When I’m reading a book, I generally have quite a clear idea of what I like and don’t like about it. However, I must admit Elizabeth Lowry’s Dark Water flummoxed me. It was a novel I lapped up, a real literary page-turner. Yet, throughout, I had this nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite convincing me. Perhaps, by the end of this review, I’ll manage to sort my thoughts out.

The marketing blurbs describe Dark Water as a Gothic novel, whilst comparing it to “Moby Dick” or “Heart of Darkness”. That is, I think, a good place to start. I must say that I was also reminded of the “sea stories” of [a:William Hope Hodgson|51422|William Hope Hodgson|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1246727581p2/51422.jpg]. Admittedly, no phantom pirates haunt these pages but there are other terrors aplenty...ooh, yes, there are! And there’s the same sense of claustrophobia which, ironically, can clutch travellers on the open sea and which both Hodgson and Lowry portray so effectively. Lovers of opera will also catch more than a briny whiff of Britten’s marine masterpieces “Billy Budd” or “Peter Grimes”: the latter, especially, in the final part of the novel.

Dark Water, however, also references what I would call the “asylum Gothic”, made popular in Victorian ‘sensation fiction’ and reprised in contemporary novels (Alison Littlewood’s recent [b:The Crow Garden|35550571|The Crow Garden|Alison Littlewood|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1503503465l/35550571._SY75_.jpg|56973925] comes to mind).

The link between these two Gothic environments lies in the main characters. In the first half of the 19th Century, as a newly-qualified physician, narrator Hiram Carver joins the crew of the USS Orbis for a journey from Boston south towards Cape Horn. Aboard ship he befriends William Borden. Though barely older than Hiram, Borden already has a reputation in the seafaring world as the “Hero of the Providence”. Years before, aboard the said ship, Borden negotiated with a group of mutineers for the life of the Captain and a group of sailors, and then led them to safety across the Pacific aboard a fragile dinghy. He’s a living legend, no less. Yet, something seems to trouble the man, and a violent episode on the Orbis threatens to bring his career to a premature end.

Back on the terra firma, Hiram puts his marine adventure behind him and takes up a position at Boston’s Asylum for the Insane. And so, he tells us,

I began to exist on intimate terms with all that is pitiful, misshapen, and unresolved in the human heart

At the asylum, he meets Borden again, this time as a patient. For the sake of their previous friendship, Carver is determined to cure Borden, using a new technique which he has developed, at odds with traditional, less humane, approaches. Carver, in fact, believes that psychological illnesses can be addressed by confronting head-on submerged memories - unwelcome recollections which we tend to bury in our mental “dark water” or, in other words, the “subconscious”. But memory and truth are uncomfortable bedfellows and perhaps, raking up the past is not always a great idea.

Lowry exploits the Gothic possibilities of the plot and, for good measure, provides the reader with some impressive set-pieces which further emphasize the novel’s association with the genre. There is a particularly striking episode in which Carver visits a maimed cousin who lives in a dark mansion,

...so exactly like a house of nightmare: a crooked mausoleum hidden away in a waste land of struggling trees, marooned on scant acres of blasted grass.

The meeting takes place in a room with drawn curtains, where the host quaffs absinthe in a bid for oblivion. There are other memorable scenes set against the wintry backdrop of the bleak Nantucket coastline.

In other words, this is all so very much up my alley. So why my reservations? I guess part of my problem lies with the character of the narrator. He first struck me as an interesting and complex figure, especially in his relationships with the rest of the crew and –on land – with his overbearing father and doting sister. However, as the novel proceeds, so many contradictions surface that, for me at least, he did not remain particularly convincing. He is often weak but, when required, breathtakingly ruthless. He can be patient with his patients, yet brusque and callous with the people closest to him. He is sometimes indolent, sometimes overbearingly ambitious. He can be perceptive and sharp, yet incredibly naive. He’s conflicted about his sexuality. As a psychological study, he’s just too good to be true.

And then there’s Borden. He’s described as a sort of demigod, a supernatural figure. Now I do appreciate that we’re perceiving borden from Carver’s perspective, but the “elevated” language in which he’s consistently presented becomes rather over the top.

This brings me precisely to the distinctive aspect of Dark Water which, I suspect, will also be its most divisive one. Throughout the book, there are several extended metaphors which invite a symbolic or mythical interpretation of the novel. There are, of course, the pervasive ‘marine’ metaphors, not least the evocative image of the “dark water” of our minds. But there are also recurring references to “food”, “hunger”, “thinness” and “leanness”. Hiram’s superior at the asylum nicknames him Cassius because, like the eponymous character in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, he has a “lean and hungry look”. Hunger, or the lack of it, is often indicative of a character’s state of mind.

From there it’s but a brief step to imagery of a religious, theological, dare I say ‘sacramental’ nature. Suffice it to mention, without revealing too much, that certain key episodes in the plot are imbued with ritualistic significance, although it’s not clear whether Lowry’s intention is merely to harness the power of religious associations or to present us with a grotesque parody of holy ceremonies. For me, “Dark Water” worked brilliantly enough as a dark historical novel with psychological undercurrents. This ‘mythical’ element was hardly necessary. But I’m just as sure that others will find that it is precisely this added layer of meaning which gives this novel the edge over other neo-Victorian novels. Anyone with even a passing interest in the Gothic should read this.

***

I have also posted this review at https://endsoftheword.blogspot.com/2018/08/we-sail-gothic-seas-elizabeth-lowrys.... where it's accompanied by some sea-inspired music. ( )

When I’m reading a book, I generally have quite a clear idea of what I like and don’t like about it. However, I must admit Elizabeth Lowry’s Dark Water flummoxed me. It was a novel I lapped up, a real literary page-turner. Yet, throughout, I had this nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite convincing me. Perhaps, by the end of this review, I’ll manage to sort my thoughts out.

The marketing blurbs describe Dark Water as a Gothic novel, whilst comparing it to “Moby Dick” or “Heart of Darkness”. That is, I think, a good place to start. I must say that I was also reminded of the “sea stories” of [a:William Hope Hodgson|51422|William Hope Hodgson|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1246727581p2/51422.jpg]. Admittedly, no phantom pirates haunt these pages but there are other terrors aplenty...ooh, yes, there are! And there’s the same sense of claustrophobia which, ironically, can clutch travellers on the open sea and which both Hodgson and Lowry portray so effectively. Lovers of opera will also catch more than a briny whiff of Britten’s marine masterpieces “Billy Budd” or “Peter Grimes”: the latter, especially, in the final part of the novel.

Dark Water, however, also references what I would call the “asylum Gothic”, made popular in Victorian ‘sensation fiction’ and reprised in contemporary novels (Alison Littlewood’s recent [b:The Crow Garden|35550571|The Crow Garden|Alison Littlewood|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1503503465l/35550571._SY75_.jpg|56973925] comes to mind).

The link between these two Gothic environments lies in the main characters. In the first half of the 19th Century, as a newly-qualified physician, narrator Hiram Carver joins the crew of the USS Orbis for a journey from Boston south towards Cape Horn. Aboard ship he befriends William Borden. Though barely older than Hiram, Borden already has a reputation in the seafaring world as the “Hero of the Providence”. Years before, aboard the said ship, Borden negotiated with a group of mutineers for the life of the Captain and a group of sailors, and then led them to safety across the Pacific aboard a fragile dinghy. He’s a living legend, no less. Yet, something seems to trouble the man, and a violent episode on the Orbis threatens to bring his career to a premature end.

Back on the terra firma, Hiram puts his marine adventure behind him and takes up a position at Boston’s Asylum for the Insane. And so, he tells us,

I began to exist on intimate terms with all that is pitiful, misshapen, and unresolved in the human heart

At the asylum, he meets Borden again, this time as a patient. For the sake of their previous friendship, Carver is determined to cure Borden, using a new technique which he has developed, at odds with traditional, less humane, approaches. Carver, in fact, believes that psychological illnesses can be addressed by confronting head-on submerged memories - unwelcome recollections which we tend to bury in our mental “dark water” or, in other words, the “subconscious”. But memory and truth are uncomfortable bedfellows and perhaps, raking up the past is not always a great idea.

Lowry exploits the Gothic possibilities of the plot and, for good measure, provides the reader with some impressive set-pieces which further emphasize the novel’s association with the genre. There is a particularly striking episode in which Carver visits a maimed cousin who lives in a dark mansion,

...so exactly like a house of nightmare: a crooked mausoleum hidden away in a waste land of struggling trees, marooned on scant acres of blasted grass.

The meeting takes place in a room with drawn curtains, where the host quaffs absinthe in a bid for oblivion. There are other memorable scenes set against the wintry backdrop of the bleak Nantucket coastline.

In other words, this is all so very much up my alley. So why my reservations? I guess part of my problem lies with the character of the narrator. He first struck me as an interesting and complex figure, especially in his relationships with the rest of the crew and –on land – with his overbearing father and doting sister. However, as the novel proceeds, so many contradictions surface that, for me at least, he did not remain particularly convincing. He is often weak but, when required, breathtakingly ruthless. He can be patient with his patients, yet brusque and callous with the people closest to him. He is sometimes indolent, sometimes overbearingly ambitious. He can be perceptive and sharp, yet incredibly naive. He’s conflicted about his sexuality. As a psychological study, he’s just too good to be true.

And then there’s Borden. He’s described as a sort of demigod, a supernatural figure. Now I do appreciate that we’re perceiving borden from Carver’s perspective, but the “elevated” language in which he’s consistently presented becomes rather over the top.

This brings me precisely to the distinctive aspect of Dark Water which, I suspect, will also be its most divisive one. Throughout the book, there are several extended metaphors which invite a symbolic or mythical interpretation of the novel. There are, of course, the pervasive ‘marine’ metaphors, not least the evocative image of the “dark water” of our minds. But there are also recurring references to “food”, “hunger”, “thinness” and “leanness”. Hiram’s superior at the asylum nicknames him Cassius because, like the eponymous character in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, he has a “lean and hungry look”. Hunger, or the lack of it, is often indicative of a character’s state of mind.

From there it’s but a brief step to imagery of a religious, theological, dare I say ‘sacramental’ nature. Suffice it to mention, without revealing too much, that certain key episodes in the plot are imbued with ritualistic significance, although it’s not clear whether Lowry’s intention is merely to harness the power of religious associations or to present us with a grotesque parody of holy ceremonies. For me, “Dark Water” worked brilliantly enough as a dark historical novel with psychological undercurrents. This ‘mythical’ element was hardly necessary. But I’m just as sure that others will find that it is precisely this added layer of meaning which gives this novel the edge over other neo-Victorian novels. Anyone with even a passing interest in the Gothic should read this.

***

I have also posted this review at https://endsoftheword.blogspot.com/2018/08/we-sail-gothic-seas-elizabeth-lowrys.... where it's accompanied by some sea-inspired music. ( )

Exhausting! ( )