Gothic according to Dr. Fiedler.

It used to be that American literature was, at least in part, regional. There were of course Southern authors, but there were also New England authors (Sarah Orne Jewett), Midwestern authors, also called authors of the Middle Border (Hamlin Garland), Chicago authors (James T. Farrell), Northwestern authors (Nard Jones), and many others. I'm sure there were Western regional authors who were not the authors of Westerns, too. Ivan Doig and Wallace Stegner come to mind, even if they were from a later era. August Derleth (1909-1971), a teller of weird tales, was a regional author of the upper Midwest, specifically his home state of Wisconsin. Regionalism was also in American art of the early to mid twentieth century.

I don't know how true that is today, I mean about regionalism in American literature. In this age in which a uniform gray sludge has come to overlay the land, I'm not sure there is such a thing as any regional author or regional novel. One exception might be the Eastern author, who writes the Eastern writer's novel, which is a novel written by an Eastern writer, about an Eastern writer, for a readership of Eastern writers, published by an Eastern publishing house, and reviewed by Eastern writers sitting in Eastern coffeehouses, drinking Eastern coffee, and nibbling on Eastern muffins or scones. These are sometimes good, for example, many of John Irving's novels. Very often they are dreary, for a person can read only so much about summer camps, prep schools, suburbs, beach houses, university campuses, and the agonies of the upper middle class.

So if the Gothic novel (or romance) is the pre-eminent form in American literature, and American literature was once regional, then does that mean that there were other categories of Gothics? There was supposedly a Southern Gothic. Were there also an Eastern Gothic, a Midwestern Gothic, and a Western Gothic at the very least? (Richard Brautigan, a Western author, actually wrote a novel called The Hawkline Monster: A Gothic Western, published in 1974.) In weird fiction that was certainly true. H.P. Lovecraft (1890-1937) was an exemplar of Northeastern or New England Gothic. Maybe Robert E. Howard (1906-1936) was his counterpart in Texas or the West. If I knew more about Carl Jacobi (1908-1997) and his tales of the Rentharpian Hills, I could say that he wrote weird/Gothic tales of the Upper Midwest. Unfortunately, I don't know enough about him or them, even though I have read an account of his career, Lost in the Rentharpian Hills: Spanning the Decades with Carl Jacobi by R. Dixon Smith (1985). That book, like so many books by fans, is basically a list or a catalog of facts and lacks any analysis or critical examination of the author's work. I was disappointed when I read it. Maybe I'll have to write myself about the late Mr. Jacobi and his oeuvre.

I'm from Indiana. Now here I am trying to think of an Indiana Gothic. Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914?) lived and worked in Indiana before the Civil War, but he's not really closely associated with the Hoosier State, although some of his tales are set on the American frontier of his youth. Other well-known authors of Indiana--Booth Tarkington (1869-1946), Jessamyn West (1902-1984), Gene Stratton Porter (1863-1924), Ross Lockridge, Jr. (1914-1948)--wrote in the mainstream. Indiana, after all, is a conservative place and its people tend towards conservatism and the mainstream. Maybe because of that, Indiana authors are often forgotten and their books set aside, unless they are made into movies, for example The Magnificent Ambersons (1942), Friendly Persuasion (1956), The Girl of the Limberlost (1934, 1945), and Raintree County (1957). Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. (1922-2007) was also from Indiana, but he began his writing career in a science fiction era, and so he doesn't appear to have been much of a Gothicist. Besides that, he turned into an Eastern writer and doesn't seem to have written much about his native state.

In Indiana, Gothics are more often, or exclusively, real-life phenomena, for example, the activities of the serial killer Belle Gunness (1880s-early 1900s), the murder of Howard Pitezel by H.H. Holmes (1894), the murder of Madge Oberholtzer by D.C. Stephenson (1925), the torture and murder of Sylvia Likens (1965), the Hollandsburg Massacre (1977), the Burger Chef Murders (1978), and the legend of the House of Blue Lights (1960s). The Pitezel and Oberholzter cases took place in Irvington where we grew up (there are still large, Gothic houses in that neighborhood), while the Sylvia Likens case happened a dozen or so blocks to the west. The Hollandsburg Massacre and the Burger Chef Murders happened when we were children. Along with the Speedway bombings and the Tony Kiritsis hostage-taking, they helped to make Indiana a scary place in the 1970s. And let's not forget that Charles Manson and Jim Jones also called Indiana home at one time or another.

And now I wonder whether Gothic horrors are simply the flipside of a staid, conservative, and traditional lifestyle and culture. What lies under the surface of the supposedly stable and respectable man, woman, or household?

To be continued . . .

Original text copyright 2026 Terence E. Hanley