Best books on Queer Gothics: where to start with the subgenre

The novel Wilde published and the novel he originally wrote are different texts. The editor had already expurgated the 1890 magazine version; Wilde revised it further for the 1891 book publication, removing passages that made the homoerotic content even more explicit. What remains is still one of the most concentrated Gothic treatments of the hidden life in English literature.

Dorian Gray is a young man of exceptional beauty who makes a wish, or has one made for him, that the portrait should age instead of him. What follows is a study of the cost of maintaining a surface. The portrait records what Dorian’s face doesn’t show: moral deterioration, hidden acts, a life conducted in the shadows of respectable Victorian society. The Gothic structure is exact. The concealed image is the concealed self. The portrait’s horror is what happens when the hidden thing is seen.

Basil Hallward’s attachment to Dorian becomes more explicit in Wilde’s earlier text, where the emotional and erotic intensity is harder to overlook. The novel is, among other things, about what society does to men who love other men.

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Published twenty-five years before Dracula, Carmilla established the female vampire as a Gothic figure and, in doing so, produced one of the earliest sustained treatments of lesbian desire in English fiction. The novella’s narrator, Laura, is visited by Carmilla, a mysterious young woman who arrives at her father’s remote Styrian castle after a carriage accident. Carmilla is beautiful, languid, intermittently feverish in her affections, and draining Laura’s life.

Le Fanu is not writing a celebration of lesbian desire. The vampire is still the monster, and Carmilla is destroyed at the end. What’s remarkable about the novella is the texture of the relationship between Laura and Carmilla. The desire is clearly rendered on both sides. Laura’s account of her feelings for Carmilla is more emotionally alive than anything else in the narrative. The horror and the longing are genuinely inseparable, which is what makes the text endure beyond its period.

Carmilla is the origin point for a long tradition of Gothic fiction in which same-sex desire is encoded as predation, contagion, or monstrosity; a tradition that Queer Gothic writers have spent the last century revising and reclaiming.

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David, an American in Paris, is engaged to Hella. He falls in love with Giovanni, an Italian bartender. Hella returns from a trip to Spain. David chooses. The novel opens with Giovanni waiting to be executed and David reconstructing, in a single night, how they arrived here.

Baldwin didn’t want to write this novel. His publisher wanted another Go Tell It on the Mountain. Giovanni’s Room has no Black characters; Baldwin said later that he needed to remove race from the equation to write directly about desire and shame.

David’s narration is structured as a confession: one long night of accounting for everything he destroyed. I find that structure more Gothic than any of the atmospheric markers the novel lacks. He’s not in a haunted house; he’s inside his own failure to become someone capable of love.

The room of the title is Giovanni’s literal room in Paris, small, disordered, intimate, and the psychological room David cannot inhabit. The Gothic’s concern with enclosed space becomes here a study of the self’s enclosure.

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Louis de Pointe du Lac was a Louisiana plantation owner in 1791. He’s now two hundred years old and giving an interview in San Francisco, narrating his life to a journalist who keeps asking the wrong questions. The life he narrates centers on Lestat, who made him a vampire, and Claudia, the child they made together; a family structure that cannot name itself in a world that has no language for what they are.

Rice wrote the novel after her daughter, Michele, died of leukemia at five. The grief’s on every page.

Louis and Lestat aren’t described as lovers. They’re described as everything else: the one who made you, the one you can’t leave, the central fact of your existence that the world has no name for. I read the novel for the first time in my twenties and didn’t have the language for why it felt so specific. The vampire’s condition does the work the characters can’t do directly.

The vampire’s condition, unable to exist in daylight, dependent on concealment, marked as predatory by the nature of survival, maps the closet with uncomfortable accuracy, which is presumably why the novel found the audience it did in 1976.

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Sue Trinder is a thief from a Borough rookery. She is recruited to help con a young heiress named Maud Lilly: Sue will enter Maud’s household as a maid, help a fraudster named Gentleman marry Maud for her fortune, then have Maud committed to an asylum, and split the inheritance. The novel’s first third establishes this plan with perfect confidence. Then it ends, and the second third begins, and everything Sue knew is wrong.

Waters is working directly in the Victorian sensation fiction tradition. Wilkie Collins is the explicit reference, and the Gothic elements are structural rather than atmospheric. The secret at the center of the novel is about identity, desire, and what the women in this story have been told they are. The asylum isn’t metaphorical. The confinement is real. The revelation changes every scene that preceded it.

The novel is plotted with exceptional precision. Rereading it from the other side of the revelation is a different novel.

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1950s Mexico. Noemi Taboada, a glamorous socialite with serious scientific interests, travels to High Place, the decaying estate of an English mining family in the mountains, to check on her recently married cousin Catalina, who has sent an alarming letter. High Place is exactly what it sounds like: isolated, deteriorating, governed by an elderly patriarch, full of secrets that the family manages through silence and the sheer weight of accumulated time.

Moreno-Garcia is working within the Female Gothic tradition: the heroine in an enclosed space, the suspicious husband, the woman whose grip on reality is systematically undermined. She is also doing something with race, colonialism, and the specific history of English capital in Mexico that productively extends the Gothic’s concerns. Noemi’s queerness is present in the text without being its central subject, which is a different and equally valid way of doing Queer Gothic work.

The horror is biological and eugenic, which is historically grounded: the English mining aristocracy’s obsession with bloodline purity was real, and Moreno-Garcia uses it to make the Gothic’s concerns with inheritance and contamination literal.

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In 1902, two girls at a New England school for girls read a book by Mary MacLane, declared themselves her heroines, and then died in a yellow jacket swarm. Today, a filmmaker is making a movie about the school’s cursed history, casting a young actress whose resemblance to one of the dead girls is unsettling. The novel moves between the two timelines, illustrated with Victorian engravings, accumulating a very long Gothic structure around female desire, institutions, and the particular dread of women who want the wrong things.

Danforth’s first novel, The Miseducation of Cameron Post, was a queer coming-of-age story set in a conversion therapy program. Plain Bad Heroines is its Gothic counterpart: a book about what happens to girls who want, told in a form that encodes want as catastrophe. The school is the institution, the book is the forbidden object, and the girls’ love for each other is the thing the Gothic structure surrounds with dread.

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