Stories have been the psychosocial crutch that’ve kept our species sane – individually – in an awful unpredictable fear-filled world. The price has been high but here we were in the 21st century, 7 billion plus human brains parsing the universe through prisms of vast collective narratives that affect every moment and define – for most – every reaction, every thought, every decision.
Gothic means many things to different people. It’s a much overused term but, that said, Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte) and Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte) are two of the finest exemplars of the gothic novel – this much is received wisdom – but their evocation of the gothic ideal is as different as the shadow and stone.
Ditty poem written in September 2001, found again recently and given an appropriately obscure title. What do you think?