the monk by matthew gregory lewis (1796)

This has been on my TBR forever. And by forever, I mean “since 2009, when I bought a copy for 50p at a car boot sale,” so it’s about time that I read it. However, doing so is not recommended unless a) you’re trying to get through everything on that 1001 Books to Read Before You Die list or b) you’re really, really into gothic literature. Why, you ask? Because it’s torturous.

The Monk is the story of Ambrosio, a friar in medieval Spain; he’s rumoured to be incredibly pious and pure, and is a renowned preacher. A novice at Ambrosio’s monastery, Rosario, admires him to the point of obsessive creepiness. Turns out that Rosario is a not a dude, but a girl called Matilda. Her rack is troublesome to the friar, who in turn admires the beauty of a statue of the Virgin Mary (modelled on “Rosario,” no less). Needless to say, Ambrosio indulges in his urges and, consequently, shit goes down the drain. He becomes cruel and depraved. There’s a side plot involving a bleeding ghost nun, a real live nun and her plight (also related to indulging in sexy times), and said nun’s brother and lover. Ambrosio’s cruelty increases to the point at which he does nasty things in a nasty place with a pure gothic heroine, Antonia, who is too saintly and annoying to root for. Oh, and there’s incest. And Lucifer. Then it’s time for the Spanish Inquisition and a “this was a tale of an individual with questionable morals, but here’s some morally acceptable punishment” ending.

NO ONE EXPECTS THE SPANISH INQUISITION!

The Monk is a chore, and I’m used to “old” language and sentences that go on for half a page. Heck, I wrote a twenty-something page paper on Vathek whilst at uni and survived. By the time the Ambrosio/Matilda plotline develops, Lewis goes off on a two-hundred-page-long side plot in the middle when I wanted to get back to Ambrosio being evil and the inevitable eighteenth-century soap opera of incest, rape, murder, being buried alive, and demons that was developing but was put off until God-knew-when. Thirty or so pages into the lumped-in side plot, I reached the point at which I just couldn’t give a flying rat’s arse any longer. For all the intrigue, punishment, and general terrible things that happen, it’s still tedious—so tedious that even a main character being dropped onto sharp rocks couldn’t delight me after so plodding an experience. And Antonia is about as interesting as a dead squirrel.

However, it’s not all bad; The Monk remains one of the only books to ever give me an adverse physical reaction to its contents. I am awfully claustrophobic, and even reading about being entombed alive – with a dead baby, no less – was enough to make me shudder. (The other book that affected me, by the way, was 120 Days of Sodom, and my reaction to that was puking.) Props to you, Matthew Gregory Lewis. I also credit my lack of enjoyment of the book – at least some of it – with not being in the mood to read it when I did. However, it's rare for me to be in the mood for gothic literature, and there's not much helping that.

If you’re into gothic literature – like I’m most decidedly not – give The Monk a go, if you’ve not done so already. Also, I assume this is what modern paranormal books are like… you know, those things with obviously digital art covers of pretty girls in gothic dresses that have their own sections in bookstores. I’ve never read one and never will, but if that’s your thing (why are you on this blog if it is?!), The Monk might enchant you if you have a long attention span and a lot of patience.