Mystery Fiction as Continuation and Response to Gothic - a comparison of Poe's "Murders in the Rue Morgue" and Lewis's The Monk

Edgar Allen Poe, who invented the first detective in C. Auguste Dupin, is widely known for his
tales of horror. As this might suggest, there is some overlap between the genres of mystery and the
Gothic. A comparison of works from the two genres, Matthew Lewis's The Monk and the short mystery
stories of Poe (particularly “The Murders in the Rue Morgue”), reveals that early mystery fiction can
be seen as a continuation of the Gothic genre; many of these stories utilize characteristic Gothic motifs,
including the Gothic setting, the morally questionable protagonist, and the exploration of the darker
aspects of human nature. However, while mystery is a continuation of the Gothic, it is likewise a
response to the Gothic which, even as it uses the Gothic tropes mentioned above, alters, adapts, or
subverts them.

An evident point of similarity between Lewis's The Monk and Poe's “The Murders in the Rue
Morgue” is setting. In The Monk, Lewis describes the central location of the Capuchin Church as
containing a “gloom” and a “gothic obscurity.” The setting used for the home of Dupin and his
unnamed companion, “a time-eaten and grotesque mansion,” is likewise Gothic. In each case, the
setting reflects the characters and plot. The “gothic obscurity” of the Capuchin Church, in addition to
creating the eerie quality associated with the Gothic, hints at the obscured or suppressed truths and
passions therein. Similarly, Dupin's home mirrors “the fantastic gloom of [his]...temper.” However,
there is a significant difference in setting between the two works: Lewis' novel, influenced by the
Romantic interest in the premodern, is set in the past, in a time of castles and Cavaliers carrying
rapiers; Poe's story, conversely, set in a contemporary age “amid the...shadows of the populous city,”
brings the Gothic into the modern.

The urban setting is a defining feature of mystery fiction. Poe's earlier story, “The Man of the
Crowd,” which – with its observant protagonist pursuing “the type and genius of deep crime” – one can
read as a prototype to Poe's detective stories, also emphasizes the urban setting: the story takes place on
a crowded “principal thoroughfare” in the city of London. The interest and emphasis on the urban in
mystery fiction, as well the popularity of mystery fiction in the nineteenth and early twentieth
centuries, can be linked to the urbanization taking place throughout Europe during the Industrial
Revolution which brought greater numbers and varieties of people into locations such as London.
Mystery fiction, then, adapts Gothic elements to a modern context. Thus, despite having Gothic traits,
mystery fiction lacks the Romantic, retrogressive quality of Gothic literature. It is more present.

The tendency of mystery fiction to be present, as opposed to distant or other-wordly as Gothic
fiction often is, manifests itself also in the underlying logic of mystery stories. Generally, mystery
fiction relies on materialism. In the baffling case of the L'Espanaye murders, for example, physical
materials such as the “little tuft [of hair he takes] from the rigidly clutched fingers of Madame
L'Espanaye,” prove essential to Dupin's reasoning through the case. Gothic fiction, on the other hand,
relies on the supernatural to extend and explain the plot. In The Monk, Don Raymond is unable to elope
with Agnes, for example, because he gets involved with the ghost of a nun. Similarly, Ambrosio's
downfall is exacted though a “crafty spirit” working for the devil. Poe, in “The Murders in the Rue
Morgue,” draws particular attention to the fact that he is departing from this kind of supernatural
explanation by having Dupin say assuredly “Madame and Mademoiselle L'Espanaye were not
destroyed by spirits. The doers of the deed were material, and escaped materially. Then how?” In both
stories, there is violence and crime; however, mystery fiction begins with the premise that these are
caused materially, and thus can be solved materially. Gothic fiction, in this way, is, conceivably, more
horrifying; to think that there are hidden, evil spirits working for our downfall, especially in a world
like Lewis's where benevolent spirits seem altogether absent, is a frightening thought. In an age of
increasing industry, materialism, and secularization, however, mystery fiction may have been seen as
more relevant and applicable than literature which relied on the supernatural.

Despite the fact that the premise underlying (and therefore the conclusion arising from) “The
Murders in the Rue Morgue” is fundamentally different from that which underlies The Monk, each of
these stories considers the same issue: where does violence come from? In this, one sees that mystery
fiction has a keen interest, characteristic of Gothic literature, in the darker aspects of nature. One
element of the mystery story wherein we see this interest is the characterization of the protagonist as
morally ambiguous. From his inception with Dupin, the detective figure has rarely been a classic hero –
smart, courageous, handsome, and likeable; more often, as with Dupin, he is an insightful, somewhat
anti-social character observing society from its outskirts with no interest in engaging with it except at
his own pleasure and convenience. The moral ambivalence of Dupin shows through in his desiring to
examine the murder scene of the L'Espanayes, not from a desire to help, but because “an inquiry
[would] afford...amusement.” More strikingly perhaps, in his discussion of analysis in “The Murders in
the Rue Morgue,” the narrator writes that “the analyst throws himself into the spirit of his opponent
[and] identifies himself therewith.” Thus, in solving the case of who killed the L'Espanayes, Dupin is,
in fact, thinking like the murderer. In this particular case, it is the mind of an animal that he identifies
with; thus, Dupin is able to get in touch with a primitive, irrational, and potentially extremely violent
mentality within himself. The narrator says that he and Dupin lived “as madmen – although,
perhaps...of a harmless nature.” In other words, the protagonist of Poe's mystery stories, the hero, is
somehow essentially alike to the villain, and this alike-ness is foregrounded. In The Monk, similarly, it
is the villainy of the protagonist Ambrosio, his capacity for evil thought, his primitive desires, his
irrational impulsivity, and so on which are foregrounded. However, again, an essential difference
emerges between the two stories. The detective's capacity for thought is unlike anyone's but the
criminal himself. This is precisely why no one else can solve the case; the police, for instance, despite
all their “vast parade of measures,” are ineffectual. Within the context of the story, then, only the
detective can identify with the criminal. In this sense, he is outside of general humanity, just as the
criminal is. In The Monk, conversely, the villanous protagonist is a monk. He is expected to be the best
of us; thus, his succumbing to evil implies that everyone else is equally, if not more so, likely to be
damned: if the best of us can fall, what hope do the rest have?

Herein, perhaps, lies the defining difference between the two genres: the early works of mystery
fiction are, essentially, hopeful. “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” for example, begins with this quote
by Sir Thomas Browne: “What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he bid
himself among women, although puzzling questions, are not beyond all conjecture.” That is a
reassuring statement, telling the reader that it is possible to know what seems unknowable. In the case
of “The Murders of the Rue Morgue,” it becomes possible to make sense of what initially seems to be
senseless brutality. Furthermore, it is possible to do so without resorting to explanations involving
forces of pure evil, as the Gothic tends to do. Mystery fiction is about the solution: by solving a case,
the detective brings understanding which restores a sense of security. Gothic works such as The Monk,
on the other hand, focus on the fall of society and individuals from peace and security into a state so
debased, of evil so profound, it can only be explained as supernatural.

Mystery can be read as a continuation of the Gothic. The two genres share similarities in setting
and in characterization; they even ask similar questions: What is evil? Where does violence come
from? How can humanity and society be saved from these forces that threaten them? However, mystery
and Gothic fiction differ in key respects: mystery focuses on the urban and the physical; the
protagonist, while he shares a likeness with the villain, is not himself a villain but is rather salvaged
through the usage of his intellect and imagination; as to the question of evil, mystery fiction explains
crime rationally, thus eliminating the terror. The result is that, while mystery and the Gothic share
certain elements, explore similar questions and contrive similar themes, ultimately mystery is a more
positive genre, demonstrating a subtle yet obstinate strand of optimism that the Gothic generally lacks.


SOURCES

Lewis, Matthew. The Monk, a romance. Project Gutenberg. Web. September 22, 2012.

Poe, Edgar Allen. “The Man of the Crowd.” The Works of Edgar Allen Poe – Volume 1. Project
Gutenberg. Web. October 2, 2012.

---. “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” The Works of Edgar Allen Poe – Volume 5. Project Gutenberg.
Web. October 2, 2012.

Understanding “Evil” Against an Omnipotent God - an argument against Mackie

When Epicurus asked “whence cometh evil?” if God exists (Hospers 310), he was giving voice to a question that has long and continues to perplex humanity. Centuries down the line, Dr. J. L. Mackie has taken up the mantle of thought in his essay “Evil and Omnipotence” in which he argues that, given the fact that evil exists, the theological premises that (a) God is omnipotent and (b) God is wholly good cannot both possibly be true. While he weaves a convincing argument, I find myself disagreeing with Mackie for three major reasons: first, I am troubled by what I would describe as a rather aggressive methodology on his part which evolves into a kind of circular reasoning; second, I believe his argument against the “most important proposed solution” (208) – that of human agency being evil’s true culprit – is fundamentally flawed; and third, should we choose to accept Mackie’s aforementioned crucial rebuttal against the argument of free will as not flawed, we can then easily argue that the three apparently contradictory statements (God is wholly good; God is wholly powerful; evil exists) are not in fact discordant at all. 

The first issue I take with Mackie’s argument is this: while it comes off as an iron-clad argument, the reality is that it is somewhat circular. I think most theologians and everyday religious folk alike (myself included) would agree with Mackie that the problem of evil cannot be solved without making some adjustments to the three main propositions. Off the top of my head, in fact, I can think of a number of religions into which are built rather different propositions: for example, polytheistic religions, in which gods, not unlike humans, often have vices and virtues, or ditheistic religions which propose two equally powerful opposing forces. These formal institutions besides, many have tried to individually better define the theistic position by modifying the notions of omnipotence and omnibenevolence. While Mackie briefly acknowledges these “adequate solutions” (201), he goes on to treat their proponents with suspicions of inconsistency. He, moreover, unreasonably dismisses these adequate solutions for the entirety of the rest of the paper, grappling instead with the central propositions that he himself defines as “the essential core of the theistic position” (212). The problem here is that, as aforementioned, many thinkers today have maintained a theistic position precisely by altering this so-called “essential core.” Mackie sets up a clearly contradictory set of statements, defines it as the “essential core” of theism, then goes on to shut down all adequate opposing views as either inconsistent or denying this “essential core.” I, for one, found myself frustrated by this circularity.

            But let us set aside our adequate solutions for now and look at Mackie’s arguments proper – specifically (the one to which I most object) his rebuttal against what he calls the “most important proposed solution” to the problem of evil: that “evil is due to human free will” (208). Against this defense, Mackie claims the following:

There was open to [God] the…possibility of making beings who would act freely but always go right. Clearly, his failure to avail himself of this possibility is inconsistent with his being both omnipotent and wholly good. (209)

I think many of us intuitively sense this to be an invalid statement – rightly, for Mackie creates a logical paradox: it is not logically possible for us to have free will and yet, by predetermination, always and forever choose the morally good choice – there must still exist the possibility of choosing the wrong choice. As an analogy, we cannot logically praise a machine of doing the moral good of, say, purifying a body of water if it was programmed to do as such: the machine does not freely choose, and neither would humans, if God pre-determined that we should always do the right thing. A world in which humans’ actions are both pre-determined yet also determined by free will would thus not be a possible world. For God to create such a world, he must be able to do the logically impossible – and here, I believe, is where Mackie makes his greatest mistake: he focuses his essay on those who believe that God, being omnipotent, must be able to accomplish and create the logically impossible. 

Earlier in the paper, Mackie touches briefly on the idea of logical impossibility and admits that the “interpretation of omnipotence [that it cannot accomplish the logically impossible] may…be accepted as a modification of our original account which does not reject anything that is essential to theism” (203). Even adding that this is the “most common theistic view” (203, emphasis mine), however, he quickly moves back to arguing against his own definition of the “essential core of the theistic position” which includes an omnipotent God that can accomplish the logically impossible. In fact, it is on this notion of omnipotence that his entire final solution rests, for without this definition, it would, as I’ve explained above, be impossible for God to create a world where humans have free will yet cannot but choose the morally good (thus countering his final rebuttal). 

           As Mackie, however, essentially denies the notion that an omnipotent being is bound by logic, let me allow that an omnipotent God could create the (apparently logically impossible) world in which human beings are free to act and cannot ever choose a morally wrong choice. In such a universe, in which God supersedes our understanding of logic and sense – indeed, a universe in which “logic is the way in which God arbitrarily chooses to think” (203) – I would argue that God can indeed be both omnipotent and wholly good yet still allow “evil.” The apparent contradiction that we encounter in dealing with the problem of evil does not mean that God does not exist; it means that we have failed to understand what good and evil are – they are beyond our logic, just as God’s omnipotent abilities can accomplish the logically impossible. Thus, God is omnipotent and God is wholly good. And evil exists – or does it? It is, finally, beyond our ability to even guess.

SOURCES

Hospers, John. An Introduction to Philosophical Analysis. 3^rd ed. Routledge, 1990. 310. Print.

Mackie, J. L. “Evil and Omnipotence.” Mind 64.254 (1955): 200-12. Oxford University Press.      Web. 17 Jan. 2016.