I'm Scared, Hold Me!

Dracula is important, I owe quite a lot to Dracula. I’d always been interested in reading, but my tastes were loose, without a real focus, there wasn’t anything I was particularly passionate about. Then I read Dracula, at, an admittedly impressionable age. I was awe struck, I’d always been sensitive to horror, easily disgusted, easily frightened, like I said, impressionable. Certain scenes from the novel have invaded the public imagination. Who can forget Harker’s first encounter with the Count, or the scene of Lucy’s final grisly end as Arthur, her husband, is tasked with driving a stake through her livid undead flesh. There are a great number of scenes I can recall vividly, the novel, to me, is a long fever dream, a series of nightmarish scenes that return to me every so often. It’s the very same in popular culture. Through a series of influential films, the tale has invaded common thought.
Very recently I’d reread it. The first time in two years, but, something was amiss, something was... not quite right.
Only a manner of weeks ago I’d reread Le Fanu’s Gothic classic Carmilla, though some of the closing scenes are haphazardly handled (particularly the hunt) it’s still a fine read, one I could unremittingly recommend to any person with even a passing interest in the genre. I’d returned to Dracula with great anticipation. The novel has made me who I am, really, it founded my love of genre fiction, it was an integral part of me.
A strange thing happened, I didn’t really like it. I suffered an existential crisis of sorts, a Dracula based existential crises, that’s got to be a first, right?

Pictured: Sorrow

Dracula films, as good as some are, are usually somewhat hooky, off, there’s always a level of cheese, a waft, if you will. The novel had always been separate, to me, it was classy, refined, powerful, mysterious. There was a mystique, I approached it as something both well read, well versed and yet at the same time forgotten, abandoned, unlike the films. As I said, I approached it as a separate entity. Stoker was a hero to me, there was something eminently familiar and foreign in him. He was a fellow countryman, I felt I could relate to him. He was an old master of the craft. I’m afraid to say, that, as of now my view has almost totally changed.

The plot, what little of it there is, it’s well, awkward! Events carry on with little rhythm. Don’t even get me started on the transfusion nonsense. Characters are caricatures, Men are men and women are women and to Stoker this is and always was the case and so help the future of the species it must always remain so. Stoker, it pains me to say, was no artist. The novel carries with it an awkward question of the position of the sexes. Mina scoffs at the idea of the “New Woman”. The women, oh man... It’s quite obvious that the novel was written by a man. The women don’t act naturally, really, they read as the perfect (until corrupted by Dracula) evocation of the Victorian ideal, the male Victorian ideal. I could not remove myself from the novel. At every moment it was quite apparent I was reading a book. I couldn’t quite... sink my teeth into it.

Sorry

It was quite clearly a man writing female characters.
The magic had faded, the book fumbles about, feeling in the dark for plot hooks, occasionally Stoker gets it right. It dawned upon me that the, almost knowing level of cheese that characterise the filmic interpretations of the character, were more close to the source material than I’d previously thought. There are the good, Nosferatu, the Lugosi flick, the hammer picture and the Coppola film. I’d started to question myself, wonder if I’d walked down the wrong path, in a momentary panic I’d wondered if I’d spent my years reading campy nonsense, if I’d poured over comically awkward works for far too many years. Had I tackled actually, tackled this book with a straight face? It seemed impossible to me. I began to wonder if Drac’s cohorts weren’t any better. I thought to myself, could I really trust my own judgement? Soon enough I came to my senses. I still love Frankenstein, Melmoth, Torrance and the gang, I was certain. As I closed the book, I’d thought to myself, would I ever read it again?
I was disgusted, I could feel it in my bones. I’d loved the book, really, it seems silly now but I had loved the book. I’d read it over and over, years ago I’d finish it only to start again. Though my tastes are much more diverse, I can’t get enough of horror (classy horror), I owe it all to Dracula.
Could I still love the book?

Hisssss?

The answer is... yes. I still love it. I don’t resent the time I’ve spent with it. I can’t even say I’ve out grown it, I haven’t. Stoker’s prose, Stoker’s direction... Stoker is an awkward writer. For every triumph he has, he falls somewhere else. He’s flawed, as we all are. But for a writer he has a peculiar number of flaws. The novel’s goody-goody morals do nothing for me, the Christian overtones confuse me (given the almost darwinesque elements) and certain sections of the novel seem to go nowhere. But, there’s still something to it. When Stoker gets it right, there’s a level of intensity, that, for the time was unseen, visceral moments, haunting moments, the tale has etched its way into the minds of millions. The novel is celebrated, and I can’t see that ever changing. Dracula has changed the way we approach horror, among other things. I can still vividly recall Harker’s short stay in Dracula’s castle, those moments are unforgettable, among the best in the novel. I call into question the quality of the characters, and yet, Stoker managed to conjure up Renfield (who is portrayed brilliantly by Tom Waits in the Coppola adaptation), a walking enigma. Let’s not even go into Dracula himself.

Despite all of its flaws, I still love it. It’s an important novel.
Dracula is important.