You are invited to join the White Lily Society in the flesh, for one night only…

The White Lily Society presents... “the Gothic Heroine’s Journey: a Descent into Rebirth”.

Come and join a descent through bliss and betrayal, awakening and reckoning, and finally, rebirth… marching through all forms of song, spoken word, dance, performance, and even psychoanalysis. The evening will adapt the classic hero’s journey into a three act tapestry honouring the endurance, friendship, and agency we, as gothic maidens ourselves, have found while discovering what it means to be a girl today... when Hades is no longer a place but a twisting ribbon deep in our guts~

Where do we source our most potent endurance? What does agency look like; do we cast ourselves as Persephone the maiden, or Persephone the queen? How do we weave our own tapestry of identity through this life of constant death and rebirth?

~ Tickets ~

All of these questions (and so many more) will be explored in the heart of haunted Stoke Newington, within gothic church walls, and with a truly magnificent gathering of doomed maidens…

Confirmed Performer Line-Up ˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆｡☆

• Sabrina Angelina1… as the guide [POETRY]

• Emily Izen Row2… as the blissful maiden [SONG]

• Nette Taylor3… as the awakening maiden [DANCE]

• Malina Rusu4… as the psychoanalyst [PSYCHOANALYSIS]

• Anna de Waal5… as the reckoning maiden [POETRY]

• Stephanie Ritzema6… as the witness [SONG]

• Charlie Jimenez7… as the rebirth maiden [PERFORMANCE]

• and Savannah Willits8… as co-curator

See you there, my dear…

~ Tickets ~

The White Lily Society... is a space for everything about the Intersection of Love and Violence(tm), Romanticism, Gothicism, the esoteric, and the strange. A space for courtesans and vampires to mingle, hosted by Lady Sabrina Angelina (@sleepwalkingbeauty), and co-curated by Savannah Willits for one night only.

With love (and violence),

x Sabrina Angelina, the White Lily Society 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

White Lily Society links // Sabrina Angelina links

Come on, you know you want to see inside the eye of the storm…

~ Tickets ~

“April is the cruellest month, breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing / Memory and desire, stirring / Dull roots with spring rain”

• by T.S. Eliot, from “the Waste Land” (1922)

Good news! The White Lily Society Archive has been officially resurrected from the dead, thanks to the lovely and beyond patient Sarah (@ slitchell on Instagram) and her tiresome work. The archive is the Society’s very own curated collection of academic reading and resources, organised by topic. You can browse all the previous archive sources there, as well as many more yet unmentioned. Happy reading, my dear ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

01/04/2026, London, UK

My dear,

It’s been ages since my last letter! Too busy and too practical of a life makes for boring letters, a chronic lack of dramatics. January, February, even March, I spent settling into a new skin, a new home; I’ve written about the adjustment extensively. To say wholeheartedly that my world has returned to spinning would be a lie. Rather, I am still in that odd limbo, I still walk into phantom furniture or boxes half unpacked. Forgive me, I would sew my life back together, had I not misplaced my needles in a haystack of stress. And God only knows when the thread will see it fit to reappear from its seamstress sabbatical.

Well, writers are fickle creatures, it takes only the smallest gust of wind to make them fear the worst. The ink drying up inside of their porcelain heads— I am no exception! And disaster, unlike lightning, did strike twice! Yours truly found full-time (for now) empl0yment at a hotel… consequently my dreams are filled with room numbers, fairytales of many keys, the crowding algebra of the people-pleaser. Amenities (complimentary or not), bed sizes, infinite requests. At night, my afflicted self imagines check-ins and check-outs, on endless revolving loop. I dream of allocating guests to the storage room, where they are forced to sleep on stacks of mattresses, sans pea. And I do not blink when, within those same dreams, my name on the rota morphs into [the] “Bride of Frankenstein”. I have always felt married to monstrosity in one way or another. A natural result of the company I keep, I would imagine.

Yes, I am always reporting back on my dreams in one way or another, for they are so enmeshed with me. This society- and by extension, you- are like a sixth finger to me, or a third eye, and so I must pass you my dreams in “little” crumpled notes every months, thousands of words long. Especially when they come true, my dear. But my absence has been coloured with seduction; I met my personal idol Dita Von Teese, attended revels, and wore stilettos to the point of permanently damaging my left foot (true story). The left side of the body is the side of emotional, intuitive side, but I digress. Now, with my personal copy of “the Art of Seduction” (2001, front lettering worn off over the ages) signed by the queen of burlesque herself, I feel properly empowered to bestow my erratic musings on you and unspool a letter woven over the course of years. Not months, not days. Together with a kiss, a peek of a silk stocking (cuban heeled, seamed with keyhole welt, of course), and a few champagne truffles, my dear.

Now, give me a kiss! It’s been far too long for a girl locked in her tower…

I. Archive Sources

[Aw shucks! I could have sworn I placed the archive sources for this month in one of these moving boxes I’ve yet to unpack… Let’s mark this one as “in transit” for now… No doubt it will show up when I finally find the time open these treasures of mine…]

II. Notes on Seduction

“Once you enter these pages […] let yourself be lured by the stories and ideas, your mind open and your thoughts fluid. Slowly you will find yourself absorbing the poison through the skin and you will begin to see everything as a seduction, including the way you think and how you look at the world.”

• by Robert Greene, from “the Art of Seduction” (2001), p.xxv

Seduction has been a topic long-coming, my dear. It has been an inevitable force, inbound for the immovable object that is the Society. Rather, in many ways, the White Lily Society is a product of it, a seductive force in its own right. A home away from home, a realm of pure fantasy, and a daydream potent with hope. In this light, fantasy is always speculative to me. Aspirational. Often, we set courses for ourselves without knowing it, and we end up walking the path we both needed and wanted. This is what it means to be seduced; that fickle, strange influence of something existing both congruous with- and outside of ourselves. Forgive me for dropping you into its maws without warning, let me retread some of my footsteps.

I am thinking about seduction because (1) it is an inevitable force in life, and (2) because it has been a topic of ardent relevance to me in the past few months. I suppose it is also a slight personal obsession of mine; I am always hungry for tales of those led astray. Though truthfully, when thinking of seduction, I am always much more uninvolved with the iconography than its philosophy; us mortals are visual creatures, my dear. Take it from somebody who quite literally has a masters degree in aesthetics1… Though I don’t mean to dominate. Fantasy is like catnip or absinthe or glass filled with smoke. Intoxicating, perplexing, hard to grasp. The symbols of it are much more easily laid out than its philosophies. But I will still bravely attempt a dissection today.

II.I Coquettes and Charismatics

“The siren call of seduction is irresistible because power is irresistible, and nothing will bring you more power in the modern world than the ability to seduce. Repressing the desire to seduce is a kind of hysterical reaction, revealing your deep-down fascination with the process; you are only making your desires stronger. Some day they will come to the surface.”

• by Robert Greene, from “the Art of Seduction” (2001), p.xxi-xxii

If one asks me what I mean with the term “seduction”, a sum of branching synonyms come to mind, like flowers blooming simultaneously. Variety is what makes the bouquet interesting. Seduction is fantasy, imagination, hope, allure, desire, intent. It is an odd blend of conscious and subconscious; the shadow self. It is glamour and sensuality. It is a lifestyle, a transformative practice. But it does not have to be so in a romantic context per se. Self-seduction has never been divorced from “regular” seduction in my mind— this is important to note for what’s to come.

Historically, the art of seduction is fraught with duality, as will be a common theme throughout this letter’s many musings. Eroticism is contradictory, after all. There are great differences, both in symbols and in attitude, between the male seducers à la Don Juan, and the femme fatale like the great courtesans of yore. Read any history of seduction, and you’ll notice quite quickly that there is a distinct personality split in its still-ongoing narrative. When it comes to the visuals, the lures and temptations, the semiotics of seduction, the language is distinctly feminine. However, when it comes to the more unsavoury parts, the misdirections and quick-changes, the magician’s sleight of hand, [romantic] seduction falls distinctly under the custody of men— when seduction laws still existed in the US, for example, they were largely in place to protect women, and did not seem to exist at all for inverted scenarios (see “Strange Antics: a History of Seduction” by Clement Knox, 2020). I should not need to point out the patriarchal ideas latent in this divorce; when feminine “virtue” is a resource to be hoarded and conquered, the onus is on women to be the jailers of their own desire, and on men to pick the locks in whichever way they can.

This is not a defense nor a critique of either side, my dear. What interests me more than the blame-game is the associations of seduction. The layers of its temptations. Arguably, the allure of seduction is two-fold; the fear of the attacker and the fear of the victim share a subtext. Those who can’t be seduced, seduce. After all, everyone already has the language and the tools equipped within them, but coded in reverse. A simple enough premise, and yet there is something of the divine in the seducer, something of the magician-priest in their incense smoke-screen of words. Some innate sense that enables their perfect performance, that blurs the lines between instinct and learned behaviour. The hierophant upright, crossed with the magician. The star on the side, eager with anticipation. Draw a final card to see whether you’ll succumb.

II.II Soul-Sworn Serpents of Seduction

“Eroticism is, first of all, the most moving of realities; but it is nonetheless, at the same time, the most ignoble. Even after psychoanalysis, the contradictory aspects of eroticism appear in some way innumerable; their profundity is religious—it is horrible, it is tragic, it is still inadmissible. Probably all the more so since it is divine.”

• by Georges Bataille, from “Eroticism” (1957)

But Greene writes that seduction is not a performance, in the sense that the seducer is never off-stage. Any and all interaction could be a seduction, and the seducer crafts a life, a persona, and a history for this very purpose. They take absolute pleasure in this playful fluidity. Seduction, then, is the art form of both the body and of the soul. Contradictory desires, like I said, my dear. Sensuality, while latent with expectations of physical sensation, is really about philosophy. The philosophy of touch, of what is inside of you, versus what is outside of you, and which individual facets we’d like to switch places in that dichotomy. If seduction is innate, both in terms of what seduces us and what is seductive about us, then any good scholar of it would be remiss in neglecting to mention the soul. That elusive light, the epitome of belief and hope and imagination. A religious concept, yes, but seduction is like religion in that it is a spiritual game of the senses. Therefore it is only natural to branch into it a bit, to let lines blur as they wish to.

In the Western world’s dominant theology, that of Christianity, the soul and the body are largely believed to be unified to an extreme extent: “The unity of soul and body is so profound that one has to consider the soul to be the “form” of the body: i.e., it is because of its spiritual soul that the body made of matter becomes a living, human body; spirit and matter, in man, are not two natures united, but rather their union forms a single nature.”2 Seduction is the defense of (and the attack on) the body and soul, which are one, fused together, enmeshed to such an extent that we cannot begin to understand where, spiritually, one starts and the other ends. Naturally, what threatens one, threatens the other. Seduction is a siege of totality.

The three enemies to the soul (according to Christian theology) are (1) the world, (2) the flesh, and (3) the devil. Seduction has a taste of all of these; it is often a force associated with the lure of adventure, the fantasy of a life outside oneself. It is associated with the flesh and its myriad of temptations. Touch and taste. Skin on skin. Flesh, to be exposed and covered up; the seductive performance of adding and taking away. And the seducer itself has something of the devil in them, that charming figure with hand outstretched. At least the hell he leads you to is fresh and new, my dear. Its horrors are not so mundane as the ones we already know.

But if we place these ideas- seduction and its dependents: fantasy, imagination, temptation, hope, desire- as enemies to the soul, does that mean one is naturally devoid of them? What purpose does seduction hold as invasive force? Is the soul just the seat of the mundane? To say so would be to over-simplify; the devil in abstract is understood not to be a man with horns, but an impulse inside of us. The beginnings of temptation are always latent within soul / spirit / self. Seduction, I would argue, is then a completion of sorts. It is the very peak of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs; self-actualisation is seduction. The grasping of fantasy, no matter how slight. Unification with something we have always perceived to be just out of reach. Fingertips touching, tasting, that which we have only tasted in dreams. This is what it truly means to be seduced.

II.III Change (in the House of Flies)

“Desire, the erotic imagination, the erotic life, all cross through bodies and make them transparent. Or they destroy them. Beyond you, beyond me, through the body, in the body, beyond the body, we want to see something. That something is erotic fascination, that which takes me from myself and brings me to you: that which makes me go beyond you. We do not know precisely what it is, except that it is something more. More than history, more than sex, more than life, more than death.”

• by Octavio Paz

This is where my thesis starts to unfold, like a [white] lily in bloom. Arguably, desire is the breath of life. Angela Carter, in her 1972 novel “the Infernal Desire Machines of Doctor Hoffman”, rewrites Descartes’ famous motto as: “I desire, therefore I exist”. Truly, to live as a conscious being is to desire. Imagination is a human right of its own, a self-perpetuating force. The soul and seduction are chasing each other like a pair of hounds, fervent and foaming in their pursuit. And though seduction has largely been portrayed as the anti-productive pursuit, the hedonistic destruction of the self-obsessed, my argument poses that all the aforementioned dependents of it (and thus seduction itself) are, in fact, driving factors in the renewal of the self. Teethmarks on skin from where the beasts have finally held their gruesome meeting;

“you dangle on the leash / of your own longing; / your need grows teeth.”

• by Margaret Atwood, from “Speeches for Doctor Frankenstein” (1966)

Now we have reached the core, the pit of seduction’s fruit-flesh: seduction as a regenerative force. A balm for the soul, rather than a strategy of war. An arrow of prayer sent out into a cruel world, intention in the softer sense of the word. Simone Weil writes that “Absolutely unmixed attention is a prayer” (from “Gravity and Grace”, 1947), and Florence Welch sings “And prayer is a spell” (from her song “Perfume and Milk”, 2025). At least this spellbinding aspect is a constant force in seduction; the looking at something we cannot avert our gaze from. Hypnotism, intention. A gilded pocket watch dangling mere inches from our many faces.

Taking from Bataille’s view of eroticism and desire as being irreconcilably intertwined with pain, the constant and simultaneous fleeing from and running towards seduction is what prompts us to look outside of ourselves. Bataille argues that eroticism is found in the dissolving of the self, the moment in which we, as discontinuous, fragmented beings, enter a space of continuous wholeness. To be unified with the pantheon of seductive forces, as an erotic process, is the transformative truth of self-possession. The antidote to routine and the mandatory is to absorb more of its opposites. The self grows and the world grows less oppressive with it.

That stagnation is bad for the soul is far from a new notion; still rivers grow rot. So too is stagnation what grows rot in our lives. It is the killer of [life’s] enjoyment. This is true for a lack of transformation, as well. While there is certainly value to be found in stillness at times, it is uniquely satisfying to develop. To see progress being made. Preferably for the better, of course, but all exploration has some merit of its own. Even rock bottom had to be mapped out, and we do so by running our fingertips over the coarse granite. Pressing a kiss to the cold stone surface of it.

But the seducer is never far from the trail, my dear, if my beloved fairytales have taught me well. Sometimes they just need to course-correct: reach for the compass, redraw the maps, rediscover their true north.

One tool in the seducer’s arsenal of mock-cartography is glamour; that distinctly human brand of artifice. The pilgrimage of seduction. Self-appointed glamour evangelist Dita Von Teese has spoken at length about her love for made icons. A fascinating blend of what is innate, and what is not. The duality of inside/outside. In a 2014 interview with Glamour magazine, Von Teese said; “I like painted ladies, you know? That’s one of the reasons I like the ‘30s and ‘40s. Glamour was not about natural beauty; it was about creating drama. So like Marlene Dietrich, Rita Hayworth, Marilyn Monroe, and Betty Grable. When you look at the before pictures and the after pictures of all of those women that I mentioned, you see that how they became really exciting is with all of these tools of glamour. It didn’t happen naturally. I love this whole concept of the old-Hollywood makeover, and I was obsessed with that. I mean, I did it for myself: I’m a natural blonde from a farming town in Michigan; I’m not like this at all. I created it, and anyone can do it for themselves.”

When I speak of seduction, this is what I fixate on most of all: seduction is about finding a mode of expression that fits you— and in this purpose I see no point in distinguishing between the seducing of others and the seducing of the self. After all, the Eastern philosophy of tantra states firmly that what is outside of us is also within us (see also; “Tantra” by André Van Lysebeth, 1992). Christian theology, as we have seen, posits the body and soul as one. Seduction aims to expand this spiritual body of ours into something aspirational, fulfilling. Resonating. Artificial to some extent, but not wholly so. Life is best lived as a character, after all. How far to reach for this alter ego is completely up to you, my dear. Franz Kafka wrote; “I was ashamed of myself when I realized life was a costume party; and I attended with my real face.” Perhaps we have too long erred in calling the intentional artificial; really, all artifice is a craft or a tool.

There is no shame in active participation in the self, rather, you’re much more likely to find absolute power in it. Packing emulation and inspiration, and setting out for the grand adventure of fantasy, imagination, hope. Seduction, to me, has always been a firm grasping of this power. Learning how to handle it, treat it the way it wants to be handled. Alternating rough and tender touch. Seduction slips through the fingers like silk or stream; it curls like little tendrils of fog— literally wraps around one’s finger (take note of the romantic expression of the same verbiage). Seduction is a songbird, and the boundaries of our imagination, our daring, form the cage.

Then, seduction is a human need, precisely because it is a connection to ourselves, a tether of sorts. So much of the strategy of sensuality is intentional, requiring thought. And the end result, the fantasy embodied, even if only partly, serves the first and foremost purpose of strengthening that connection. Reinforcing selfhood and our place within it. Seduction is a positive feedback loop, it is neural pathways in the brain, it is a fountain of youth. In the age of despair, it offers something distantly unreasonable, but all the more potent; the channeling of escapism, injecting it straight into your life.

Though it begs the question; Is it still artifice if you are actively living it? How much of the dream can we inhabit before it became wakefulness? Is there not a substantial amount of power in being one’s own seducer?

If you play your part just right, you’ll find a seductive persona that complements you, that challenges you, that inspires you. This is a turning point in our narrative; while, aesthetically, you can change virtually everything about yourself, the fine-tuning of fantasy does require congruence with your character to some extent. All the best aesthetics are the ones that speak to us, call to us. Some we are predisposed to from a young age, and some we grow into. Briars form barriers, composed of shame, or shyness, or social conditioning, holding us back. Seduction is in the business of returning to the lost self, both past and future— breaking through the walls we have subconsciously put up, for which we have undoubtedly put the blame onto others. Like thorns on roses, seduction has mean teeth. It can (and will) bite.

II.IV Into the Rose Garden

“If you want the moon, do not hide from the night. If you want a rose, do not run from the thorns. If you want love, do not hide from yourself.”

• by Rumi

Julia Cameron’s extremely successful creativity course “the Artist’s Way” (1992) talks about inspiration as a well of images, that has to be refreshed just as much as it can be drained, if not more. Yes, creativity is a trick of the senses, and so is seduction. My favourite chapter in “the Art of Seduction” (2001), is the one on “poeticising” one’s presence. It is no wonder, then, that sensuality often takes centre-stage in seduction. The headliner is the very act of returning to our senses, our symbols. A language seduction is beyond fluent in. All hope starts with a pertinent image which we let crystallise. For me, as your gracious host, full-time courtesan, sleepwalking-beauty, vampire bait, and afflicted melancholic, this fantasy involves a diet of fruit, chocolate covered cherries, and champagne. Fabulous nights of hosted debauchery. Silk stockings and stilettos. Flowers from admirers. Languid mornings with a salacious book and heavy lace robes. The symbols we choose for ourselves hold a deep fascination in the seductive (and sensual) process.

Seduction is the subject of song, of tales far outliving their initial inspirations. The lingerie might come off but it serves its purpose much longer than that; the latent image festers. Once the fire of myth takes hold, it tends to burn the house down. Take the rhymes invented for the scandalous society writer Elinor Glynn (“Who would like to sin with Elinor Glynn / on a tiger skin? / Or would you like to err with her / on some other fur?”) and London highway man Claude du Vall (“Here lies DuVall: Reader, if male thou art, / Look to thy purse; if female, to thy heart. / Much havoc has he made of both; for all / Men he made to stand, and women he made to fall”). Our sinking into the seductive gives great importance to symbols, because myth gives great importance to symbols. All the age old fairytales are known for objects rather than events; the glass slipper, the poison apple, the lonely tower. Semiotics is the native tongue of the seducer.

Historically, the feminine side of seduction is much more symbol-heavy than the masculine side: “Although outwardly dispossessed of her rights in culture, the seductress, Baudrillard believes, creates mystery and elusiveness through the use of symbols and appearances, tricks and artifice, and, in particular, her erotic presence.” (from “Seduction: a Celebration of Sensual Style” by Caroline Cox, 2006). It seems that women are more often concerned with the making of the seductive myth, involving each and every sense. “Pleasure seduction”, you might call it. The painted ladies of Dita Von Teese’s cinematic background, the immortal image we can conjure up at the slightest of our whims. The “Other” Woman, who “enchants her clothes with French perfume / […] keeps fresh-cut flowers in each room.” (from a song by Lana del Rey, 2014).

But She is “Other” only in the sense that is she not an integrated part of the whole. You see, my dear, within each of us there is a shadow self, not just in the psycho-analysis sense of the term, but in the seductive sense. Next to ego, superego, and id, there is the fourth shade, the fantasy self. Unbridled, pure potential. So, contrary to popular belief, seduction is more about a persona that completes us, rather than a person. In traditional seduction narratives like the tales of Don Juan, these are one and the same, they share the same amount of dimension. The temptation is an Other we wish to absorb. Blurring the boundary between inside/outside. The persona exists outside of us and partially within us in the form of potential; spiritual demi-monde. I am reminded of T.S. Eliot’s poem “Burnt Norton”3, which starts:

“Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.

[…] What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
into the rose-garden.”

• by T.S. Eliot, from “Burnt Norton” (1936)

I’d like to think of the end purpose of seduction as the rose garden. To be fully within it, and conscious of it. The antithesis of Plato’s cave. Each step closer to our ideal persona gets us a step closer to the garden. Undoubtedly, this is a form of simulacra, as Baudrillard theorised— the persona has very little to do with reality, rather it is a tool to enhance one’s own. Hyper-reality, the copy of a negative long destroyed. “Ideal”, then, is a tricky word to choose in relation to it; our idealised persona should be rooted in a melange of our natural attitudes, our desires, our predilections. Seduction is a strategy of absorption: its layers are symbolic, spiritual, transformative. The rose garden has thorns, naturally. But so does everything else. The time will pass regardless; there is none of it to lose in dreaming it away. The thorns and the suffering, like in Bataille’s eroticism, are all part of the process. Like the old adage that “beauty is pain”, moulding ourselves will always require at least a bit of delicious pressure.

“[…] there’s a long history of this in Catholicism. The monks used to wear thorns on their temples. And the nuns, they wore them sewn inside their clothing. [You] are part of a great tradition.”

• from the film “Secretary” (2002)

II.V Final Words

“If we ever stopped to look at the present and future in a completely objective way, we would despair. Fortunately we develop the habit of dreaming early on.”

• by Robert Greene, from “the Art of Seduction” (2001), p303

Supposedly there should be a point to all of this weaving, this tying of one ribbon to another, silk on silk. Not to leave you pouting my dear, but the end is always moving further away from us. No thought is ever completed, it is only finished when its creator is. The whole reason it took me so long to put (metaphorical) pen to paper on seduction is only because my thoughts on it are ever unwinding. I’ve referred to seduction as smoke, as spell-craft, as contradiction, precisely because it is such an ephemeral concept. But the touch lingers where the word doesn’t.

Perfection is both the enemy and the lure of seduction. Johannes, the protagonist of Kierkegaard’s “the Seducer’s Diary” (1843), is marked by that chase. Once the victim submits, there is no fun in the game anymore for him. In line with this philosophy, the novel ends right after the climax of his battle of wills with the object of his desire, a girl named Cordelia. We are blindfolded for the final moments and then the story ends. Anticipation and the experience of anticipation is the entire point4; “[I] work at developing the contrast, I tense the bow of love to wound the deeper” (p54) / “One likes to struggle to gain possession of what one loves.” (p63). And there he is again, my beloved Bataille. It seems he is never far away; “The likelihood of suffering is all the greater since suffering alone reveals the total significance of the beloved object” (from “Eroticism”, 1952).

But in living the seductive, the sensual, the erotic, there is a continual living in the “afterglow”. What does one do, seeing the path traversed, now behind them? That is simple enough; they stray, they lay out maps for some new conqueror’s game. Whether conscious or unconscious, the battle is never done, because the soul is never forming solid walls. It is gaseous, amorphous. The lines between soul and body and persona and the world and everything else are blurring and irregular. The seducer is continually dreaming their life. Completion is impossible, and obsolete. Therefore it is undesirable. That is what I will tell myself, sending you this letter, my dear, only to inevitably wake in a fortnight, knowing just the perfect sentence to have inserted in my tirade. A little something to savour, for next time.

III. On Icons and Hypnotism

[This section about my experience meeting Dita Von Teese at her “Nocturnelle” tour is still under construction, to appear here at a later date. Keep your eyes peeled for that. Complaints can be sent to my empl0yer. I’m sure they will appreciate your thoughts as much as I do <3]

“[You] are the dream, the nightmare, and the dream within the nightmare that becomes a dream”

• from my Co-Star horoscope for March 12th, 2026

Forgive me, my dear, I have tired myself out in writing to you this month. I imagine my letter might never reach you unless I put my stamp on it, fold it away, and seal the envelope right now. Within the liminal space of my newfound routine the hours vanish, they pull away from my touch. I am overwhelmed with attention, only to have so little of it to return to others. Boxes yet unpacked, friends not yet written to, books gathering dust. Make no mistake, the thing that gets you is the dust, when you have no time to eradicate it once and for all. Eight and a half hours of the day it has free rein to host its ominous gatherings, to point out exactly what has and hasn’t moved in my absence. Stillness is frightening when it is not experienced!

Early morning, I will think of it, this dwelling place of mine. Sunrise after sunrise, exhibiting signs of madness. Under the cover of darkness, I will kiss and caress the walls of this well I call a home. Banister to banister, our embrace will be structural. Sub-flooring and all. Then on my long walks I will wonder about what it means to live a life with so little time to sing. At least I get my melodies out on paper, where they taste more like freedom than like confinement, and seduction still lives at the top of the stairwell, it cowers in corner cabinets, it beckons like an instrument of sorts. A piano or a harp, gathering dust but still shining dimly. Unfortunately the orchestra halts to a stop eventually and the sound of it dies out slowly, achingly. The music never really lives outside of us as much as it does inside of us.

Until my next letter full of odes from your favourite songbird,

With love (and violence),

x Sabrina Angelina, the White Lily Society 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

Currently reading: “Glamour” by Carol Dyhouse // Most recent read: “the Seducer’s Diary” by Søren Kierkegaard

White Lily Society links // Sabrina Angelina links

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📼 Song of the (past) month: Dearly Missed - Searows

“March is such a fickle month. It is the seam between winter and spring—though seam suggests an even hem, and March is more like a rough line of stitches sewn by an unsteady hand […].”

• by V.E. Schwab, from “the Invisible Life of Addie LaRue” (2020)

01/03/2026, London, UK

My dear,

So much ado about nothing, all of this moving business! Truly, I do not wish to bore you with dull specifics. I made a solemn vow to avoid all boring fare like the plague. But the show I want to put on needs props that are hidden away in boxes, stacked in my study and my parlour. Currently there are no showgirl boas or feather fans to dance with, just the scrape of bare branches against centuries-old glass. A different song altogether. All of the windows in my home are original to the 1830s, that small period of time when the Georgians encased brick walls in metal, before adding a second layer of bricks. Like living in a giant jewellery box, in a way1. And I do intend to decorate accordingly. My home is a treasure trove of collected melancholies, patchouli incense, and carved antiques.

But before I get on with my miscellaneous thoughts and trinkets, I do wish to hear from you first, my dear…

LIMITED TIME SUBMISSION PROMPT: House/Home/Hearth (open until March 31st)

“I would love to go back to the old house / but I never will, I never will, I never will”

• lyrics by the Smiths, from their song “Back to the Old House” (1984)

In honour of my recent relocation, I wish to invite you to displace your mind in a new limited time submission prompt! All change breeds art, after all. You are invited to reflect on the house as a state of being, as a coming undone. Explore belonging, comfort, stability, or the absence of these things. What makes a house haunted? What makes a house a home? What have you stuffed into a closet of doom and despair, never to resurface? Theorise on moving; the cycle of rooting and uprooting. How can one embrace the history of a house, the strangeness of new rooms?

The house must be warmed (“housewarming”) in honour of Hestia. A ritual of reconfiguration. But inhabitance itself is also a ritual; it asks the ghosts of your space to embrace you, the intruder. So unravel the tenderest meeting of all; the one of self and place, and send your thoughts over in a metaphorical moving box. Bubble-wrap and tape them, like the fragile things they are, and address them to yours truly. You can find the full submission guide, as always, neatly folded into a cabinet. Everything in its right place.

With that said and done (written and done?), let’s get to packing… And unpacking… And packing again… ꩜ ꩜ ꩜

Goodbye, Blackberry Hill House…

The human spirit is indomitable, it is said. By definition, “Impossible to subdue or defeat”, invincible, unconquerable. My waning belief in this fact was partly restored by the arduous process of moving, belief it or not. There is something odd, even comforting, in how fast one can get used to changes in rhythm, changes in place. Even for one so rooted as me. I am practically nailed down to the floorboards, my dear. The overgrown briars block the light from the window, where the last prince fell and impaled himself2. At night, I tuck myself in under the carpet. I prefer my spaces that way; intertwined, diffused, blurry around the edges.

Love is in the act of learning and the act of un-learning. But make no mistake, a house without furniture is cold. Not just spiritually, symbolically, but physically. Curtains absorb heat. As I stood, dissolving, on my last night in Blackberry Hill House, I took notice of all the odd new sensations of it. The sound echoing through what had been my home for almost four years. Empty corners. Without frames I saw stains on the walls, touches lingering, grey swipes on off-white paint, sections where the sun has bleached the imprint of things no longer there; a literal lingering, a haunting, an after-image.

I thought of the house in terms of visitors; lingering ghostly presence. The many friends who have slept on my couch, the one friend who bled on it. My own blood, drawn out by salt and cold water. Visitors welcome and un-welcome. Mice, big spiders, an everlasting fear of moths. The house is always under threat of invasion, just like the self. It is ego and id, it performs multiple roles. To defend against those who wish to devour it is an everlasting pursuit. Keeping a house is more than equipping a chatelaine of inhabitance, my dear. It is to guard against ruin, it is to say, “My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; / Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!3”.

Yet nothing of the kingdom remains now. From the water stain scrubbed off the ceiling to the hole filled in the wall— all the ways my two hands have transformed this home, some taken with me and some left behind. For better or for worse. Lingering ghostly presence. Moving is the ego-death, requiring psychoanalysis to unpack. Simultaneously rearranging feelings and furniture. Ritualistically, compulsively laying everything out for the eye to feast on. New appreciations for the old and known alike.

Time blends in the house that was and stretches in the house that will be. And I have my traditions, my dear. Of course I do. I am never far removed from a ritual or two. First of all, the night of moving I must sleep in the kitchen— this is an instinct born of desire, regret, lack. I fear not having used a space to its full potential. And I want to leave my mark on it, scribbling initials under sinks, hidden away in cabinets. Lingering ghostly presence. I will not fill the drill holes. Second strike. The old house is a world I can never return to now the wind has carried me to distant rooms. A new set of chambers to dote on, all my own.

Blackberry Hill House is dead! Long live Thornhill House! ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Until my next letter,

With love (and violence),

x Sabrina Angelina, the White Lily Society 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

Currently reading: “Glamour: Women, History, Feminism” (2010) by Carol Dyhouse // Most recent read: “Strange Antics: a History of Seduction” (2020) by Clement Knox

White Lily Society links // Sabrina Angelina links

This is the end of the special programming, my dear! Fret not, for my next letter will be a return to form, and a long-awaited, much-requested look at seduction… Darling, trust me when I say you’ll want to be around for a taste of it. Come, join us. Become a martyr of deliciousness!

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📼 Song of the (past) month: You Can Have It All - Florence and the Machine

“February is nearly always melancholy.”

• by Anna de Noailles, from “Your Hidden Fleshly Grace” (collected in “A Life of Poems, Poems of a Life”, 1876-1933, tr. by Norman R. Sharpiro)

01/02/2026, London, UK

My dear,

Today’s letter will be an unusually brief one. My apologies for the slower start to the year, I have been busy packing, and unpacking a great many things. I confess, the coming two months will be a bit quiet on my end, pressed up against the film of the worlds as I am. As I write this, I am in-between homes, half ill, living in the not-quite-now and the not-quite-here. My days are a product neither of presence nor of absence. In my hysterical, compulsive cluttering and decluttering I am anticipating the touch of foot to ground, the momentum of movement where there is stillness. For now, at least. A classic impulse: compensation of displacement. Everything is moved an inch to the left. My dream-self sells belongings, thinks of homesickness, drops glasses.

Continually I am pushing and pulling at people, dominating through sheer force of will, enforcing my vision onto the space I will inhabit soon. But I am also trying to converse with it. To listen to its various rebellions of paint chips and leaks and tired sighs. Crouching down by the large gaps in the Georgian sub-flooring as a descent into the house itself. Katabasis. Inhabiting is never just a process of brute force, my dear. At one point one must level with the house. This is the alternate reality of the move, the physical removal from life into the pause, the breath, the gap. Even something as small as opening a window is a wholly new experience, a submissive one that requires the house to lead, and for the inhabitant to pay attention. Everything known is foreign again.

“Sound it out to an empty house / Was it just like you had before?”

• lyrics by Searows, from “House Song” (2023)

If one is sleepwalking through life, the move is like the displacement of the body in sleep. The somnambulist often does not dream in a foreign location except to ask the body where it is, where it has gone, where it has been placed. The panic dissipates but that does not diminish the fact that it was once there, the same way I was once here, in these rooms of mine. Without them the future has lost much of its shape, its location. The imagination roams unanchored. But the image of the room is so potent to the mythos of the writer. Not as a geographical thing, but as a space. It matters less where the room is, where the story is, but its importance hinges on the semiotics of its four walls, its furniture, its character. “My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One or the other of us has to go.”, Oscar Wilde said before his death.

“In the dark, I wait / Right here where I once sunbathed / With all of my dreams unfit for day”

• lyrics by Nicole Dollanganger, from “Nymphs finding the Head of Orpheus” (2023)

Somewhere within this woven process, I misplaced the time to write much of substance. I woke up one day and all I owned was bubble-wrapped, boxed up, the drawers of my life taped shut. There is a stack of mail towering over the threshold; the overwhelming insanity of inhabitance. But I am a performer; I do not wish to disappoint. This goes for you, my dear, and for the myriad of movers and builders and executioners I deal with during the sunlit hours. The role of the dictator is one I find ill-fitting, sentimental as I am. But many things are on the chopping block. If I do not mind my head, it will be next. A house is soon a cage if you allow its walls to sneak up on you.

Therefore, my dear, allow me my space to get settled in. Forgive me for emptying the attic of madness and madwomen alike. Be patient with me, be gentle. Where there is absence now, there will be abundance again. Postponement of pleasure should increase it all the more, no? That seems to be the philosophers’ consensus, but I digress. I do not wish to tease you too much, my dear. Just because I am not using the good stationery does not mean I am not writing to you. The letters are just unsent, half-formed creatures in need of tender love and care, and a place to live. Nevertheless, mine are stories1 I am deferring only a month or two. The seasons pass much slower than that. The last shreds of winter will come to pass, and with the months of rebirth I will come up from the underworld to write to you once more. See you on the other side, and much sooner than you think.

“I would love to go back to the old house / But I never will / I never will, I never will”

• lyrics by the Smiths, from “Back to the Old House” (1984)

Until my next letter,

With love (and violence),

x Sabrina Angelina, the White Lily Society 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

Currently reading: “Diary of a Seducer” by Søren Kierkegaard // Most recent read: “Strange Antics: a History of Seduction” by Clement Knox

White Lily Society links // Sabrina Angelina links

A short hiatus is the perfect time to join the White Lily Society, and be pleasantly surprised when the first 6k word bombshell of Gothicism and seduction hits your inbox. Come, join us, and become a martyr of deliciousness.

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📼 Song of the (past) month: Cathedral - Affection to Rent

“January pitches her voice over the noise: last year's ghosts are dead, that's reason enough to celebrate.”

• by Angela Lowes

Looking to honour your magpie instincts this year, or just daydream about the new year? Good news! The White Lily Society has paired with stickitbby for an exclusive discount on their 13/01 collage club event, 7-9:30pm, at 1 Finsbury Road! Use code “thewhitelilysociety” for 10% off your tickets here ☆

If you are enjoying the White Lily Society’s writing, curation, or other activities, please do consider making a small donation— it not only supports me as your de facto cult leader, but also helps keep the society free and accessible for all. Thank you endlessly <3

01/01/2026, London, UK

My dear,

Yet another year has slipped through the cracks. Twelve months said and done, onto the next one. The years pass by in quiet succession: a funeral march and a wedding aisle, both lined with white lilies, of course. Just like that there are new thresholds to step over. But January is the month of hope and quiet agonies; a searching for the well that spawns them. Fresh hell, not this old hell1, goodbye to the familiar inferno! What a joy it is to be beginning again. No resolutions, but only focused intent. The kind so intense that it burns white-hot and glowing. This is my year of seduction, a natural follow-up to my year of devotion. Unwrapping the altar of the self, set out with candles and incense and offerings. Praise Dionysus!

The first letter of the year is always an exception to the status quo, just to throw you off your feet a little. Shake things up. The hero[ine] never gets the worst thrown at them right away, my dear. The horrors have to build up slowly. But first, there is courtship. Lavish banquets, endless choice, splendour not yet spoiled. Baby steps. Seduction builds. Thus, this letter is not filled with research, but with recommendations. Complaints should be addressed to yours truly and then promptly buried in the soil, so they may outlast your potential disapproval. This is not the work of half-slumber, I promise; there is a difficulty unknown in looking back. Wrapping up the past year with a neat, pretty bow. We will return to our regular programming in due time.

With one foot into 2026, you are in good company, my dear, and a much more substantial one at that! The White Lily Society ended the year strong with almost 1300 subscribers, doubling our numbers over the last month. That’s something worth a heartfelt note of gratitude, so thank you. I’m sending courteous kisses from my attic all the way to wherever you are. Now, let us return our gaze to the past.

I. Archive Sources

“Last night I had her in bed with me—tossed my bedclothes hugger-mugger—wound my hot and tight-clasped hands about her—fused her body and soul together with my own—poured into her my spirit, breath and strength. Anyone who touches her now commits adultery and incest! She is mine, and I am hers. And have her I will.…”

• from a letter by Henry Fuseli (1779)

Behold, a restored section I, assorted reading on whatever strikes my fancy. I admit, I have been lackadaisical in supplemental readings, but no more! Consider this an official declaration of intent— I have plans to restore the White Lily Society’s official archive to its full glory. Lofty goals for a day that is not yet here. For now, a scheduled return to the Romantic and the dreamy. I started my new year with fresh apple pastries2, a Dionysian ritual, and the opening pages of a history of seduction, after all. Time to put these sentiments to use…

1. “Forsaken Women: the Voice of Frustrated Female Desire” - link

The mournful feminine is a trope quite close to my heart, for better or worse. Oh, that beloved ancient archetype of languishing beauty and grief, as striking as ever. This paper looks at the motifs of feminine lament, specifically focusing on the myths of Arachne and Dido, which the author argues represent subclasses of the “abandoned woman” trope. It looks at what it calls a “slightly perverse interest in grief”, and the environment which produced it. Namely, the ubiquitous masculine-viewpoint of early literature, which places the feminine strictly in the subject form. The paper then produces a lot of feminine writing of abandoned women that escapes this canon, effectively pioneering writing about women’s desire in the active case. A case study in inhabiting the voice that was once only utilised as melody.

“The two heroines reveal the beginnings of a split in the figure of the forsaken woman. Ariadne, weak, mournful, obsessed with her own desolate condition and presented as the beautiful embodiment of grief, develops into the sentimental deserted maiden. Dido, strong, aggressive, tormented by a complexity of emotion and presented as the fiery embodiment sexual desire, becomes the abandoned woman, the woman abandoned not only by a lover but also to her emotions.”

2. “Desire's Dreams: Power and Passion in "Wuthering Heights"” - link

I’ll never tire of reading new interpretations of “Wuthering Heights” (1847), enveloped as it is in seemingly never-ending layers of nuance and depth. Like a Rorschach test, everybody sees something else. There is always a new corner to turn, new moors to wander about, new opinions to take in. This concise paper specifically talks about Emily Brontë’s novel in terms of fairytales, desire, and childhood dreams. It argues that, in grasping onto Cathy, and later, the interrupted fantasy of Cathy, Heathcliff has actually attempted to hold onto a youthful ideal in which these things were not yet interrupted, seemed more attainable; mimetic ideals of identity and its prescribed assets. It’s a fascinating take, and one I thoroughly enjoyed reading.

“And this triumph over adulthood turns [“Wuthering Heights”], finally, into a Victorian childhood nightmare that uses the traditions of the ghost story, Gothic, fairytale, nightmare, and romance-genres that do not demand obedience to the conventions of realistic fiction—to show the horror of eternal childhood: Heathcliff, like a demonic Peter Pan, obsessed with childhood desires that result in death.”

3. “Speeches for Doctor Frankenstein” by Margaret Atwood - link

It is not often that I link to poetry in the Archive Sources, but with the recent “Frankenstein” revival fuelled by Guillermo del Toro’s new 2025 film, I simply must veer off course and break the pattern. This gorgeous poem by Margaret Atwood is sparse yet winding, building up with surgical precision the tale of the abandoned son and father drunk on creation. It loosely recounts the story of the novel, focusing on the scalpel as it meets the skin. Confrontation with the consequences of our actions. A cutting piece of verse for the most delicate of months.

“He glows and says: // Doctor, my shadow / shivering on the table, / you dangle on the leash / of your own longing; / your need grows teeth. // You sliced me loose / and said it was / Creation. I could feel the knife.”

II. Past Year Favourites ‘25

“I am a product of long corridors, empty sunlit rooms, upstairs indoor silences, attics explored in solitude, distant noises of gurgling cisterns and pipes, and the noise of wind under the tiles. Also, of endless books.”

• by C.S. Lewis, from “Surprised by Joy: The Shape of My Early Life” (1955)

In the landscape of increasingly lofty, outrageous goals of consumption, I simply have no wish to contribute. This, my dear, is a safe zone of intention. I will forever maintain that the best aspiration is the one that stretches, but doesn’t exhaust you. “Consumption” should not be a goal in and of itself; the very word reeks of needless devourance. It implies only the nutritional value absorbed, if any at all. Rather, one should read, watch, taste. Reducing activities to the swallowing, the unconscious digestion, the emptying of the shelf, is pointless. That is to say, I believe I am over setting nonsensical goals for myself this year. They seem to do little more than fuzz up the edges of my mind and produce anxiety. Not the delicious kind (anticipation), but the unfavourable kind (distress).

With my best intentions, I spent a lot of last year feeling like I was falling behind on some arbitrary number of books I wished to read. Only a part of this is rooted in a real anxiety; the reality of just how many things one would like to read, as opposed to how many one can read, in a given lifetime. I started roughly forty-five books in 2025, and finished twenty-six of them. (That is a nasty little habit of mine, digging through chapters for my own writing and not sitting down to read the whole book. But I digress…) Despite the clawing feeling of ineffectiveness, I did actually read more than I did last year. Six thousand pages in 2024, and eight thousand in 2025. Most importantly, I processed more of those pages than ever before into my writing. A small aid in the war against fuzziness!

As a result, I’ve discussed a great deal of my following favourite reads in the newsletter already over the past year. Considering how many of you are new here, I am hoping to get away with it, just this once. So, allow me to pick my six favourites, and introduce (or re-introduce) them to you now, in no particular order, followed by six of my favourite tv-shows, six of my favourite films, and some other miscellaneous relics. A sumptuous catalogue, just for you.

II.I Favourite Books

1. “Dracula” by Bram Stoker (1897)

Please, put down the pitchfork, my dear. Pray the jury finds me innocent at last. Here is the evidence, meant to redeem: despite my (well documented) inclinations, and owning five (mainly gifted) copies, I had never set foot in Stoker’s original story until this year. My journey with it began in May, as the book does, and ended in December, a month past the story’s expiration. At times, the two of us moved in near-perfect synchrony, the choreography prescribed with punctuality. In August, I climbed the 199 steps up to the Abbey in Whitby, the day before Lucy was scheduled to sleepwalk up them, to the beginning of her doom. We could have been on opposite sides of a mirror; night and day, awake and asleep, alive and soon-to-be-dead. The effect was an added inevitability; the story played out like a prophecy. Enchanting and dark, the perfect fare for a fellow somnambulist.

2. “We Have Always Lived in the Castle” by Shirley Jackson (1962)

The Gothic classics are always presumed to be from centuries long gone, but here is an oddity from the recent 60s that is well worth your attention. “We Have Always Lived in the Castle” is a Gothic fairytale about family trauma, tradition, and class, narrated by the weird Mary Katherine Blackwood, or “Merricat”. She recounts her daily life in isolation with her sister Constance and disabled uncle Julian, goes about her odd superstitions and traditions, and reflects on her family’s untimely death by poisoning. All throughout, there is a strong, unsettling and strange undertone, not just in the story’s narrator, but in its events. Mobs descend on homes in a period that feels neither here nor there, characters speak in jumbled Freudian-slip-speak, and the world is read through layers of childlike surrealism. Undoubtedly a novel that will stay with me for a long time to come.

3. “Drive Your Plow over the Bones of the Dead” by Olga Tokarczuk (translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones) (2009)

I picked this book up on a whim for my summer getaway secluded in the misty Swiss Alps, eager for something to read that would move the mountains within me. This winner of the Nobel prize for literature centres on Janina Duszejko, an eccentric elderly woman living in a secluded Polish village, who gets intrigued by a string of murdered local hunters. As the novel unwraps, more of Janina’s oddities get involved, as well as William Blake poetry, astrology, and the ethics of hunting. An odd mix perhaps, but all the more effective for it. This is a chilling, strange novel, with a unique blend of surrealism and realism, like a fairytale of bureaucracy and public opinion. Wolves in sheep’s clothing and complaints of minor ailments dance next to one another; Tokarczuk’s writing has a lot to say, but prefers to approach subtly, wrapped in a thick coat of mysticism. A gorgeous novel, wholly deserving of the praise.

4. “Carmilla” by Sheridan Le Fanu (1872)

Returning to the vampires, “Carmilla” is actually the Count’s predecessor by twenty-five years! This sapphic vampire classic is deemed such for all the right reasons; it is a sensual story of obsession and danger, drenched in Gothic atmosphere, and constructed with the use of that familiar beautiful nineteenth century prose we all know and love. It’s a short work, roughly ninety pages, but all the more precious for it. There is something very sweet about Carmilla’s affections towards Laura, tainted as they are with the sinister truth of her nature as a vampire, though that only increases the Romantic effects. More tragic as they are met with oblivious, flustered questioning on the mortal side of the equation. But everlasting on the pages of a new all-time favourite book, immortal.

“But to die as lovers may— to die together, so that they may live together. Girls are caterpillars while they live in the world, to be finally butterflies when the summer comes […]”

• by Sheridan Le Fanu, from “Carmilla” (1872), p68

5. “I, Julian” by Claire Gilbert (2023)

I still curse my missing out on the British Library’s “Medieval Women” exhibition— due to no fault but my own. At the very least, the misfortune brought a gorgeous book my way. “I, Julian” is a loose, fictionalised recollection of anchoress Julian of Norwich’ life, written in the first person. Like Julian’s act of inhabiting the anchorhold she was sealed into, the book attempts to inhabit Julian. The style is sparse but poetic, cutting right to the heart of things. Julian’s teachings, after all, were all about the love of Christ; about closeness to God; the maternal underpinnings of our relationship with Him. Author Claire Gilbert has a way of translating these revelations into fictional prose with cutting accuracy: “This thing of pain and love that is being born is its own truth and nothing can explain it except itself. There is only this light. I am at the doorway of death and all I see is Jesu, crucified, alight.” (p110)

6. “the Bone Season” by Samantha Shannon (author’s preferred text, 2024)

The day I was devouring “the Bone Season” was the day I spent seven hours reading, continuing well into the early hours, bleeding into the next day. A testament to Samantha Shannon’s addictive novel, the first instalment in what will eventually be a six book saga. For now, four of those are already out to read. More than enough to get your eager, grubby little paws on. Devoid of any spoilers, the premise of the series is intricate enough; in a world where clairvoyance and the aether are real, the oppressive regime of Scion is waging war on the “unnaturals”. We follow Paige Mahoney, an Irish clairvoyant of the highest order (a “dreamwalker”), through the streets of a Victorian steampunk London, and beyond. The series is dense with a daunting amount of terminology and lore, layered world-building, and a great ensemble cast. In lieu of repeating my more extensive review, I can only say that its escapism and mystery were something I very much appreciated in my life last year.

II.II Favourite Shows

1. “Yellowjackets” (2021-)

Perhaps my worst choice for a plane rewatch ever, “Yellowjackets” (2021-) focuses on a girl’s soccer team as their plane crashes in the Canadian wilderness on their way to nationals. The dire situation, paired with a series of odd occurrences, fuels a continuing spiral of superstition and cult-like group dynamics in the girls, who will resort to almost anything, it turns out, to survive. On the other hand, the (more underwhelming) present day timeline follows a few of the surviving girls, now adult women, as their wilderness-drunk antics mysteriously come back to haunt them. It’s part crime drama, and part maenad revelry, certainly enough to keep anyone hooked despite the occasional lulls in the plot. The scarier atmosphere in season 1 is especially near and dear to my heart, and spawned my “doomcoming” Lottie Matthews Halloween costume.

2. “Penny Dreadful” (2014-2016), S1

A whole menagerie of monsters and Victorian tropes weaves itself together in “Penny Dreadful” (2014-2016); the likes of “Dracula” (1897), “the Picture of Dorian Gray” (1890), and “Frankenstein” (1818) join stories of werewolves, possession, and seances. Exactly up my (dark and frightening) metaphorical alley, my dear. In 1891, a group of misfits search for a renowned explorer Malcolm Murray’s daughter Mina, who was taken by none other than the vampire Dracula himself. From that simple premise, the plot branches and blooms in a multitude of different directions. The cast and atmosphere are both outstanding; Eva Green takes the spotlight as the haunted and spiritual Vanessa Ives, but Rory Kinnear also gives a fantastic performance as Frankenstein’s Creature— surely one of the best depictions of the Creature, keeping all that poetic brooding wholly intact, albeit in a less gentle package than Jacob Elordi’s recent interpretation.

3. “True Blood” (2008-2014), S1-2

Addictive television probably found its early tenets in “True Blood” (2008-2014). This HBO original (based on a series of books) about a telepathic waitress in a world where vampires have “come out of the coffin” is truly delectable in its early seasons. The show contains traces of predecessor “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” (1997-2003) and successor “the Vampire Diaries” (2009-2017) in its love triangle and season-long story structure, but in true HBO fashion, with its own exceptionally r-rated, bloody philosophy. I’m up to season 4 now, but season 1 and 2 have the best balance of comedy and drama, if you ask me. The season 2 villain being a maenad was a particularly inspired choice, and one I could absolutely get behind as a fellow Dionysus devotee.

4. “Castlevania” (2017-2021), S1-2

The animated adaptation of the “Castlevania” (1986-) video game series is a rare case of video game adaptation done right. Animation is not usually my foray, I must admit, but this show’s combination of style and moody, Gothic atmosphere really did it for me, my dear. Though the show borrows from Bram Stoker’s mythos (and other vampire legends), it also manages to establishes its own unique story and identity: after Count Dracula’s mortal wife is burned at the stake for witchcraft, he wages war on humanity, campaigning for their eventual extinction. After a year of massacre, the sole heir to a family of monster hunters, a nomadic mage, and Dracula’s own son come together to put an end to the bloodshed. More than worth the watch for its gorgeous animation, succinct storytelling, and for the joy that is Alucard’s character.

5. and 6… Absolutely… NOTHING

[This pathetic drought of material for my yearly wrap-up can largely be attributed to the fact that my beloved Blackberry Hill House did not have internet for exactly fifty-two (!) days while I tried to escape my tumultuous relationship with my previous broadband provider. In the end, I had to admit defeat and return, begging. Turns out the realm of cables is still largely beyond my understanding. Better luck next time!]

Now, watching films is not something I tend to feel anxious about: here is one goal I tend to over-deliver on without much friction— due in part because Blackberry Hill House is a community cinema at this point. The joy of a DVD collection as expansive as mine is in giving them a spin, no? In 2025, I watched eighty-three films, fifty of which were first introductions to my precious retinas. My most watched theme according to Letterboxd was “Horror, the undead, and monster classics”, and my most watched nano-genre “Horror, villain, dark”. Thematically appropriate, I suppose.

II.III Favourite Films

1. “Dracula” (1931)

The more I watch them, the more I realise how strongly my heart beats for any films made in the 1930s to 1950s. Perhaps it is the stillness of the black and white frame, the jagged edges of the film craft visible in painted backgrounds and crude effects, or a method of cinematography long forgotten. That is how this black and white spot on the favourites list became much contested. Between Alfred Hitchcock’s 1940 drama “Rebecca”, haunting drama “the Innocents” (1961), and the classic “Dracula” (1931), I settled, ultimately, on the latter film. There’s something really poignant about returning to the scene of the crime in a way; seeing the film that established pop culture mythology. Lugosi’s Count is menacing, and a bit goofy. At times he truly feels like a figure detached from humanity, now ascended into legend.

2. “House of Tolerance” (2011)

It’s hard to tell you why I enjoyed this film so much, my dear, without ruining the effect. This French film about a luxurious brothel and its girls is sensual, and hard to pin down to just one genre, one standpoint, one moral core. It took me completely by surprise, sitting in the well-decorated attic of a pub, both so erotic and [redacted]… Normally, I do not care much to keep an iron grip on spoilers, but this film is the exception to the rule. Truly, I wish to tell you more, but I fear that your first viewing should be as blind as possible. Open your mind to champagne baths and pet panthers, and wait for the rest to come to you3.

3. “the Others” (2001)

“the Others” is another exception to my rules, my dear. Not many films are able to illicit such an intensely frightful reaction in me, without any gore, body horror, or jump scares in its repertoire… Just a slowly building dread, utilised with a twisted sparsity that only heightens its effect. The film is a psychological horror film about Grace Stewart (Nicole Kidman), who lives in a big, isolated house together with her two children, who have an extreme sensitivity to light. Soon, curtains and doors are being left open, potentially endangering the children, and with the staff solemnly swearing ignorance Grace becomes convinced that the house is haunted. From there, the film twists and turns, utilising silence and space in its frame to allow for the viewer to invite fear in. Just like Grace, we may or may not be imagining the things we see, the things we hear, and the things we fear lurk in the shadows of the film’s narrative. The only way to find out is to go and investigate, be a good host to what scares us most.

4. “Repo! the Genetic Opera” (2008)

Sorry for the complete tonal shift, my dear. This one is due to induce a bit of whiplash. Regardless, allow me to sell you this absolutely insane movie: it’s a rock-opera about organ repossession and plastic surgery addicts, with Giles from “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” (1997-2003) and goth Paris Hilton. Yes, this was my contribution to movie night at a dear friend’s house, and I am afraid I have now established my reputation for most insane (but successful!) film suggestions in a row (especially for suggesting this after “the Brothers Grimm”, 2005). This is a pure so-bad-it’s-sort-of-good recommendation, entertaining until the very end. We certainly couldn’t stop laughing for most of its runtime. It’s the Evanescence “Fallen” (2003) album cover come to life in film form, it’s campy and theatrically gory, it’s a highly stylised fever dream. Loves it. It’s really quite a shame that the soundtrack got removed from streaming recently.

5. “Behind Convent Walls” (1987)

There is a very big chance you have seen director Walerian Borowczyk’s work without knowing it. Stills of his hazy, fairytale-esque visuals, shot on film with gorgeous cinematography, do the rounds every few months on various social media. You’d be forgiven for not divinely intuiting his films’ risqué subject matter, my dear. It is more often shallowly treated as a demerit to his work, rather than the point of it. Personally, I adore aspects of Borowczyk’s style, which is neither wholly pornography nor wholly art film— rather he blends the two, to varying degrees of success throughout his filmography. Out of the three films of his I have watched (“the Beast”, 1975, “Immoral Tales”, 1973, and “Behind Convent Walls”, 1987), I felt “Behind Convent Walls” blended all these elements to the best effect; the result is sensual and erotic, beautiful to watch, but also has something to say about the needless suppression of human sexuality (especially feminine sexuality). The tale of this unraveling Italian convent almost has a taste of fairytale allegory to it, and the visuals only contribute to this enchanting effect.

6. “Don’t Bother to Knock” (1952)

Marilyn Monroe shines in this moody, almost noir-esque film about a pilot (“Jed”) who starts dating a babysitter (“Nell”) in the hotel where he lives… All is fine and dandy, until Nell starts to believe Jed is actually her deceased pilot boyfriend. Starting out relatively light-hearted, the film begins to build up darkness. For the 1950’s, the portrayal of Nell’s mental health is actually handled quite well— a fantastic Letterboxd user describes the plot as a parable about America’s post-WWII trauma. With this in mind, the film’s plot essentially becomes a call against the continued ignorance and/or repression of said trauma. It is a grasp for understanding and empathy in trying times, cleverly disguised in a pinch of comedy and a pinch of drama. Monroe’s stellar performance also helps to round Nell’s character out; alternating between glamorous, delusional, tender, panicked, and anxious she adds layers and depth to what could have been a much more tone-deaf portrayal, and instead makes the film a surprisingly enjoyable watch.

Now, my dear, these final miscellaneous favourites presented a definite challenge. Unlike last year, I haven’t sank my teeth into one single video game like I did with “Bloodborne” (2015). My time was spent largely on that game’s DLC “the Old Hunters” (2015), as well as dabbling in the likes of “Dark Souls 3” (2016), “Silent Hill 2” (remake, 2024), an emulated version of “Haunting Ground” (2005), “Assassin’s Creed: Syndicate” (2015), and the odd re-install of “Genshin Impact” (2020) in anticipation of Columbina’s release. Not to mention my frustrating and yet unfulfilling trysts with “Elden Ring” (2022). Being good at one difficult video game is not enough, it seems. One must learn the dance anew with every new iteration.

As for this year’s favourite exhibition, I’d be foolish not to pick the Bodleian Library’s “Omens, Oracles and Answers” exhibition, which I attended in Oxford in April. It was a fantastic collection of material related to the act of diving, soothsaying, and prophesying, collecting all manner of methods from tarot cards to palmistry, from dream hotels to spider divination. Me and my dear friend took a train down from London for the day, just to submerge in the business of seeing. We ate blackberries on our journey, drifted through a handful of churches, and made our way back to mine just in time for me to host an “eroticism” themed gathering at mine. No, I will not elaborate any further. Don’t be greedy, my dear.

As always, my Spotify wrapped4 painted the yearly sobering picture of my music consumption… Yes, the rumours are true, my dear, I am a 0.4% top Sabrina Carpenter listener. What can I say? I enjoy terrorising my neighbours singing along just as much as I adore my dark beats and gloomy soundtracks. On my most bipolar days I will alternate the “Bloodborne” (2015) soundtrack with miss Carpenter. Luckily, my top genres were “alternative pop”, “indie rock”, “darkwave”, “rock”, and “southern Gothic”, so I suppose I’m not entirely beyond metaphorical saving *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

This year I felt like I really found my sonic footing, rooted deeply in the “shoegaze” genre; guitar-heavy, dreamlike, romantic, atmospheric, and a little goth at times. As a result, I attended eleven concerts5, shattering my previous record of seven. I had been meaning to go to more small gigs, using the concert as a vehicle for a deeper exploration of the artist’s discography. That is how I fell in love with “Cryogeyser”, my favourite new sonic discovery of the year. Prior to buying my ticket for their gig at the Windmill in Brixton, I knew exactly one (1) song by them, but while eagerly studying their setlist in the months leading up to the concert I discovered just how ethereal their sound really is. Favourites include “Marie”, “Hive”, and “Too Much”.

Perhaps it is simply recency bias, but it seems my most beloved album of the year is always a later release. For a while, it seemed Ethel Cain’s “Willoughby Tucker, I’ll Always Love You” would take the title… Until October 17th, that is. It was a busy day for my music sphere: Florence and the Machine, the Last Dinner Party, and Maggie Lindemann all released new albums. The latter, “I feel everything” went triple platinum at Blackberry Hill House in a matter of days. Lindemann’s early EP “Paranoia” and first album “SUCKERPUNCH” had the same effect for their infectious pop-rock and pop-punk influenced sound, though 2024 follow-up “HEADSPLIT” to me felt to be stuck in a strange limbo, caught between the earlier sound and an electro-dance inspired direction. It was a deeply flawed record, stuck in a tug of war between directions, though with its own high moments (lead single “hostage” still managed to be my most-played track last year). “I feel everything” drops this tension in favour of a straight-up darkwave, dance, and electronic infused sound. It’s catchy while still honouring Lindemann’s emotionally vulnerable and moody songwriting. Favourite tracks include “it’s still you”, “split”, and “lost cause”, though I frequently just put the entire record on repeat.

Finally, some selected listening from the past year, including some of my top songs, some of my personal favourites, and a few just to get the vibe across:

1. Baby, Let’s Play House - Elvis Presley || 2. Still Blue - Sunday (1994) || 3. Hurt - Mareux || 4. Marie - Cryogeyser || 5. Tempest - Ethel cain || 6. Black Milk - Massive Attack || 7. Drown - Strange Boutique || 8. Ringleader - Public Memory || 9. it’s still you - Maggie Lindemann ft. Max Fry || 10. Sad Beautiful Tragic - Taylor Swift || 11. Other Side - NewDad || 12. Perfect Blue - Softcult || 13. the Mysterious Vanishing of Electra - Anna von Hausswolff

III. Ins and Outs

“I had learned early to assume something dark and lethal hidden at the heart of anything I loved. When I couldn’t find it, I responded, bewildered and wary, in the only way I knew how: by planting it there myself.”

• by Tana French, from “In the Woods” (2007)

The yearly “ins” and “outs” list is a tradition, needing no further introduction. For my third iteration of it, I will not waste words where none are needed. The same goes for a moodboard: the good ones speak for themselves. You are free to take what you like, and leave the rest, my dear ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

[IN] Workshopping the self (eg. voice, posture, vocabulary) || Living like a luxury courtesan || Refining your vision through action (!) || Nosebleeds, bruises, cuts || Sleepwalking || Eroticism and glamour photography || Monograms on everything || A commitment to lingerie, every day || Socialising with strangers || Fairytale gothic || Sweetness, tenderness, grace || Horror video game protagonists || Intersection of Love and Violence (always in!)

[OUT] Sleepwalking (through life); numbness || Not wearing your retainers… || The learned helplessness epidemic || Starting your day at 3pm (et up earlier OR commit to nocturnal life) || Tolerating any conversations about generative AI || Moral panic, prescribed prudishness || Inauthentic music curation || Gender essentialism framed as spirituality || “It’s not that deep” || Safeguarding some imagined fragility || Substack articles or “essays” that could have been a Pinterest board instead || Self-conscious performance (it should be indulgent!) || The mice in my home (hopefully)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* On the List *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

Exhibitions, Events, and Talks. The whole world is slowly getting back on its feet, starting to wake up for the new year, and the event world is no exception. Therefore, this letter’s selections are understandably few in number. If “w” words are your thing, Treadwells is combining witchcraft and winter for their “Winter Witchcraft Workshop” and “Winter Home Blessings Workshop”, both on the 14th, and sure to be spell-binding. Burlesque fans have something to be enchanted by as well, as Dita von Teese’s new show “Nocturnelle” opens at the London Palladium on the 29th.

In an exciting turn of events, Cramer Street gallery is hosting an extended residency with the White Lily Society’s sister collective Ethereal Maison, with events “reclaiming ancestral queer and feminine energies” on January 9th, 17th, 24th, 30th, and 31st— tickets are available via the gallery’s Instagram page.

☆ Finally, I’d like to reiterate that the White Lily Society has paired with stickitbby on Instagram for an exclusive discount on their collage event taking place on the 13th of January. You can use code “thewhitelilysociety” for 10% off your tickets here

Film, Music, and TV. As always, London is ripe with re-releases of classic and cult cinema. Choice picks include "Showgirls" (1995) on January 10th, "Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust" (2000) on the 17th, and "the Handmaiden" (2016) on the the 18th, all at the Prince Charles Cinema— though I personally have recently renewed my BFI membership and shall thus be making use of their streaming service instead. A good gift recommendation to keep in mind for next holiday season, perhaps.

In terms of music, Canadian grunge band “softcult” is due to release their debut album “When a Flower Doesn’t Grow” on the 30th of January, promising an intriguing blend of shoegaze and riot grrrl sounds judging off of prior singles like “16/25”, “Pill to Swallow”, and “Naive”. Additionally, Erin LeCount will be releasing her eagerly anticipated single “I Believe” this Friday the 9th! Good news for everybody else who, like me, has been listening to the snippets on repeat.

Obsessive Tendencies: What I’ve Loved Lately

1. Uniqlo, HEATTECH Extra Warm Cashmere Blend Turtleneck in “Black”, [The cold is no joke; either layer up or feel the frost inhabit yourself], £19.90

2. Agent Provocateur, “Fia” thong, [I wasn’t kidding about daily black lace lingerie on the “ins” list, my dear], on sale for £20

3. Anna von Hausswolff, “Dead Magic” on vinyl, [Experimental organ music and drone, perfect for your next ecstatic dance ritual], £29.99 at HMV

4. Fresh, Kombucha Facial Treatment Essence, [I am truly devastated to say this is a brilliant toner alternative after getting the sample… I bought a full-sized bottle], £76 (150ml)

5. MAC, Squirt Pumping Gloss Stick in “Jet”, [A gorgeous subtle goth gloss for the slightly macabre lip combo of my dreams], on sale for £17.60

6. Funko, Ghostface keychain, [Halloween is never over in this household, which means the a little knife-wielding Ghostface is the ideal bag charm], £6.99

“We seem to be drifting into unknown places and unknown ways; into a whole world of dark and dreadful things.”

• by Bram Stoker, from “Dracula” (1897)

Though I am only moving halfway through February, the preparation is already creeping up on me like a thorny vine. This attic of mine is coated in dust and surrounded by a thick layer of briars, in desperate need of trimming lest I be unable to make my escape in the month of love. A tarot reader told of good fortune for the new house; something to hold onto amidst the decluttering of my life and mind. So much of us is stored in our possessions, my dear. The house is a museum of the self. Though I suppose the mice are doing me a favour in their recent activity, endearing me to the prospect of abandoning this home I cohabitate in with them. Just a few days ago I was reading on the couch when one of them popped their little head out, asking for some sugar to borrow. I respectfully declined.

Though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t secretly love the bleakness of a combined winter and complete uprooting of my life. I sneak off with crumbs of despair into dark corners, savouring the taste all on my own. Secret indulgence. That is the best survival strategy I can offer you, my dear, to inhabit yourself to your fullest potential. Nothing will change if you continue to wear a coat of shame. Instead of suffocating in the bins of high school clothes I intend to donate, I will tie them together into a rope, and lower myself down to the street. I imagine the cold air will taste even brighter. Perhaps there might even be some snow.

Until my next letter,

With love (and violence),

x Sabrina Angelina, the White Lily Society 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

Currently reading: “Strange Antics: a History of Seduction” by Clement Knox // Most recent read: “Dracula” by Bram Stoker (finally!)

White Lily Society links // Sabrina Angelina links

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📼 Song of the (past) month: the Mysterious Vanishing of Electra - Anna von Hausswolff

A red [pen] entry in my new new new diary. The third day of reflection. Lucky number three. Pretty soon I might start ascribing meanings to my pens, even if sticking to my rigid patterns. Alternating red ink for wanderings (left, mysticism, heart, tails) or jet-black for devotion (right, astuteness, double heads). I am only ever phrasing the prayer or dictating scripture, never in between.

“I’m not allowed to write fiction” I said in my daydream. What I meant is: I am only allowed to feel. And what I feel right now is that writing is something I love like a tired dog, always in search of adoration. The scraps never suffice and the hunt is paltry. Behold the spoils of war with the self; unending artificial scarcity. The leather of the collar tightens around my throat. (Author’s note: no erotic connotation yet… Give me enough flame and open enough windows and it might yet appear.)

In truth I love a lot of things like that: love that is a wanting, a saying, or rather, an asking. Pleading eyes / Please perceive my efforts. They are not just stitched inside of me, but outside too!

((( Intrusive thought: should have never posted that one untrue picture, will withdraw it now, actually. Sanctify the record. I looked asleep in my white gown with eyes wide open, blank-slate-faced in a bad way. Must expurgate what little of me is out there that falls on my unflattering side. )))

Tonight I want to love love love and leave behind this infantile awkwardness I’ve uncovered: I used to be much sparklier in my teens. I had reason to perform for my dinner then. Lit up at ruins, and napkins, and raindrop days. Chasing hotel guest gratuities, something to both bite into and believe in. Euro-pa-bills with shining canines to match. Coins are the closest thing to a god in a country of lingering protestantism and cobblestones; they make all the major decisions. Sometimes I feel that they never stopped spinning, up in the grey air. Maybe I can’t heads-or-tails my youth like I was taught to.

Suppose I should be writing my ninety-five statements. Instead, I am hiding out in my attic (soon-to-be-lost), cocooning. Spitting out owl pellets of verbose prose, are you proud of me yet?

Come winter-time I always yearn for smaller spaces, a smaller home. Easier to heat than the chambers of the heart. On the unending bright screen, a stranger confesses to being unable to explore suffering in their writing. That’s the delicious kind of voyeurism. I greedily assume admitting defeat would be easier if I was not so intent on feeling the sting of it. Watching the red-burn of the lash, the way the edges are soft, and the colour pastel pretty. I can’t help making my own inadequacy my biggest secret, tangling it up in self-mythology.

Another confession, then. Forgive me, my dear friend, I dropped out of your writing group as grasp for pure self-soothing. I am a masochist who cannot tolerate ego wounds when related to my practice; it contains too much of myself. My methods were so unexciting and my results so unembellished, I couldn’t have been more vulnerable if I tried. No, solitude is my preferred chaser to self-flagellation. My burnt offerings go straight to the mirror. In my mistaken oracle it is always neater to retreat than to unfold clasped hands. The doctrine of my country believes in building oneself up, even if it costs you the skin off of your back and your feet, and the nightmares still won’t end. Public displays of suffering are second only to ascension. Best to be held out on until the Inevitable arrives.

Anyway, I aimed the question of writing at my grandfather clock just now. Its answer sounded like ticking, like wheels turning, like the metal of currency re-forged into a tool, ultimately, devoid of meaning. “Entanglement” Desire responded, stared at me, and asked why the scraps can’t make the meal.

“I wasn’t always laced with skepticism” I defended. Somewhere in my aging, I sewed it into me. I weave this story of my own hardship in hopes of it shaping a prologue someday. Genesis like a shrug, like casting off the chains of foreign language, like inspiration in its infancy. Second only to my own ability to numb the wound, to pretend it away with circles of people, and clumsy religious metaphors fit for a girl raised in atheism. Writer’s stigmata. Glassy eyes. At the end of three red-soaked pages now. If my heart had a sound it would be the hushed caress of journal ribbons tying, shut.

Sabrina Angelina is dedicated to the intersection of love and violence, a term she coined to describe classical Romanticism’s tendency to pair passion and suffering, tragedy and pleasure, together. Consumed by this concept, she writes on Substack and curates the White Lily Society page dedicated to arts and culture.

White Lily Society links // Sabrina Angelina links

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“Icy mirrors, fiery roses, ambiguous grace. December arrives, bleeding and cruel.”

• by Georges Rodenbach, from “Clouds of Light, in a Diamond Mist,” (1880)

If you are enjoying the White Lily Society’s writing, curation, or other activities, please do consider making a small donation— it not only supports me as your de facto cult leader, but also helps keep the society free and accessible for all. Thank you endlessly <3

01/12/2025, London, UK

My dear,

December is a frightful beast. It is time to wrap everything up again. Gifts (in paper), the world (in snow), the self (in layers). The final act of another foggy year. November was a call to embrace pyromaniac tendencies, but December is for settling among the ashes. The scent of burnt firewood clings to frosted roots. Frozen ground and its paws grabbing you by the ankles. Best keep all beloved extremities close to you, lest they turn blue with winter melancholy. Frost is all-consuming, my dear, so let it peel the woollen remnants of yourself away. Perhaps they would make a lovely gift for the madmen or madwomen in your life…

Or do as filmmaker John Waters advices; “I always give books. And I always ask for books. I think you should reward people sexually for getting you books. Don’t send a thank-you note, repay them with sexual activity. If the book is rare or by your favorite author or one you didn’t know about, reward them with the most perverted sex act you can think of. Otherwise, you can just make out.” (the New York Times, 2013)— pretty straight-forward, no verbose gift guide required. Arguably better than letting the ravens or the crows or the robins whisper their strange songs to you. Birds always end up suggesting a self-sacrifice, a nose-dive into the fire. Returning to the self as thing to be stripped away and passed down, like some twisted heirloom.

Though I pointedly didn’t love the new “Frankenstein” (2025) as much as I wanted to, I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t been on my mind. Incessantly so, even. In truth, the third act sent me down a rabbit hole of veils, of vows, of virtue marred. Wondering if the bride is ever allowed to live… Which led me here. To this altar, staring you down across the aisle. Start the choir now, I am ready!

And I do take you, my dear, to be my lawfully wedded darling, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part…

I. Archive Sources

“Desire doubled is love and love doubled is madness.”

• by Anne Carson, from “the Beauty of the Husband” (2001)

In lieu of another vow, my dear, I wish to profess my undying devotion through the act of curation. As always, it is no good to rush through the ceremony. Therefore, I have taken the time to fill this here proverbial cathedral with sources for you to gush and gawk over, in preparation for the main event. Allow me to gather you up something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue.

1. “The Bride and Her Afterlife: Female Frankenstein Monsters on Page and Screen” - link

A discussion of the 1935 “Bride of Frankenstein” film (and its cultural impact), which notably marketed itself on the mystery of what the Creature’s monstrous bride would look like, and not what she would do, or say, this paper notes. This literal unveiling is relevant to the bridal theme, but also objectifies the idea of the female monster as spectacle to look at. Second best, she has done away with much of the novelty of suspense (Will Victor succeed in creating his perfect man?), instead focusing on secondary characteristics, such as looks. Mary Shelley’s 1818 novel treated the female monster as unfinished body, described as something to be worked on, dreaded, and then discarded. Cast off into her separate parts, and then the ocean, she is a stain of a question mark haunting our cultural fascination long since the novel’s release.

“She also problematizes cultural assumptions about what should be considered “monstrous” and what, in turn, “beautiful.” […] Whale’s Bride is striking and alluring in her white dress and towering hairdo, yet she hisses, grunts, and screams in as subhuman a manner as her betrothed. Although her initial appearance signals grace, her movements are jerky and halting like those of a marionette or automaton; while she lacks the metal bolts of her male counterpart, she is clearly post-human. She is seductive and there is an iconic, resonant quality to her beauty, yet her scars are ever-present reminders that she is a put-together thing.”

2. “‘Ideology and Sexuality among Victorian Women” - link

Instead of comparative analysis taken from literature, this paper presents a brief statistical study of Victorian women’s attitudes towards sex and sexuality from a period data set known as the “Mosher” data. It’s an enlightening, quick read, that gets into some of the numerical nitty-gritty of the question, and gives a good overview of data to pair with literature for a balanced review. After all, it never hurts to check your facts, my dear.

“[…] many Victorian-era women viewed sexual relations as important within marriage, but a large number also failed to perceive a basic human need for frequent sexual intercourse. The prevailing view within Victorian society seemed to be that couples, particularly women, simply did not need more than a minimal amount of coitus, or could, alternatively, divert themselves to other activities yielding greater social and material rewards.”

3. “Gothic Repetition: Husbands, Horrors, and Things That Go Bump in the Night” - link

This paper discusses “marital Gothic” and the evil husband trope, pinpointing these down to the heroine’s very legitimate realisation of horror that her patriarchal education did not prepare her accurately for its dependants; marital abuse, misogyny, violence, control, and the brute-force perpetuation of feminine1 helplessness. The prescribed cure within the story is not an escape from this pattern, but the repetition of it. Repeating the same scenario but hoping for a different outcome, the very definition of madness. Rather than recognising the false bargain of marriage, the textual repetition claims that the heroine, silly girl, has picked the wrong husband! Once she marries a worthy husband, she is expected to disappear into the wifely ideal without any such friction, having repaired the status quo without frivolities such as emancipation or self-actualisation.

“[…] discussion of a particular variant that I call “marital Gothic,” a later form of the genre where the husband is present at the beginning rather than the end of the story and “repeats” the role of the father. The trope of the husband allows us to consider how and why the figure who was supposed to lay horror to rest has himself become the avatar of horror who strips voice, movement, property, and identity itself from the heroine.”

II. Bridal Gothic

“My place was never in this world, I sought and longed for something I could not quite name. But in you, I found it. To be lost and to be found— that is the lifespan of love.”

• from “Frankenstein” (2025)

Bridal Gothic is everywhere, once you know how to look. It’s been haunting me, sneaking up on me in my sleep, a spectral visitor in my home, ever since I watched the Creature carry Elizabeth’s limp body, bridal style, in “Frankenstein” (2025). It seemed a veil had been lifted. Past work gained new dimensions. Rewatching “Bram Stoker’s Dracula” (1992), I couldn’t help but note bride-related lines: “You’re the bride my master covets” Renfield tells Mina through the bars of his confinement. Fragments from “Nosferatu” (2024) recited from memory, re-appearing as if summoned; “[Count Orlok] cares only for his pretty bride”.

Death and the Maiden did not seem to be done with me yet, my dear. Its crumpled wedding invitations, splattered with blood and scented of lilies, appeared on my doorstep en masse. My mind became an altar to its intricacies. I witnessed their union over and over again, I memorised their vows. The spirit of the wedding bed stayed with me as I poured over their ancient texts… Though the sanity of my results is not guaranteed. You have been warned, my dear.

II.I Bridal Symbolism Unveiled

“Open my legs, lie down with Death / We kiss, we sigh, we sweat / His blackberry mouth stains my nightgown / I pull him close, wrap my legs around / And it tastes like life”

• by Florence and the Machine, from the song “Witch Dance” (2025)— capitalisation on “Death” my own

Starting our slow descent into madness, we must first examine the scene of the crime. There are a multitude of superstitions and symbols associated with the [Christian] wedding, especially the bride, and thus with bridal Gothic. Starting with the veil. The word itself carries a multitude of associations; people speak of the “veil” between life and death, to “unveil” means to reveal, veils are understood to be thin, gauze-like, tantalisingly transparent. The veil represents both the means both to cover up, as well as to reserve the possibility for uncovering. There’s a duality there, friction between intent and inevitable action— we will run into these multitudes again and again.

Like the white lily, which is traditionally both a wedding flower and a funeral flower, the “Death and the Maiden” trope represents a union, a cross-section, a blending of both love and death; two eternal principles meeting. The Intersection of Love and Violence. Furthermore, the colour white, which is often associated with the bridal figure, with weddings, represents purity, innocence, and virtue. But outside of the Western world of semiotics, white can also be associated with death and mourning. It follows the same principle as the veil; cleanliness invokes the stain. The absence of one thing only accentuates it, not erases it. Duality is rooted within the very symbols of bridal Gothic.

“Elizabeth is so covered up and she’s got all these layers on her. And as she’s getting closer and closer to the Creature, layers of her clothing start to be removed, and it’s as though she’s been hiding all of this time.”

• by Mia Goth, from a Netflix interview clip, on Elizabeth meeting the Creature in “Frankenstein” (2025)

In Guillermo del Toro’s “Frankenstein” (2025); veils are an oft-utilised motif. When the Creature first meets Elizabeth, she lifts up her veil to be closer to him. As a character, she is often veiled, hidden away from the world, withdrawn perhaps as a reference to her origins in a convent (an unreleased scene in said convent also shows her, wearing white, with a matching veil). All this bridal symbolism persists into her death later in the film. Del Toro has effectively rewritten the character from Mary Shelley’s original novel to have a more inquisitive, active impact on the story. His Elizabeth Harlander (not Lavenza) matches Victor’s scientific curiosity. She gets her hands proverbially dirty, whether that’s in catching butterflies or in her tender, maternal investigation of the Creature. Nevertheless, both Shelley’s and del Toro’s Elizabeth are not allowed to live to the end of the narrative. The bride must die, one way or another: the marriage unfulfilled only adds to its tragedy.

This tragedy is reinforced by superstition. Because of the tangle of del Toro’s rewrites, the iconic wedding night from the book gets reworked into a wedding day. Instead of Elizabeth’s wedding to Victor, it is now her wedding to his brother William (aged up in the film). But all this change does not save her. When Victor visits Elizabeth at her vanity as she gets ready, he remarks that it’s “bad luck to see the bride before the wedding”— an oft reinforced wedding superstition. Elizabeth responds, slightly annoyed, “Only for the groom”. Not much later in this third act of the film, exactly that happens; not William but the Creature lays eyes on this woman in white, and disaster strikes immediately. In the ongoing chaos, Victor, aiming for the Creature, fatally shoots Elizabeth. Superstition blossoms.

Del Toro explicitly describes this (and the following) scene(s) as a wedding between Elizabeth and the Creature. Carried bridal style, down the steps and through the crowd, as the two seclude themselves in their tragedy. Elizabeth’s dress, with its bandaged design, is meant to evoke the titular “Bride of Frankenstein” from the 1935 film. A character whose absence is imprinted onto the text, both in the original novel as in del Toro’s adaptation. Or at least, absent in the shape of a female Creature purpose-built. It turns out, one does not need to start from scratch to find connection, woman is already capable of empathising with the Other2. “There is a beautiful marriage of souls in the film. […] The creature gets a bride and loses her on the same day.” (Del Toro, again) This is their twisted wedding; the Creature in his furs, the blood spreading through Elizabeth’s white dress. The Maiden consumed by death, the Maiden in Death’s arms.

II.II Marrying a Widow / Bridal Utilitarianism

“Adapting a book is like marrying a widow. You have to respect the late husband, but on Saturdays, you are allowed to get it on.”

• by Guillermo del Toro, on adapting “Frankenstein” (1818), in conversation with Forbes (2025)

Marrying a widow is the right metaphor, alright. It perfectly reflects the adaptational attitude towards the bride, oft shuffled around and assigned different meanings based on context, authorial intent, mood. Symbolically fluid, ephemeral, shimmering. Hard to pin down. Elizabeth’s death, while true to Mary Shelley’s novel as a plot point, has very different connotations in its original form, where her murder is conducive to the Creature’s revenge against Victor. There, the Maiden’s succumbing to Death is not reflective of the Maiden as desirable or as transformative, empathetic power, but as property. Shelley’s creature kills Victor’s loved ones, including Elizabeth, to directly harm his creator, to condemn him to the same eternal loneliness. This is the difference between the bride-as-property and the the-bride-as-beloved (!).

“I heard a shrill and dreadful scream. […] She was there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed, her head hanging down, and her pale and distorted features half covered by her hair. Every where I turn I see the same figure— [Elizabeth’s] bloodless arms and relaxed form flung by the murderer on its bridal bier.”

• by Mary Shelley, from “Frankenstein” (1818), p199, (bolded words my own)

This same identity split is quite pronounced in “Dracula” (1897) and its myriad of adaptations. Whether the cycle of violence against its bride(s) is enabled in the name of love or in the name of property differs per interpretation. When Stoker first penned the tale, the friction in the novel resided much more clearly between Johnathan and the Count. When the Count goes after Mina, Johnathan’s wife, he does so in the spirit of weakening her husband, of threading despair in the group hunting him through the streets of London. It is not necessarily a personal affront. The Count’s assault on Johnathan in the castle, and later against Mina, is an assault on Johnathan’s masculinity and its dependants: his ability to defend himself, to master his own lust, to protect what is “his”. Mina is only a means to an end. The violence perpetrated against her is strategic, my dear. When the Count force-feeds her his blood, the passage’s cruelty reinforces the bride-as-property, while its imagery alludes to the bridal;

“With his left hand, [the Count] held both Mrs Harker’s hands, keeping them away with her arms at full tension; his right hand gripped her by the back of the neck, forcing her face down on his bosom. Her white nightdress was smeared with blood, and a thin stream trickled down the man’s bare breast which was shown by his thorn-open dress. The attitude of the two had a terrible resemblance to a child forcing a kitten’s nose into a saucer of milk to compel it to drink.”

• by Bram Stoker, from “Dracula” (1897), p300 (bolded words my own)

In Francis Ford Coppola’s 1992 film adaptation of the story, “Bram Stoker’s Dracula”, the dice are recast to invent a love story between the Count and Mina. The scene of violence in the bedroom (see quote above) becomes much more tender, willing, consenting— the lovers mean to spent eternity together. Their encounter resembles wedding vows, complete with mentions of death and eternity. At first, the Count hesitates; “I cannot let this be. […] You will be cursed as I am to walk in the shadow of death… for all eternity. I love you too much to condemn you”, to which Mina replies, ironically, “Then take me away from all this death”, and Dracula finally gives in. The visual motifs remain the same as before; white nightdress, blood on the sheets, the hushed air.

While Mina here takes on the role of bride-as-beloved, Coppola’s iteration of Lucy still gets the bride-as-property treatment. Drained for the sake of it, and buried in white. Mina, on the other hand, serves as love interest, as main focus of the Count’s motivations, not because of her connection to a man, but in spite of it. Her status as soon-to-be-wife is actually an inhibiting factor to their relationship, as she is torn between her attraction to the Count, and her wholesome love for Johnathan. On the ship on her way to marry, Mina muses: “And now, without [the Count], soon to be a bride, I am lost”. She is reluctant to leave behind the intriguing Count, to marry the steady object of her affections, Johnathan.

This split between one who is passionate, but frightening, and one so virtuous, if a bit dull, is a classic device of early romance fiction, before it started merging the two male leads into one (see Jan Cohn, “Romance and the Erotics of Property”, 1988). And this triangle formation between “monster”, “hero”, and “the girl”, has a seemingly endless library of related tropes attached3…

II.III The Graphs! They’re Alive!!!

“No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.”

• by Aristotle

This is where I might lose you to my all-consuming madness, my dear. By this point, I realised that our examples so far have proven that bridal Gothic does not live or die by one trope in specific, but I was starting to narrow things down. I had a conspiracy board and everything. So I did what any sane, rational person would do, and spent three hours making a chart separating what I believe to be the four main bridal Gothic tale types4— based on the previously established split between bride-as-property, and bride-as-beloved (taken from the monster’s POV), as well as either the desire to escape or embrace the monster (from the Maiden’s POV).

The resulting four types of bridal Gothic are: (1) Subservient, (2) Empathetic, (3) Derogatory, and (4) Haunted (See chart below). Some of these, like type 4, are more likely to be the “human strain” of DatM, in which the “monstrous” bridegroom is not physically or externally monstrous, but rather monstrous in character. Others, like type 2, are almost entirely of the literal Monster strain, which speaks for itself. It’s the difference between merely representing death, and being Death himself.

But one chart wasn’t enough, no. As I started thinking of these tale types, my mind naturally wandered to the endings associated with them. After another hour or two, I boiled these down to a theory of the four most common root endings (with further branch / combination endings pictured in the second graph below);

1. [3, 4] Burning the House Down: where the Maiden’s flight response is triggered by external circumstances rather than the Monster (read: husband) himself, these are resolved or removed from the equation, ie. the house burning down (“Jane Eyre” 1847, “Rebecca” 1938).

2. [2, 3] Death of either party: the Maiden consumed by death (DMa, a classic case of dead bride syndrome) (“Frankenstein” 2025, “Nosferatu” 2024), or the Monster perishes instead (DMo, “Bram Stoker’s Dracula” 1992).

3. [1, 3, 4] Repetition5: the Maiden survives and re-marries a less monstrous husband, but doesn’t escape the confines of marriage completely (Bluebeard)— both “Dracula” (1897) and “Bram Stoker’s Dracula” (1992) are arguably an R/D combination6, specifically R-DMo.

4. [2, 4] Transformation of either party: the Monster is tamed (Hades and Persephone) or transformed (TMo, Beauty and the Beast), or the Maiden turns monstrous (TMa, “the Shape of Water” 2017, Angela Carter’s “the Tiger’s Wife” 1979).

II.IV Until Death Do Us Part

“Patriarchy … is at home at home.”

• by Joan Kelly, taken from “Romance and the Erotics of Property: Mass-Market Fiction for Women” (1988) by Jan Cohn, p73

Marriage, both in the real world and as a plot device, is often a simple brick road leading to the home, and to filling that home with children, as was (and largely still is) the heteronormative ideal. But marriage to the Monster (Death) does not often lead to a home, or a house to call one’s own. Neither does it lead to offspring. In this way, the marriage between Death and the Maiden is a perversion of the typical “order” of marriage, supplanting it instead with the “chaos” of emotional, rather than physical, belonging. For example, though Guillermo del Toro’s “the Shape of Water” (2017) does not contain an explicit marriage, Elisa’s new gills at the end of the film do imply a renewed symbolic belonging and enmeshment. A long-term commitment. The ocean is her home with the “Amphibian Man” (as his character is credited) now. But the depths of water are not so much a place, as they are an idea, an emotion. Literal submergence. There is no building a home against the current that is always moving.

Perhaps one could say that the DatM marriage then, paradoxically, rejects the fundamentals of marriage. At least in part. There is still the idea of prolonged, if not infinite, attachment to one another; death as a life-state is quite permanent, after all, my dear. But the DatM marriage often does not lead to, or doesn’t make it to the ideal of “settling down”. In Dutch this is referred to as “huisje, boompje, beestje”: a descriptor of a calm, domestic life involving (literally) a house, garden, and a pet. Americans might summarise this ideal in the white-picket fence, the clear boundary of where the home (safety, domesticity) ends and the world (uncertainty, chaos) threatens to invade.

But this boundary between hearth and hazard is not nearly as impenetrable in the DatM romance. The Gothic novel is famous for having manors besieged by invaders (“We Have Always Lived in the Castle” 1962, “the Castle of Otranto” 1764, arguably the final act of “Dracula” 1897), or for having them burn down (“Jane Eyre” 1847, “Rebecca” 1938). Even in Disney’s 1991 saccharine-sweet “Beauty and the Beast” adaptation the castle is swarmed by a mob of armed villagers. The home isn’t safe and the marriage is doomed to end in flames or death, or both. Monstrous as it may seem, the DatM marriage is devoid of the guileless assumption of [physical] safety. Though love in death is eternal, loving Death is the ultimate vulnerability. There is no place to hide.

This vulnerability is anxiety-inducing, especially in relation to the event of the wedding as a threshold of sorts. Ellen has nightmares about a wedding with Death, foreshadowing Count Orlok’s arrival in “Nosferatu” (2024). In anticipation of her marriage to the vampire Edward, Bella dreams of a monstrous wedding gone wrong in “Breaking Dawn Part 1” (2011), where, interestingly, everybody is wearing white, so the red blood soaking through is even more striking as a visual. Remember; cleanliness invokes the stain. That’s not to say that this anxiety is misplaced. Very rarely do bride and groom, Death and Maiden, cross over into that unfamiliar, strange “happy ever after”. One, or both parties, must die, if not the wedding averted altogether. The rare few times that it does work out are the exception, not the rule. Hades and Persephone might have established the archetype, but their marital bliss is certainly not typical for their imitators.

II.V Death of the Self

“Marital Gothic begins with, or shortly after, a marriage— the same marriage that provided a sacramental expulsion of horror […]. Perfect love supposedly has cast out fear, and perfect trust in another has led to the omission of anxiety discussed above as an antecedent of repetition compulsion. Yet horror returns in the new home of the couple, conjured up by renewed denial of the heroine’s identity and autonomy. The marriage that she thought would give her voice (because she would be listened to), movement (because her status would be that of an adult), and not just a room of her own but a house, proves to have none of these attributes. The husband who was originally defined by his opposition to the unjust father figure slowly merges with that figure. The heroine again finds herself mute, paralyzed, enclosed, […]”

• via Archive Source 3

But not all monstrous husbands are physically so. Let us not forget about the parts of bridal Gothic in which the husband is not literally a Monster or a beast, is not a capitalised, personified Death, but rather represents death and violence symbolically. This “strain” of bridal Gothic brings with it its own set of fears and anxieties. The marriage, here, is frightening not only because of the threat of masculine violence, but because of the identity entrapment associated with it. This fear of marriage as mistake, as gilded cage, or even as foreboding premonition stems from the social climate in which this genre was at its most popular. The late eighteen and early nineteenth century, when forced marriage Gothic was arguably at its peak, had little to no security for women, and virtually no opportunities for them to make their own way in the world. Divorce was uncommon, if not impossible. To be a bride meant to belong to the husband, as legal property. Arranged marriages gave birth to the Bluebeard archetype; the monster in the wedding suit. Unmasking only after the vows are binding.

There was simply little to no margin for error in one’s pick of a husband. Even if one mostly manages to avert tragedy, the heart is still a fragile thing. In “Jane Eyre” (1847), the halted marriage of Jane and Rochester is, on paper, a good thing. Exchanging rings would have meant Jane’s forced silence about Rochester’s first wife, the madwoman in the attic, her footsteps audible through the creaking wood above the marriage bed. If, post-nuptials, the truth ever came out that his first wife was not dead but mad, the scandal would be all-consuming, starting with devouring any sense of [financial] stability and [legal] protection Jane could hope for.

But Jane’s heart has already walked down the aisle, and agony is inevitable; “The house cleared, I shut myself in, fastened the bolt that none might intrude, and proceeded - not to weep, not to mourn, I was yet too calm for that, but - mechanically to take off the wedding dress and replace it by the stuff gown I had worn yesterday, as I thought, for the last time.” (by Charlotte Brontë, 1847) Even in doing the right thing, the aborted wedding causes anxieties. The imminent death of the self, and expected rebirth, snatched so viciously from Jane’s measured hands is crushing. “Jane Eyre, who had been an ardent, expectant woman — almost a bride, was a cold, solitary girl again: her life was pale; her prospects were desolate.”

Marital anxiety does portent to doom in bridal Gothic. Both death and the wedding vows are a symbolic handing of the self to the Other; unification with the unknown. Like the bride has historically belonged to her husband, to die is to be consumed completely. The phrase of “taking” a wife, as is common in Christian wedding vows, is almost a Persephone reference. No pomegranate seeds needed. The secrecy of the whole ordeal only makes it more frightening, the hushed refrains of marriage little girls endure in childhood. Illicit references to an elusive husband yet unknown. “You’ll know when you’re married”, “That’s between a husband and wife”, “One day you’ll have a husband of your own”.

Suppose that marriage is a kind of Hades, a dark underworld glittering with treasures known only to the married couple. A closed door to a bedroom is almost a River Lethe. Who knows what goes on beyond? And why wouldn’t you be frightened? The wife disappears from the places, the life she inhabited as a bride. And this fact does not go unnoticed. Emily Dickinson, for example, uses the exact same language to write of her friends’ marriages, as she does of their deaths. “When people get carried off to marriage, they are not heard from again; they procrastinate with their former friends, no longer making time for connecting. Marriage, understood as a matter of time, carries women off.” (by Marianne Noble, from “the Cambridge Companion to Erotic Literature”, 2017).

According to Lacan, the woman “does not exist”. Or rather, she exists both within and partially beyond the symbolic order. Certain facets of her exceed the phallocentric structure of identity and meaning. She cannot be categorised as something, nor as the absence of something. The highest extension of this is the bride; the woman not yet bound by vows. In between girlhood and its patriarchal ideal of a purpose; motherhood (which in its own way, is a kind of disappearance, a non-existence). In the original “Frankenstein” (1818), Victor has a nightmare of his beloved Elizabeth, first touched by death, and then morphing into the corpse of his mother, rapidly shedding and re-aligning new states of self;

“I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her; but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel.”

• by Mary Shelley, from “Frankenstein” (1818)

The shroud here is akin to a veil. The bride is the ultimate state of limbo, not belonging to the self, nor the father, nor the eventual husband; “the danger and fascination that the bride exerts can also be attributed to the fact that she could potentially belong to everybody, that she could be anything and everything” (by Elisabeth Bronfen, from “Over Her Dead Body: Death, Femininity and the Aesthetic”, 1992, p270). But when that husband is Death, the Other, she once more escapes categorisation into the Void of Semiotics. What can belong to Death, when its corresponding state is one the dissolution all ties? Who owns that which does not exist? Which does the rot belong to; the body or the forest floor, both or neither?

II.VI the Sexually Active Wife

“[…] voices a passionate yearning for jouissance, for shattering of the constraints of identity, for an ecstatic merge with with totality, for orgasm. Subordination to a husband may not be an earnest wish for [Emily] Dickinson, but an erotic sublime – an ecstatic surrender to an orgasmic, overwhelming flooding of sexual sensation – might well be.”

• by Marianne Noble, from “the Cambridge Companion to Erotic Literature” (2017), p163

There is a third, and final anxiety, or even an eagerness, we have yet to discuss. Like the others, it is dual-sided, sharp like a knife. Where is the line between husband-as-liberation and husband-as-entrapment? Nestled into sin, death by a thousand paper cuts. At first, picking a husband represents a shimmering infinity. The beauty of the husband is the choice between sham liberty in the arms of one man, or another. Girls grow up eager for it, frustratingly reaching for chances to grasp onto the privileges of womanhood. An expansion of their limited freedoms. New identities to try on.

Marriage was (and in some cultures, still is) the only virtuous, acceptable outlet for sexuality… to an extent. Rather, sexuality was sanctioned, by church and society, only so much as to serve procreation, not pleasure, and only taking place between a married man and woman. Feminine sexuality, if it was even acknowledged, existed purely in a reactionary state, through a spiritual bond with the husband… Or so the literature of the time states. It’s hard to estimate if these attitudes were similarly reciprocated by the general population, though. Most of these texts, whether denying feminine sexuality, or dramatising masculine sexuality, could be read as fetish texts in themselves, my dear. Katie Hickman, in her work “Courtesans: Money, Sex and Fame in the Nineteenth Century” (2003), posits that a not insignificant portion of such morality texts could have been written for fetishistic gratification, rather than to accurately reflect Victorian society. Vigilance is required.

What little data we have on Victorian sex lives within marriage, like the Mosher survey (see Archive Source 2), seems to suggest that Victorian women’s reported sexual pleasure had little effect on the frequency of sex in their marriage, both actual and ideal. That does not, however, mean that these women did not harbour sexual desires. Rather, the vicious repression enforced on them largely forced these desires into other channels, like the novel. Reading is a pleasure, after all, my dear. The romance and the Gothic novel each fulfils different feminine fantasies; the former revolves around the ideal of the heroine succeeding within the structure of patriarchy, while the latter is more concerned with the pleasures, thrills, and the “strange luxury of artificial terror” (by E.J. Clery, from “the Rise of Supernatural Fiction 1762-1800”, 1995) the supernatural can provide. Ideals normally smothered for women under patriarchy.

The romance novel trope of the sexually potent villain, forcing some poor heroine into marriage, then, is really just an excuse for secondary eroticism to be imprinted onto the [consenting] reader, through the conduit of the non-consenting or hesitant heroine. Contrasting the moustache-twirling villain to the vampire anti-hero, the crux of their difference is the heroine’s (Maiden’s) attitude towards him: desire to escape / desire to embrace (!). The monstrous husband is what happens when masculine sexuality is weaponised against the heroine, while the Monster husband represents the more enticing (yet still dangerous) facets of it. Gothic, as a genre that often wields the language and motifs of horror, equates sex with death, but also maintains the allure of this duality, both in spite, and because of it. And so the plot thickens..

Monstrous bridegrooms, more frightening than alluring at first, softened over time as our cultural understanding of them expanded. Jan Cohn, in his book “Romance and the Erotics of Property: Mass-Market Fiction for Women” (1988) alleges that, as social norms eased, the romance hero and villain characters gradually morphed into one. Now, the monstrous husband could exemplify both the heroine’s safe space, as well as the force pushing her out of her comfort zone. Refined, seductive, but also dangerous, animalistic, [sexually] aggressive. The dualities of Rochester rather than the single face of Bluebeard.

The personified Death, too, became understood as a force both tender and terrifying, capable of romance. “Because I could not stop for Death / He kindly stopped for me” (by Emily Dickinson, 1890). The Monster became an sympathetic creature: modern audiences are much more likely to respond to the subtext of the relationship between Monster and Maiden (see; the amount people rooting for #TeamOrlok in response to “Nosferatu”, 2024), and their stories are more often set up that way too (see; Guillermo del Toro’s re-writes for “Frankenstein”, 2025). When these tales originated, the thought of the Monster as anything but malicious threat was hardly considered within the text. The Count in Bram Stoker’s original “Dracula” (1897) represented a fear of the Other, a fear of the sexual seducer “stealing one’s girl” in the sense of an assault on property, not a consensual seduction.

Bridal Gothic, especially the monstrous husband trope, is the natural conclusion of [feminine] marital anxieties about entrapment, the loss of self, and repressed sexuality. A fiction in which these fears are legitimate beyond the inexpressible confines of patriarchy, the murky lines we can feel but not name. “No, you are not on the brink of madness.” bridal Gothic whispers. Something really is wrong, my dear. Beyond the yellow wallpaper, this house is a trap, and your husband has the keys. He has the choice of being your jailor or your liberator, and he might not even know it. How could you ask of him, what you cannot put into words?

The ultimate, final freedom is always within death, is found in loving Death. The sexual allure and appeal of the Monster (Death), is something I have written about extensively before— but it all boils down to this: love is masochism. We give our lovers a unique power over us: the power to [emotionally] hurt and maim us like no other. All these fears of marriage, of monstrous husbands, of dying to ourself, and so on, exist in one turbulent maelstrom. The dominant Romantic ideal is one of tragedy and passion, intertwined; the Intersection of Love and Violence. The Monster simply makes these abstract notions explicit. “The horror was for love. The things we do for love like this are ugly, mad, full of sweat and regret. This love burns you and maims you and twists you inside out. It is a monstrous love and it makes monsters of us all.” (from “Crimson Peak”, 2016). So let us be monsters, then, together, and embrace the things that frighten us at night. Both literally, and figuratively.

III. One Battle, Après un Autre

“You are today, Madame, the renown, the preoccupation, the scandal and the toast of Paris. Everywhere they talk only of you…”

• by Alfred Delvau, from “Les Plaisirs de Paris” (1867), about the courtesan Cora Pearl

My November, my dear, was quite a journey of flame and flight— thank you for asking. I spent a cold few days in Battle in a cottage from 1433 with barely any heating, but with great company to make up for it. We spent the weekend trailing the Battle of Hastings and exploring the Gothic remains of the abbey, rummaging through charity stores, and sitting by the fire. Eager for warmth in the rickety hallways of the home. A pyromaniac theme emerged; on Saturday evening a procession of torches to celebrate bonfire night, culminating in fireworks and an inferno as tall as the abbey nearby. Smoke stained our clothes and could be smelled for days more. I also had the immense [dis]pleasure of losing grandiosely at a game of Trivial Pursuit (in my defence, this was a version from before I was even born)— which is how I learnt that Percy Shelley was expelled from Eton for stabbing. The more you know!

Not a week later, I found myself carrying my luggage over Parisian cobblestones, welcomed by the most exquisitely vivid orange sunset. I felt immediately at home again. Paris can have that dizzying effect on you, you know. All the glimpses of eras long gone will sweep you right off your feet. Anyway, I spent the first few days with my beloved friend, arriving late on Friday and going out for dinner, caught off guard by the Arc de Triomphe and gawking at the sparkling majesty of the Eiffel Tower. Tourist sights I’ve often ignorantly ignored in favour of more esoteric fare. What can I say, I’m a bit of a snob on occasion.

On Saturday, we went on a walking tour of Montmartre in the morning, hearing about artists, and suicides, and tragic romances. All the lovely things. Stopping by the lovely “Saint Jean de Montmartre” church to light a candle, and the statue of Dalida, on our climb up to the “Sacré-Cœur” cathedral. Plenty to digest, for all this yearning is hungry work! Best to enjoy a crêpe on the way down, then. Just to be sensible. Then, after a long day, I had my first ever oyster (very salty), paired with three glasses of an overly sweet dessert wine while we got ready for a very, very, very special occasion. A real dream came true…

Yours truly had evening tickets to “le Crazy Horse”, a classic topless revue that’s been going since 1951. Scandalous and champagne-fuelled, the Crazy Horse has seen a multitude of stars and starlets grace its infamously shallow stage: Dita von Teese was their first ever guest star in 2006, an experiment she repeated two more times in Paris, and four more times at MGM’s “Crazy Horse Paris” show in Las Vegas. But the wall of celebrity visitors inside is seemingly never-ending— you can spot any manner of celebutante or personage, from Elvis Presley and Man Ray, to Alfred Hitchcock, Madonna, and David Lynch. Now that’s a list of names I would be in good company in.

The show is made up of a great selection of short, song-length acts, involving protection mapping, planed mirrors, lighting effects, conveyor belts, and, of course, a few poles here and there. The act of stripping itself is markedly absent, so what you see, is what you get. The vast majority of the show’s iconic acts are still here: “God Save Our Bareskin” and “But I’m a Good Girl” remain untouched (pun intended), while my favourite “Teasing” has been partially reworked into “Voodoo”. We had “restricted view” tickets, which were great. These slightly discounted tickets place you on the side of the room, but you won’t feel like you’re fully missing out on more than one out of a dozen acts. Sometimes, dancers on the side are not visible, but when they are all doing the same or very similar choreography, it doesn’t take away from the effect at all. It’s still an entirely spellbinding night, my dear.

Consequently, the late night (or early morning?) meant an even later rising on Sunday, and a long walk along the Seine to reflect on our debauchery. We took a short stop at the world’s most charmingly underwhelming cannon ball lodged in the side of a building on the “Rue du Figuier”, before crossing the river to drink some earl grey and play a few games of chess at the atmospheric “Blitz Society”. One Parisian bistro and one more Eiffel Tower sighting later, I settled into my hotel room for the next few days.

As a little side-note, my previous favourite gluten free bakery in Paris has been indefinitely dethroned! In the game of pastries, you either win, or you get unceremoniously replaced in a later newsletter… This entire trip, I spent fueled by pastries from “Copains” (which, serendipitously, has also appeared in Covent Garden in London)— croissants, cinnamon buns, and warming apple turnovers, I just couldn’t resist! Nor am I enough of a masochist to deny some Dionysian revelry… When life gives you pastries, you don’t suddenly become a bakery prude. Declining gifts is rude, my dear. When in Paris, you simply can’t shun a fresh croissant.

That first day on my own, Monday, mere hours after resigning to solitude, I went and visited my favourite church in Paris, the “Église Saint-Eustache”, taking a lengthy moment to inhale its Gothic splendour. Straight medicine for the soul. On my way to the métro afterwards, a gaggle of French youths yelled something in my direction, with a tone I could only describe as… wholesome excitement? My French is far from fluent, my dear, so all I could make out were the words “porcelain” (“porcelaine”) and “doll” (“poupée”)… I was headed to “Montparnasse Cemetery”, dressed in my best goth finery. A lolita coat (It has bows! It has lace! It flares out like a skirt!), paired with mary janes, frilly gloves, a brown lace skirt, and a newfound love for sheer white foundation. Of course I took it as a compliment. What else is one to do?

It was quite cold out, but I was warmed by a lengthy promenade through the cemetery, visiting Baudelaire’s lipstick-stained grave and seeing the dizzying array of tombs in the morning gloom. Over-estimating the steadiness of my own feet, I trailed through the 6th arrondissement, buying a gorgeous pendant at a religious store named “Georges Thrillers”, visiting the “Église Saint Joseph des Carmes”, and browsing the edible fineries of “La Grande Épicerie de Paris”. For dinner, I nestled in at my favourite spot, “Le Procope”, for a classic French bistro experience in a historic setting. You know the restaurant is good when it has its own Wikipedia page, my dear. The narrative importance adds extra flavour.

On the second day, a hasty hotel check-out and a Copains croissant for the road, as I was determined to see the “Gabrielle Hébert: Amour fou à la Villa Médicis” exhibition (on until February 15th) at the “Musee D’Orsay” before my departure later that day. There are few things that can coax me into rising early, but a good exhibition is certainly one of them. This one combined so many of my paramours: a story of devotion, romanticism, and early 19th century photography. There is something about the look of a gelatine print or silver albumen positive that has such a spectral, otherworldly quality about it. It’s a very dreamy medium. Enchanted by the exhibition and with my time dwindling rapidly, I had the quickest dip into the larger museum to see Gustave Courbet’s infamous painting “L’Origine du Monde” (“Origin of the World”), before hurrying along to grab lunch and catch my train home, returning to dreary London once more, from where I write to you now. Au revoir, Paris! We will meet again!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* On the List *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

[My recommendation: use this month as medicine to ease yourself into the new year. Spend time with family, friends, or arch-nemeses, if you like. The White Lily Society event calendar will return in January <3]

Obsessive Tendencies: What I’ve Loved Lately

1. Dark in Love, “Dreda” Lace top, [Black lace is an everyday essential, my dear], £55

2. Made by Mitchell, Build Foundation in “LB1”, [The perfect sheer white foundation for that porcelain doll look, as validated by Parisian youths], £20

3. FromSoftware, “Dark Souls 3” for PS4, [A gorgeous gift for my fellow masochistic gamers], £44.99

4. Dark in Love, “Cecilia” skirt, [Wearing miniskirts in the winter may not be my smartest aspiration, but certainly very cute], £42

5. Punk Rave, “Whispers” blouse in white, [A goth can never have enough white blouses!!!], £69

6. Dark in Love, “Circe” black gloves, [Aesthetically sensible mittens for the winter], £23

“In the winter I am writing about, there was much darkness. Darkness of nature, darkness of event, darkness of the spirit. The sprawling darkness of not knowing. We speak of the light of reason. I would speak here of the darkness of the world, and the light of……. But I don’t know what to call it. Maybe hope. Maybe faith, […].
Faith, as I imagine it, is tensile, and cool, and has no need of words. Hope, I know, is a fighter and a screamer.”

• by Mary Oliver, from “Winter Hours” (collected in “Upstream: Selected Essays”, 2016)

And so that leaves us at the end of the year, the precipice to a foreign land. We cannot know what the other side holds for us, at least, not more than a preview. I know my January will be one of cardboard boxes, of burlesque glamour, of re-reinvention. All my carefully laid plans will slowly start blossoming, from the new bedframe I picked, to surviving the desolate winter, now with a tree in front of my window. My current ambition for my move in February is to get an elaborate Victorian dollhouse and absolutely dote on it with Gothic miniatures and ardent adoration. I want to deck my second coming of Blackberry Hill House in lace curtains and dark wood. As is to be expected.

This will be my first time celebrating the winter holidays in London, enjoying the last months in this nest of mine, trying not to succumb to fruitless melancholy. What is frightening can only sneak up on us once we turn our back on it, remember that, my dear. The monster under your bed wishes you well, and so do I. Do not forget that in the loneliness of the month’s festivities. For what it’s worth, I almost lost my left thumb in a bread-knife related incident while writing this newsletter. Talk about being committed to the Intersection of Love and Violence… Real blood, sweat, and tears, are tucked away in this envelope.

Affirmations for the end of the year (repeat after me)

1. It is okay that my problems are largely insignificant in the eyes of the greater universe, and that I yet still feel them very deeply

2. I am not in need of a cure

3. The possibility of surviving the winter without total hibernation is greater than the possibility of succumbing to the cold

Until next year,

With love (and violence),

x Sabrina Angelina, the White Lily Society 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

Currently reading: “Dracula” by Bram Stoker (yes, still) // Most recent read: “Doves and Pomegranates” by Christina Rossetti

White Lily Society links // Sabrina Angelina links

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📼 Song of the (past) month: Buckle - Florence and the Machine

“Mournful November” & “But the dark feels different in November”

• by Margaret Atwood, from “November” (collected in “You Are Happy”, 1974) // by Nina MacLaughlin, from “The Dark Feels Different in November” (the Paris Review, 2017)

TW. Recapping one of the lectures I attended this past October, there are a few mentions of necrophilia in Section II.I; they are brief and non-graphic. Section II.II contains an image of a prop from “Frankenstein” (2025) with slight gore. Reader / viewer discretion is advised, as always.

01/11/2025, London, UK

My dear,

It feels like only days ago I was writing my last letter to you. I never got to crawl out from behind my desk. The pit, the pendulum, and the veil separating them. Illusion of differing starting and ending points. Polluted Romanticism. November is an eerie haunting, like a hollowed-out tree trunk. Its roots spread a pattern of directions on how to get lost, luring you off the known path. Familiarity is a vice, and the fairytale warnings ringing in the back of your stubborn skull are not strong enough as a protection spell. So make a stronghold of your will with all the weapons of a fool; scissors / scythe / blindfold1. Forge the serpentine, slithering will to live even more intensely than you already do. Cocoon into the self.

This colder turn of the year always makes me yearn for medievalism; snow-kissed steel, dewdrops on blades. Desolation and devotion, love and violence. Twisting, grotesque spires on towering churches. I revisit the likes of Chrétien de Troyes, the Arthurian legends, but also the bitter gloom of video games like “Elden Ring” (2022)2 and “Dark Souls 3” (2016), the fantastical twists of “Game of Thrones” (2011-2019) or “House of the Dragon” (2022-). I like to feel the frigid cold of it seep into my bones, I enjoy the bleak melancholy of the season. The barren tree branches extend overhead like a network of arteries or nerves, mythology in bundles, feeding off of one another. The intertwined discipline of storytelling, my dear.

Let’s try unravelling this past month…

I. Archive Sources

[Error 404: Section missing. Try re-sending your prompt in thirty days. Thank you for your patience while we undertake some tech necromancy *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ]

II. Angels of Death

“The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?”

• by Edgar Allan Poe, from “the Premature Burial” (1844)

This hazy, short-lived October, I attended five events as part of “London Month of the Dead”, saw Guillermo del Toro’s “Frankenstein” (2025) in cinema, and came face-to-face with the guillotine blade that killed Marie Antoinette. All things I am both eager and willing to report on, my dear. The autumnal months always pass us by in such a hurry, it is savvy to pin them down, document them, scrapbook them. See here, my magnum opus of arts and crafts.

II.I London Month of the Dead

The very first LMOTD event of the season I faithfully attended was a talk on necrophilia in art and culture, given by the wonderful Madeleine LeDespecter. It proved to be most enlightening, in many ways. For example, I learnt that there are ten classifications of necrophile3, ranging all the way from casual role players (resurrection fantasies, pretend-necrophiliac scenarios) to exclusive necrophiles (those who insist on the company of the dead only). Interestingly enough, the classification is very male-centred, and is based on the ability to get an erection, so there is a whole grey area when it comes to female necrophiles. But fear not, there are certainly classes with equal gender opportunity for involvement, such as in class II, the romantic necrophile.

These types develop necrophiliac tendencies only after the loss of a loved one, when the grief is too strong to let go. It’s a much more wholesome, Romantic class, based more on the idea of sanctifying or preserving the beloved, rather than having intercourse with the body. Artemisia II of Caria- who took a daily sacrament of her husband Mausolus’s4 ashes, mixed into her drink - falls into this category of the romantic necrophile. Another interesting class was class III, the necrophiliac fantasiser, which Mary Shelley would have been right at home in (if it was not outright based on her). It characteristically involves perverse or deviant behaviour associated with funerals, obituaries, and cemeteries— including sex in cemeteries. Very reminiscent of Mary and Percy’s cemetery “date”… If you know, you know. How outrageously scandalous!

Angels were the subject of the second talk (hosted by Dr. Emma Liggins), or more specifically the phenomenon of female angel statues in cemeteries, the Gothic “angels of death”. The lecture looked at the ubiquitousness of the mourner-as-woman, with examples from Southern Cemetery in Manchester, weaving a vast web of connections across art and literature; there is the Victorian ideal of the “angel in the house”, but on the other hand, all the known angels in [Christian] scripture are male. And yet still the woman gets cast as maiden, mourner, widow, angel. Looming atop the resting place of her beloved husband. Always beloved, never anything less. The carved wings, stuck, weeping— the angel in stone as mirror for the wife left behind. Pointing at the heavens as if mourning abandonment.

“you may not know what I mean by the Angel in the House. […] She was intensely sympathetic. She was immensely charming. She was utterly unselfish. She excelled in the difficult arts of family life. She sacrificed herself daily. […] Her purity was supposed to be her chief beauty — her blushes, her great grace.”
& “Killing the Angel in the House [is] part of the occupation of a woman writer.”

• by Virginia Woolf, from “Professions for Women” (1931)

Perhaps it should be noted that angels were most frequently the most expensive option for a memorial, as well as being outrageously popular; Victorian funeral custom was never free from ties of wealth, status, and class. In fact, the era gave birth to the profession of undertaker, my dear. Which brings us to the next talk I attended, on the origins of the funeral industry in the Victorian era, hosted by the wonderful Emma Sparre-Newman, cemetery services manager at Brompton Cemetery.

The Victorians elevated the practice of mourning into art, and quite a costly one, inventing all manner of rituals and traditions to prescribe to the trajectory of grief, with heavy price tags to match. As London churchyards, especially in the early 1800s, started filling up rapidly, the burial acts of the 1830s and 50s gave license for private purpose-built cemeteries (see also; the magnificent seven in London) to open, and then for burial within central London to be banned almost entirely. As the distance then became too great for funeral processions to walk them, the practice of undertaking was established. Whereas before, the body sat at home, accompanied by a layer out, who masked the smell with a variety of fragrant herbs, before being brought to a parish churchyard, now, there was a longer, much more substantial process to be dealt with.

Mourning started becoming a much more extravagant process, especially for those who could afford to follow these fluid, arbitrary rules. The wealthy got inspired by the heraldic funerals of medieval knights, and the common people followed suit. More horses for the funeral procession, more ostrich feathers, more solemn men leading the charge. Queen Victoria herself made a spectacle of her fourty years of mourning her late husband King Albert. Special mourning stationery and dress could make one a fortune, especially because custom denoted that the attire of grief be burnt after mourning. The double exposure of the Victorian funeral is still visible in [Western] burial practices today, but most of their expensive mourning practices are not. One of my long lost favourites is the funeral biscuit, a practice inspired by the notion of “sin eating”. The consumption, of the biscuit in this case, served both to spiritually absolve the deceased of [some of] their sin, and to take it on in their stead. Pre-biscuit, it was common to invite a vagrant to eat a meal beside the corpse of the deceased, for much the same purpose. Much more ironic if the deceased’s sin of choice was gluttony…

My third event, taking place in the evening after the previous talk, was the LMOTD’s concert of “Death and the Maiden” by Schubert, which was especially anticipated because the same event last year had a last-minute change of music, playing “Danse Macabre” instead. If you know me at all, you know the entire “Death and the Maiden” trope / mythos is my absolute bread and butter (I wrote 13k words on it this year, and 12k last year), so hearing the Schubert piece performed live after all this time, in Brompton Cemetery’s gorgeous chapel, was just awe-inspiring. The string quartet did a phenomenal job bringing this dance of bargaining, resistance, and acceptance between Death and the Maiden to life.

Finally, the title of this newsletter actually comes from the fifth LMOTD event, which was a selection of rare silent Edgar Allan Poe films, introduced by BFI curator Bryony Dixon, and scored live by Stephen Horne. We watched “Edgar Allan Poe” (1909), “Martyrs of the Inquisition” (1905), “the Pit, the Pendulum and Hope” (1983), “Rachmaninoffs Prelude” (1927), and “the Fall of the House of Usher” (1928). The latter was notable for its surreal, kaleidoscopic, uncanny style of visuals, taking heavy inspiration from German expressionism. As Madeline Usher succumbs to death, she quite literally descends a staircase of coffins. A notable visual symbol I couldn’t help but note down, my dear. At present I feel it represents very well the march from autumn into the cold underworld of winter. A katabasis of caskets.

II.II or the Modern Prometheus

In intrepid anticipation of Guillermo del Toro’s “Frankenstein” (2025), that adaptation of Mary Shelley’s beloved novel, I simply had to head down to Selfridge’s to see the limited-time free “Frankenstein: Crafting a Tale Eternal” exhibition of the film’s artwork, costumes, and props. I was pleased to meet with another angel of death here: the “dark angel” statue from the film. Signs and symbols, my dear, are everything to the faithful.

The exhibition was wonderfully immersive, featuring so much superbly imaginative artwork from the making of the film, as well as behind-the-scenes featurettes, and a stunning array of costumes. If there’s anything Guillermo del Toro excels at, it’s creating vibrant Gothic worlds for his films that get the understandably tricky task of balancing colour and darkness just right. His 2015 film “Crimson Peak” is a favourite of mine for this very reason; it proves that Gothic does not necessarily facilitate a monochrome palette (as much as I adore the monochrome look). All the ghosts and melodrama of “Crimson Peak” are just as gloomy when draped in deep red, vibrant teal, and rich gold lighting and costumes, and “Frankenstein” follows suit. The almost haemoglobin-esque patterns of some of the dresses reminded me of the typical endpapers on Victorian books. Needless to say, after the exhibition my enthusiasm reached new heights…

[Light spoilers ahead] As for the film itself, I’m a bit disappointed to tell you that I found it lacking in a fair few areas. I’m never a straight-edge accuracy devotee (I enjoy the very unfaithful Mina/Dracula romance trope, and certainly welcomed the Death and the Maiden inclusion in del Toro’s “Frankenstein”); adaptation is an art form and should not fear re-weaving narratives in order to elevate the material. However, I found almost all of the changes to Victor Frankenstein’s character to do very little in serving the plot or its themes. Generally, I wanted this film to take more from the tone of “Nosferatu” (2024); melodramatic, strong, and much more nuanced (like Mary Shelley’s novel)— del Toro is certainly no stranger to Gothic melodrama. Taking from Eggers does not, however, mean completely giving up on humour; I thought there were many subtle, visual comedic moments in “Nosferatu”, which I appreciate more than the overtly modern humour of “Frankenstein”.

Nevertheless, Jacob Elordi should absolutely be praised for his performance in the film (my definitive version of the creature). I had a great time whenever he was on-screen. As the creature, Elordi is subtle, magnetic, and gentle in a way that doesn’t feel at odds with the film’s very crunchy, punchy moments of violence and gore, saturated with just enough artifice to keep from being stomach-churning. Oscar Isaac’s Victor Frankenstein, on the other hand, is suffering quite largely from a script that refuses him all and any shades of grey. Victor is the monster, plain and simple. He is even told so at one point. In contrast, Mia Goth’s Elizabeth is still shadowy and divisive5 to me— I’ll have to pin down my feelings on her after one or two rewatches, though I always adore Goth’s charm. In broad strokes, the film is stunningly designed, and its world is rich and enchanting, even when the tone or plot falters quite heavily at times. It is neither my favourite del Toro nor my favourite Frankenstein adaptation, but its great elements (costumes, Elordi’s creature, stunning sets) do slightly overwhelm the much more lacklustre parts (plot changes, Victor’s character, tone)… ☆☆☆.5/5

“Since childhood, I’ve been faithful to monsters. I have been saved and absolved by them, because monsters, I believe, are patron saints of our blissful imperfection, and they allow and embody the possibility of failing.”

• by Guillermo del Toro, from a 2018 speech

II.III And Other Gatherings

Finally, we have made our way to the “rapid fire” section of these updates. Expect quick notes on everything prior even to October, that did not make it any of the other newsletters (contrary to belief, I do cut for brevity at times). Back in September, I had the privilege of attending the newly-opened “Marie Antoinette Style” exhibition at the V&A here in London, seeing all the little influences of the queen spread throughout fashion, film, and art. Particularly gut-wrenching was the red room, displaying a range of artefacts from the end of Marie Antoinette’s life, from her last written words, to a lock of her hair, and even the (alleged) guillotine blade that took her life. It was a surreal experience, having walked past frills and perfumed interactive elements, to stand there with the orchestral exhibition music swelling, and make eye contact with the last thing to touch the queen in this life.

In late September, I did some event photography for everyone is a girl’s “porno chic” event, a symposium on sex work and art, wonderfully orchestrated by . I went on Highgate Cemetery’s yearly bat walk, making my way through the twilight cemetery with flashlights like a true horror game protagonist would, and seeing some bat friends in the meanwhile. More than a handful of nights were densely filled with performance and delight. Additionally, I also made a brief foray into Frieze London, on invitation of a dear friend. The galleries were abundant and overwhelming, bustling with people. Predictably enough, I enjoyed Frieze Masters more than the contemporary fare— the swords, Gothic stonework, and the phenomenal Dorothy Cross booth were all favourites. Even if we did get lost in the labyrinthine halls once or twice… It is such a lovely thing to be lost and found again!

III. Three Years, and Other Omens

“I fell in love with the idea that the mysterious thing you look for your whole life will eventually eat you alive.”

• by Laurie Anderson

Happy three years of madness, my dear! When I was little, I was a deeply superstitious child; prone to touching objects, walls, reliquaries, in steady, subtle patterns. Hyperfixated on the exact sensation of the fingertips. I did not believe in doubles, but I did believe in threes; all good things came in multiples of three, uneven numbers. That particular way of thinking has stuck with me through the years, which only serves to make this particular anniversary even more gleaming and more radiant. To turn three is a good omen, my dear.

So many lovely things happened this year; the Society unveiled its new logo illustrated by , we held our first giveaway, and continued building at this wonderful little world of ours. My own ten fingers eagerly typed over one hundred thousand words on the newsletter alone! Not to mention all your lovely submissions, contributions, and suggestions, to the Substack and beyond. If the society is my own creature, and you, my dear are the stitches or the lightning, I suppose that makes me Victor Frankenstein… An analogy with absolutely no latent troubles, none at all! Supposedly there are worse parallels to draw with classic literature… I rather enjoy electrifying my little lab, doing experiments, and playing god ❦.

This year I read even more of your work, attended your plays and events, and donated to your bookshelves. What a joyous thing it is to run this cabinet of curiosities! All you wonderfully twisted kindred spirits are the best company one could ever ask for. For now, I leave you with this year’s overview of stats (I am a virgo after all), and a link to the timeline of the society. Small offerings to show my gratitude. Thank you, thank you, thank you for another year of love and violence. My study is admittedly more than a little cluttered right now, so don’t linger too long. There is much work to be done! Big things are coming, my dear, big things! It’s aliveee!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* On the List *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

Exhibitions, Events, and Talks. November has many choices for those more esoterically inclined, starting with a workshop on "deer magic" at Treadwell’s on the 9th, as well as "Dark Secrets: the Esoteric Exhibition" on until the 3rd of January, collecting all manner of accursed objects ranging from cursed dolls to other supposedly haunted objects. Similarly, the machinations of the new “Frankenstein” film are still available to view in exhibition at Selfridge’s until the 9th— the film itself will find its way to Netflix on the 7th. For those who prefer the sugar over spice, the V&A is hosting one of their free lunchtime lectures with the curator of their new “Maria Antoinette Style” exhibition (on until the 22nd of March) on the 13th of November.

The Viktor Wynd cabinet of curiosities always hosts an array of wonderfully esoteric events and exhibitions, including a talk on the Gothic in Angela Carter's writing on the 20th, and their new "fairy land" exhibition exhibition starting on the 6th. Additionally, sister collective Ethereal Maison is collaborating with artist Georgia Somerville for an exhibition and three days of events: panel talk and performance on the 6th, a "soft symbols" workshop on the 7th, and finally an interactive food experience on the 8th. Plenty to sink your teeth into, my dear.

Film, Music, and TV. As always, there is a never-ending selection of films screening in London. Choice picks include the “Twilight” (2008) re-release, on at a variety of cinemas, “Nude for Satan” (1974) on at the Nickel Cinema on the 9th, as well as the very enticing “the Erotic Rites of Frankenstein” (1973) on the 20th, and “Death Becomes Her” (1992) on at the Prince Charles Cinema on the 25th. For my fellow winter medievalists, “the Princess Bride” (1987) is screening on the 15th at the Prince Charles Cinema. Currently, it seems the Picturehouse monthly overview is quite broken, but it seems their re-release line-up includes Hitchcock’s 1960 classic “Psycho”, starting on the 3th, alongside 1954’s “Rear Window”.

In the Stars. Most of November is taken up by Scorpio season, so be sure to welcome the sting before moving into Sagittarius season on the 22nd. This month’s full moon will be on the 5th, and will seem extraordinarily large due to being a supermoon. The perfect time for rituals of the soul, and perhaps a bit of lunacy, too. Finally, the new moon will be visible in the sky on the 20th ☆

Obsessive Tendencies: What I’ve Loved Lately

1. Fangamer, BloodBorne “Hunter’s Dream” t-shirt, [A birthday gift from a beloved friend], $36

2. MAC, Lustreglass Sheer Shine Lipstick “Alone Time”, [Trending but oh so worth the hype], £25

3. Hollister, Easy Satin Tie Babydoll Top, [Very horror game protagonist-core], £25.95

4. Urban Decay, single shadow in “Tease”, [My daily smoky eye staple for the past three years], £21 at Boots

5. Maggie Lindemann, “i feel everything” on granite vinyl, [A gorgeous blend of chilled dance and Maggie’s signature introspective lyrics— I can’t take it off repeat], £29.99 at HMV

6. Fiona Horne, “Lost Oracle”, [Lusciously illustrated and uncannily accurate, at least in my readings], £14.05

“The trouble with me is that whether I get love or not / I suffer from it.” // “And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on”

• by C.K. Williams, from “On the Roof” (1968) // by Lord Byron, from “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage” (1812-1818)

Oh, pleasant November, the white skies of winter cold. Frigid and harsh. It seems the days are cut in half, regulated by darkness, embraced by night. As part of my rituals, I require an hour minimum every day to succumb to melancholy— what a gift it is to feel something so intensely, so strongly, to be so open to life and love, and death. October was a maelstrom of change, so November will have to be an unfolding of sorts. Gently, so as to not make any tears. I am out searching again, for God knows what. Reading Victorian erotica by candlelight, musings on tenderness and virtue and sin. Stillness and pleasure can and do often go hand in hand. I am empiric evidence of it. My philosophy is that of a night-blooming flower, always blossoming at the least likely moment.

Just a few days ago I carved my very first pumpkin ever: a sleeping beauty, lying on her back. I do not blame her for dozing through the darkness, though the Halloween6 lightning storm was utterly resplendent. My father’s signet ring, which I wear everyday, broke in half in the cinema before watching “Frankenstein” (2025). A bad omen, perhaps. Visions of the folkloric green man still follow me. Bonfire night is to be spent away from Blackberry Hill House, in a cabin by the village of Battle, and the weekend after that I am off to Paris again. So, I suppose that has you all caught up, my dear. Don’t be a stranger, now. Send a letter whenever is convenient! You know where to find me…

Until my next letter,

With love (and violence),

x Sabrina Angelina, the White Lily Society 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

Currently reading: “the Burial of the Rats” by Bram Stoker // Most recent read: “We Have Always Lived in the Castle” by Shirley Jackson

White Lily Society links // Sabrina Angelina links

Whether you subscribed on day one or three years in, all White Lily Society members are equally important to the cause. Join us to help spread the word about the Intersection of Love and Violence, Gothicism, and Romanticism. Come, become a martyr of deliciousness!

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📼 Song of the (past) month: it’s still you - Maggie Lindemann

“I believe Octobers are created to tell us that life bends towards us everyday. That when I lock eyes with a stranger, there’s a wild desire to bleed for love. That when I bold things in my trying hands and not pick at the edges, I can keep the pressure for all its worth.”

• by Dion Anja, from “October” (collected in “Motion Sickness” (2022)

[TW] This newsletter deals (among other things) with the sex work of 18th and 19th century courtesans, including Cora Pearl, who was sexually assaulted as a precursor to becoming a courtesan. This is mentioned briefly without any details whatsoever, and not further elaborated on in Section II.I. No graphic language is used. Reader discretion is advised, as always.

01/10/2025, London, UK

My dear,

It seems that somewhere along the way, jumping from letterbox to letterbox, this letter got a bit lost. These things happen when writing long-distance musings, I fear. Strange disappearances in the fog… Not even a postal stamp could save those who are dead set on straying from the path.

October is the month of the dead. Month of incoming cold, trees starting to strip, sun taking its leave. No more blackberries past-Michaelmas. September was all poetry and rose pouchong tea (happy birthday to me!). Perfumed cruel intentions, wrapped in silk stockings and garters. Reading in the embassy waiting room, booked twice a day, luxuriating in delirium— a phoenix of downtown social events. Getting psychoanalysed on my couch until a live mouse disturbed. Unfortunately I do love the crushing weight of yearning, I do love melancholy, I do love candlelight dramatics. Nothing else has ever suited me better. Method research meant inhabiting the courtesan before writing about her.

Everything new and shiny must always be laid out for my finest patrons. Allow me the honour. Two new “Death and the Maiden” themed poems made their way to the spotlight, one by yours truly based on Lucy Westenra, and another channelling the quiet lace despair of girlhood. And though lifting the curtain is not always in the best interest of a humble writer, a prose performer, I did also take on the infamous “Proust Questionnaire” to celebrate my birthday on the 10th of September. With that said and done, let us trade one delicacy for another, and dive into the world of courtesans.

The fineries are only just beginning…

I. Archive Sources

“I advocate glamour. Everyday. Every minute. Glamour above all things.”

• by Dita von Teese

This rotation of archive sources, I must confess, represents a slightly more ambitious version of this newsletter, long lost. Once more I have fallen victim to my own inability to be concise, the remnants of which you will find here. Where, at first, this letter was supposed to cover courtesans, showgirls, and burlesque, I was soon forced to drop the latter two for brevity’s sake— do forgive me, my dear. A fraction of them remain to read about here, little teases for what I’m sure to revisit in the future. A very glamorous, bedazzled Chekhov’s gun.

1. “SHOW BUSINESS: The Glorifier: Florenz Ziegfeld and the Creation of the American Showgirl” - link

Writing of the classic revues perfected by Florenz Ziegfeld, this paper talks of his invention of the “showgirl” as we know it. Essentially, Ziegfeld took the French idea of the revue and Americanised it, injecting it with lavish glamour and the era’s optimism, to create a show equally outrageous, voyeuristic, and wildly popular. But the fantasy of the Ziegfeld girl was entirely built on their distance; the show itself was a play of strategically revealing and hiding. Silk stockings much preferred over bare legs. And these showgirls did not need an array of talents to embody this fantasy, most of the “mannequins” had little task but to look pretty, wear exquisite outfits, and walk gracefully. The show would do the rest, my dear.

“Before Ziegfeld, most Broadway revues used about twenty chorus girls who made three costume changes during the show. Ziegfeld was determined to move well past those limits. He would make his revue so large and lavish it would become an entirely different experi-ence-something to be marveled at rather than merely watched. In Marjorie Farnsworth’s phrase, he would create in his audiences ‘a feast of desire.’”

2. “Embodied Transformations in Neo-Burlesque Striptease” - link

This paper takes a look at the world of Neo-burlesque (starting in the 1990s) and compares it to the early burlesque of the 1920s, 30s, and 50s. It posits that the added ingredients of tease and wit to an eroticised display of [female] flesh make neo-burlesque a powerful conduit for transformation. Neo-burlesque itself is a transformation, in act and in presentation. It is both nostalgic in its imagery, producing the accoutrements of a “long bygone” era of glamour, and meta-reactive in the way it often winks at itself and the audience. This is a core tenet of its philosophy; existing within what was once simple a tool for the mere display of female flesh, but expanding on its under- and overtones to largely divorce the performance from pure voyeurism.

“While the act of undressing outside the site of performance is generally perfunctory in nature, the desire to produce laughter in response to disrobing the female body suggests both an element of intent regarding how the performance is received and a capacity for change in how the spectator views striptease performance; it can be mocked, ridiculed, and celebrated.”

3. “‘All the men admired her, and many of the women envied her’: The Role of Dress in Portraits of Eighteenth-Century British Courtesans, 1751-1790” (Chapter 1) - link

Through a thorough examination of the courtesan Kitty Fisher’s dress in her portraits, this chapter establishes a central theme in the courtesans’ social standing, and how, visually, it was hard to distinguish members of the monde (polite society) from those in the demi-monde (half world containing courtesans etc.). These demi-mondaines or demi-reps constructed their myths through careful assimilation of status symbols such as fine fabrics or jewellery, but also through associations with the boudoir and “undress”. It posits that courtesans like Kitty seduced both men and women alike through their distinctive freedom, outrageous antics, and luxurious lifestyles. Not in spite of their inhabiting the demi-monde’s “shadow” world, but because of it.

“The high level of visibility of prostitution in general, and higher still the exposure of such diamond-draped high-class mistresses and courtesans, must have within the general population to some degree ignited a desire for emulation […] But so excessive was [Kitty’s] outward display of cultivated opulence that she was accused by moralists of “seducing [women] from the paths of virtue by her display of luxury.””

Grandes Horizontales

“Mansions, diamonds, carriages! … What gilded dreams!”

• by Cora Pearl, from her memoirs, taken from Katie Hickman’s “Courtesans: Money, Sex and Fame in the Nineteenth Century” (2003), p228

There are only two bookmarks in my well-worn copy of “the Art of Seduction” (2001), my dear. Despite my gratuitous breakfast, lunch, and dinner re-reads, only two sections have proven themselves crucial enough to be marked, to receive that distinguished honour. The first is irrelevant to our story at hand— it marks the chapter in which Lord Byron makes his appearance, to nobody’s surprise. But the second, more important one, is a haphazardly dog-eared page marking the start of chapter twelve. That delicious favourite of mine, so often poured over. Scripture, really. It is the chapter on “poeticising” one’s presence.

It is a chapter all about the mythology of the self, the poetic symbols we choose to align with, and their effects in the war of seduction. A pantheon of the proper symbols can elevate anyone into a conduit of pure eroticism, can make attraction sizzle where there was none before. To give another person the gift of someone or something to fantasise about is a selfless, ambitious pursuit. Fantasy is always very fragile, after all. Embodying such an amorphous thing is extremely strenuous. And yet, there was a group of women in the 18th and 19th century that had fantasy down to a science; the courtesans. To this day, the courtesan is an image of hedonism, of seduction, and of glamour. The very word brings to mind silks, the scent of roses, and initials on powdered stationery.

Who better to learn from about the game of seduction?

II.I Mad, Bad[deley], and Dangerous to Know!

“Part of the allure of the courtesan, I think, is that she has always been an ambiguous figure. She is not a mere prostitute, although she is unequivocally a ‘professional’ woman who accepts money in return for sexual favours. […] Neither is she a mistress, who usually considers herself the lover of just one man […]. A courtesan always chose her patrons, very often for her own pleasure as well as theirs. Her gifts - of company and conversation as well as of erotic pleasure - were only ever bestowed upon a favoured few, who paid fabulous - sometimes ruinous - sums for them”

• by Katie Hickman, from “Courtesans: Money, Sex and Fame in the Nineteenth Century” (2003), p3-4

The word “courtesan” stems from the Italian and French feminine forms of “courtier”, or the English verb “to court”, which means to woo, to curry favour with, to pursue. Garishly misleading for our beloved courtesans, those idols of contradiction! No, these women were neither prey, nor hunters. Men came to them, sought them out. But make no mistake; the courtesan was the one with her finger on the trigger. The choice of patrons was, ultimately, entirely hers, my dear. Unlike the name of her profession suggests, she had to be sought out, courted, pursued. Never the other way around. Safe to say that the chameleon nature of the courtesan was built in from the very start.

The 18th and 19th century were the [European1] golden age of the “kept” woman, the mistress on the payroll. Previously, the practice was associated primarily with kings, plying their lovers with castles, the finest dresses, and jewellery. Think of Diane de Poitiers or Mme du Barry, royal favourites with the finery to match. But now, at the onset of the 17th century, any well-off gentleman could reasonably afford to do the same, both financially and within the elasticity of his reputation. It’s no wonder that some clever women took to making a profitable career out of it! The art of being the other woman was born; the courtesan-as-status-symbol. The more famous, the more expensive. And these women were both exceedingly famous, and disgustingly expensive.

At the height of their careers “on the town”, the most famous courtesans could command entire fortunes on a whim (Laura Bell was once given the equivalent of £12 million2 to spend a single night with a prince, and Cora Pearl’s household expenses totalled £56k in just two weeks). They relished in unparalleled luxury and freedom, which in turn allowed them to be picky when choosing their protectors. Make no mistake, boiled down to the most basic of its many ingredients, being a courtesan involved the simple sell of sexual favours for money— with a twist of ultra-exclusivity. But courtesans made long-term deals; they did not trade in nights but in years. Their successful careers could last decades, and they were not shy about it.

Some, like the famous courtesan Cora Pearl, saw their continual string of uber wealthy high-society suitors as a “chain of gold”, their proudest achievement. It helped that the practice of the courtesan was not hidden into alleyways and seedy brothels, but elevated into the company of royalty and aristocracy. The French courtesan “La Barucci” kept a bowl of visiting cards by her fireplace containing every high-ranking individual one could imagine, all the men who had sought out her charms, her company, and to line her pockets in return. But this does not negate that the heart of the practice was built on the respectable idea of exclusivity; courtesans oftentimes signed contracts that entitled them to life-long annuities (sometimes even post-breakup!), but also demanded loyalty and monogamy to the male benefactor of their choice. These settlements could last years, decades… or until either party grew restless.

Shadows defined the “demi-monde” of the courtesan, the glimmering half-world over which they reigned, even if it existed in partial overlap with the “monde” or polite society. Just because courtesans often mixed with aristocrats and royalty, does not mean they were de facto embraced by them. Metaphorically, at least. The physical embrace it a different story, my dear. It was one thing to attend certain balls, or have a box at the opera… as long as one didn’t mix with the wives of their patrons.

The world of prostitution was paradoxically meant to be hidden, but in practice was much more public. On the one hand, guides like “Harris’ List”, which rivals the French “Guide Rose”, spoke quite plainly and openly about the world of prostitution, both low and high end, and how a man might partake in it. But on the other hand, men were still expected to make “introductions” to courtesans through their connections. The cold approach was a big faux pas. The demi-monde’s debauchery, unlike common prostitution, was surreptitiously half-walled off from the public. It had to come to you. As a result, lots of people knew of it from whispers and gossip, but much less actually partook in its impropriety.

Women could take a plentitude of different paths to becoming a courtesan, some of them much more traumatic than others. Sophia Baddeley was a stage actress turned courtesan, Elizabeth Armistead came from a high-end brothel before she became more “exclusive”, Harriette Wilson was seduced by the demi-monde’s promises of freedom, Julia Johnstone was cast out by her family after falling pregnant out of wedlock, Cora Pearl was assaulted and decided to make the of her now “ruined” prospects, and Catherine Walters ran away from the convent she was raised in. These women came to be some of the most well-documented, famous “grandes horizontales”. They immortalised themselves, crafted a mythology of silks and pearls and gentleman hearts broken along the way. They made themselves into forces of nature.

Some paths were still more common than others; to be an actress or performer was already largely synonymous with being a prostitute3, and so it often took very little effort to blur the lines from the stage to a career “on the town” (ie. as a prostitute of any caliber). In fact, most of the prime actresses of London’s fashionable theatre district on Drury Lane in Covent Garden lasted only a few seasons on stage before retiring to become the kept mistresses of various high society figures. Noticeably, Covent Garden was dense with both theatres and low end brothels— the high end brothels that started the career of courtesans such as Elizabeth Armistead were mostly centred around King’s Place in the St. James neighbourhood of London. Within a stone’s throw of their wealthy clientele.

These high-end brothels closely resembled the French tradition of ultra-extravagant brothels set by the likes of le Chabanais and la Fleur Blanche. These English “nunneries”, as they were called, were lavish and exclusive, and allowed only the highest of society in. They prided themselves on the education of their girls, both in the erotic arts, as well as in those of conversation and of grace. A modern education, for a modern girl. Day to day “nunnery” life included a constant stream of increasingly outrageous private events involving copious nudity, crazed amounts of champagne, and generally ensuing debauchery, continuing well into the morning. It is not hard to imagine how such a place could give one both the connections and the education to go private, so to say.

Though not all courtesans were actresses (by trade, at least), more than a handful started their demi-monde career in the stage spotlights. This includes Sophia Baddeley, one of the most outrageously famous courtesans, and Emma Hamilton (born Emma Lyon), whose story is quite unique, as far as demi-reps go. You see, somewhere amidst her successful career, Emma encountered a horrible turn of events, that she undoubtedly managed to turn to her absolute advantage. Coldly bartered from one man to another with little say in the matter, she made herself a title and a legacy. The situation was this; Emma’s then-patron, Charles Francis Greville, wanted to temporarily rid himself of her in order to marry rich and secure his fortune. Much easier said than done, of course. And so, Greville reached out to his uncle, Sir William Hamilton, suggesting that the latter lodge Emma in Naples and take her as his mistress, while Greville secured his nuptials and his riches back in London. Once everything was done, he would return to fetch Emma from her “holiday”.

After about six months and dozens of pleading letters, the realisation of what had happened dawned on Emma. Greville had abandoned her, and while she wasn’t close to penniless, she was now in a strange city and without a protector. Nothing untoward had happened; she had traveled accompanied by her mother, and kept separate apartments, but Sir Hamilton was no doubt courting her intensely. The good faith reading of events suggests that the two fell in love, and were married only five years later— it is not meant to be an assault on Emma’s character when I suggest that this turn of events could also have been strategic on her part. Slyly upgrading herself from Hamilton’s potential mistress to his wife permitted her a multitude of advantages. She got a title, access to court and high society (extremely rare for any demi-mondaine who found herself “elevated”), and, eventually, a doting husband who adored her. She turned a cruel situation to her absolute advantage.

We also have Emma’s ingenuity to thank for the invention of the classic parlour game “charades”, a fun fact for which I’ve always had a fondness. Emma’s life in Naples soon became that of a wildly successful salon host, entertaining her guests with song and game. For her “attitudes”, as she called them, she would dress up and pose, acting out classical scenes for her party attendees to guess at. The game charmed the masses, and even started a renewed interest in Grecian-inspired draped dress. Emma was doing what women in her career path did better and more stylishly than anybody else; playing her cards with the seasoned savvy of a professional, and setting the trends like only her fellow demi-mondaines could. Courtesans like Catherine Walters and Kitty Fisher invented and popularised entire fashion styles. Cora Pearl brought the spotlight down on the first couturier, Charles Frederick Worth, helping to popularise the crinoline, and even had a drink named after her (“the tears of Cora Pearl”)!

II.III a Treatise on the Rights of Courtesans

“Freedom is the most precious gem a courtesan possesses and contain within itself everything she desires. Given this privilege, even infamy seems honorable to her. Since she is not subject to the tyranny of husbands or parents, she can deliver herself to her lovers without fear of being killed for questions of honor. In this way she is free to express natural appetites and feminine lasciviousness.”

• by Francesco Pona’s, from “la Lucerna” (“the Lamp”, 1625)

Though courtesans could very much be treated as matters of public opinion, they were also deliberately separated from circles higher than their own by the aristocratic society that was both fascinated and repelled by them. Where courtesans could and could not go was a muddy affair, no part in thanks due to the nature of the demi-monde itself; both spotlighted and concealed. Change only happened through brute force and sheer willpower. When Sophia Baddeley, arguably the most famous English courtesan, was prohibited from entering the high society Pantheon masquerade, fifty of her most ardent admirers and patrons banded together to walk her in, raising their swords at the guards with threats of violence if they did not admit Sophia. From that day on, she had undeniably done the impossible; a blank invitation into whatever social event she wished. It would be a long time before any doors were closed in her face again.

Little others would ever be in the same spot as Sophia, but the life of the courtesan was still one basking in a marked amount of freedom for the time. In comparison to the dull life of wifely duty and the heavy moral constraints on women that developed throughout the era, courtesans had an unparalleled degree of freedom over their lifestyle, who they loved, and how they managed their finances. Granted, only the most exemplary characters could burn long and bright in such a quick-paced environment. The eternal crux of the issue is that celebrity is extremely fickle, and the public a hard mistress to court. But for some, even a small taste of freedom would be enough. Those, such as Harriette Wilson, recognised that despite the pitfalls, there was no other career that could give a girl the freedom, luxury, and pleasure that being a courtesan could. The world was theirs to conquer!

Freedom was what drew women to choose to be courtesans, and men to court them. Their life could be completely and sumptuously drenched in the stuff. Harriette, together with her three sisters Amy, Fanny, Sophia, and close friend Julia (all of them also courtesans) sometimes took to banishing all men for the evening and staying in to gossip and have a sleepover. A display of girlhood, but also of female-led freedom, that still holds power: “[…] unmarried young women together, without a chaperone (or at that point a protector), with their own house, keeping the company they chose and the hours they chose, with the freedom to speak as openly as they wished on whatever subject they wished. No wonder men found them fascinating. Delightfully unencumbered by most of the prevailing notions of female propriety, they had the liberty to be themselves in ways that were absolutely denied to other women.” (Hickman, p155)

The rules of courtship were still largely rigid, and social mobility left things to be desired, even for courtesans. For example, while a [famous] courtesan could request a meeting with practically any man she desired, the opposite was absolutely not true. Men had to go through the trouble of a public “introduction”, usually decided upon well in advance, or they could go to an exclusive “introducing house”, which promised both secrecy and efficiency. Either way, surprising a courtesan or brute-forcing the process was not recommended. Once, after the Marquis of Sligo was bold enough to request Harriette’s private (!) company only one day after their public introduction, she, aghast, sent his servant back with his letter of request, insisting that his Lordship should be more careful to avoid “misdirecting” his letters. The game of courtship was delicate, and entirely fluent, elusive, ever-changing. “This inversion of the normal rules of engagement was all part of a courtesan’s seductive power.” (Hickman, p168)

This is exactly what Robert Greene’s “the Art of Seduction” (2001) posits as well. To seduce, one must inverse aspects of regular courtship. Eagerness and ease are executioners to the heart’s affairs! Some of Greene’s recommended steps include (1) approaching indirectly, (2) sending mixed signals, (3) appearing to be an object of desire, (4) paying attention to detail, (5) poeticising [your] presence, and (6) using physical lures. All things courtesans were sly masters of!

But despite the freedom financed by their protectors, more than a handful of courtesans still found themselves with a gap in their accounts between their promised allowances and their excessive spending. Chief among them Harriette herself, who started accepting the occasional private client into her boudoir, in secret. Luckily for her, the early nineteenth century slowly favoured a higher degree of secrecy in the dealings of extramarital affairs, and particularly the demi-monde. Gossip columns like Tatler or Town and Country’s “Tête-à-Tête” were beginning to go out of fashion. Jumping from theatres, to private brothels, to the secretive introducing houses of the time, the demi-monde became an insider world increasingly hard to enter into, and increasingly opaque in its dealings. This gave the more daring demi-reps a greater amount of freedom to indulge themselves as they wished, without the panopticon of gossip and attention that had previously swallowed up those like Sophia Baddeley.

Alternatively, if one was still metaphorically “strapped” for cash, they could go for the oldest trick in the book; good old fashioned blackmail. Previous courtesans had written their explosive autobiographies before, or had biographies written about them— Sophia Baddeley or Ann Bellamy among them. But Harriette was to elevate the idea of the of the memoir-as-blackmail to a veritable art form, my dear. Her words rained down upon the London scene with a palpable vengeance. Published in separate sections, the ending notes always contained the names of those unlucky souls to be exposed in the next part, giving them a chance to buy themselves out if they had not already done so based on Harriette’s pre-publication “courtesy” letters. For the paltry sum of £10k, the sinner in question could have themselves expurgated from the record. Nobody would ever have to know of their digressions. Despite the lawsuits, Harriette’s memoirs’ authenticity was believed, and copies flew off the shelves; she made an estimated £500k from the whole ordeal! Not a bad side hustle at all…

II.IV a Day and Night in the Life of a Courtesan

“I will be the mere instrument of pleasure to no man. He must make a friend and companion of me, or he will lose me.”

• spoken by Harriette Wilson, taken from Katie Hickman’s “Courtesans: Money, Sex and Fame in the Nineteenth Century” (2003), p151

A day in the life of a courtesan, of course, could vary greatly. Courtesans were not monoliths. The one thing they can all safely be said to have agreed upon was an insistence on splendour, my dear. Absolute refusal to compromise. Some, like Catherine Walters preferred rising early, and starting their day with the traditional Parisian crescent rolls and café au lait. On the other side of the channel, one might enjoy a morning hot chocolate, in a luxurious tea-gown or some other state of “undress”, reading the newspapers… Or turning straight to the gossip columns. Breakfast included “coffee, chocolate, biscuits, cream, buttered toasts, tea and Scandal”. (Hickman, p60). But no matter the dishes laid out on the table, it also housed morning caps on standby like weaponry, for one might never predict gentleman visitors.

A small part of the courtesan’s freedom is curtailed by this need to always be prepared, to be available at all times— once, Sophia Baddeley feigned a headache to avoid indulging her patron at her home. She and her ward sometimes took it upon themselves to silently skip town altogether, escaping to fashionable society getaways like Vichy or Bath. But the attention always followed. Sophia, more than anyone, was close to hunted. Her house would be besieged by visitors until two in the morning, and there are plentiful accounts of bothersome gentlemen not taking no for an answer, being a proper nuisance. The most in-demand demi-mondaines could count on a revolving door of visitors throughout the day, no matter if they were with or without a known protector. In fact, being “taken” only increased the interest from men, who longed to outdo one another with outrageous gifts. Throughout history, men have always loved to brag, after all.

In many ways, there was no relief from the performance of being a courtesan; the private sphere was hardly sectioned off from the public. All the world was a stage, even for those who had abandoned their acting careers. I imagine it took a tremendous effort to be on top of setting the trends, the latest witticisms, the latest scandals, even with the burdens of domesticity put onto a staff of servants. The extravagant tricks had to be held up, both planned and spontaneous. The famous courtesan Kitty Fisher supposedly once ate a £100 bill (roughly £30k today), wedged in between pieces of bread, on a whim. Other courtesans could get up to all sorts of antics, fuelling their own mythos. The work of it was relentless.

Getting ready to go out could easily take multiple hours. The French courtesan La Païva reportedly took a daily sequence of three baths; one in milk, one in lime-blossoms, and one in perfumed water. Beyond bathing or getting dressed, the “art of the toilette” also welcomed an ever-increasing line-up of cosmetics going beyond mere perfume: white foundation containing lead or mercury, rouge, “milk of the roses” toner, and pearl face powder were all popular. The look in Baddeley’s time was all about looking as pale as possible, with rosy cheeks, and jet-black eyebrows and/or hair. But by the turn of the nineteenth century, subtler, more Romantic4 looks came into style in response to the French Revolution’s war on excess.

“The thick white lead make-up was replaced by a dusting of pearl powder with a blush of vegetable rouge made from red sandalwood, cochineal, brazil wood and saffron mixed with talc rather than the old and heavy red lead, mercury, or sulphur dyes.”

• by Sarah Jane Downing, from “Beauty and Cosmetics: 1550-1950” (2012), p33

Shopping must also have been a great pastime— what other way to spend your considerable fortune, my dear? Trips to the milliner were frequent, and the hauls were repulsively big and exotic. Sophia Baddeley once returned from a shopping trip with eight pristine white mice. The debts, too, were big. True to the times. And they were the downfall of many a courtesan. The demi-mondaines across the pond in Paris had turned the boudoir into a veritable art form; “the romantic negligées and tantalising undergarments, the tangles of silk and muslin, the sheer luxury of lingerie and other accessories would give you goose pimples” (Hickman, p11), and such art came with a hefty price tag.

Paired with silk stockings and corsetry, luxurious dressing gowns, and delicious shadow plays of modesty to stir the imagination, the courtesan was well-armed. Cora Pearl was said to have different outfits for each of her many lovers; matching dressing gowns, slippers, lace nightgowns, and petticoats costing a royal £5.5k per set5, all in the same soft colours and soft materials. Satin, cambric (a delicate cloth, aka “batiste”), French lace, silks, and anything else the heart could conjure up. A most enticing package.

During the day, courtesans made appearances wherever the public’s eye was wandering. These had to be brief, for the schedule was often quite packed and relentless. Exhaustive, even. Mrs Steele, Sophia Baddeley’s ward, once described their regular schedule as such:

“Often, in summer time, have we returned from a place of amusement, at three in the morning; and, without going to rest, have changed our dress, and done off in our phaeton [Carriage], ten or twelve miles to breakfast; and have kept this up for five or six days together without any sleep. In the morning, to an exhibition, or auction; this followed by an airing into Hyde-park; after that, to dress, then to the play; from thence, before the entertainment was over, away to Ranelagh [Gardens], return perhaps at two; and after supper and a little chat, the horses ordered, and to Epsom [?], or some other place again to breakfast […]”

• by Katie Hickman, from “Courtesans: Money, Sex and Fame in the Nineteenth Century” (2003), p64

Additionally, it was traditional for high society to meet and promenade in the late afternoon in Hyde Park, from five o’ clock to seven. At first the fashionable procession used to be on Rotten Row, which spans the Southern part of Hyde Park, but moved in the mid 1800s to “Ladies’ Mile”, which spanned the Serpentine. Reports online stated that the latter was still named and marked today, and so, I ventured out to check. A proper lady always checks the facts for herself, my dear! Alas, what disappointment awaited me when I found the majority of paths in the park to be unnamed at present. Answers were divided and contradictory online, and none of them were concrete. My fingers began to itch for the scoop!

I checked the London Archives, to no avail, spent hours furiously theorising. Hope was almost lost, until I stumbled upon a map, which named and marked both Ladies’ Mile and Rotten Row. Thus, my conclusion is as follows: today, you can promenade on the Ladies’ Mile by walking waterside on Serpentine Road until it hits Carriage Drive— you can see the route here on Google Maps, or in the image below. With this slightly conservative estimate of the path, it is more like 80% of a mile, but carrying all that courtesan finery should count for something as well! Walking under the weight of heavy silks and jewellery, and/or slightly inebriated from morning champagne is a proper sport. Not to be underestimated by even the most brilliant of minds. Rounding up shall be permitted.

Both Cora Pearl and Catherine Walters loved horses, and took great pride in their equestrian skills. The latter used to ride through Hyde Park, sidesaddle, in a riding habit so tight the people speculated on whether she could even possibly be wearing underwear underneath it. Catherine also adored hunting, a pastime that cleverly put her in the company of many well-to-do gentlemen. A competent business move, as to see and be seen was a goal in and of itself for courtesans. Social life was the key to making introductions, after all. One does not get famous by simply lounging in their well-perfumed quarters, my dear. The vetiver, musk, and civet alone are not enough. They need to be supplemented with regular trips to the opera (private box, of course), masquerades, and pleasure gardens. Nothing but the best will do.

“Cora and her friends, […] would take a box at the Opéra, or the Théâtre des Italiens, where they would appear once a week ‘en grande toilette’, covered in jewels, and graciously consent to receive a few of the more humble of their ordinary admirers […] (with the grave and imposing bearing of ambassadresses taking the air).”

• by Katie Hickman, from “Courtesans: Money, Sex and Fame in the Nineteenth Century” (2003), p2

Fashionable opera days were Tuesdays or Saturdays, which left five days completely unaccounted for. But evening entertainment could be much more varied than visits to the operas, theatres, or private balls. Harriette Wilson’s sister Amy, for example, was well-known for her extremely fashionable Saturday evening parties, which were attended by all the notable men in town (sans wives, of course). Alternatively, the great hostesses of the day also organised regularly scheduled parties: Holland House was famous for its glittering dinners, half social event and half political salon. The demi-monde had a strong affinity for imitating the monde or high society, and thus the necessary skillset for courtesans became increasingly wide to match. Advanced etiquette and other hostess’ tricks became essential knowledge.

That doesn’t mean the courtesans were always successful in their imitations. While champagne and liquor were easy to procure for parties (just secure double the amount you need), food was another story. Amy’s aforementioned parties were known for having a never-ending supply of champagne, but thoroughly lacking on the food front. By the time English-born Cora Pearl was making the rounds in Paris, the idea of the dinner party was starting to gain affluence there. No display of wealth was too ostentatious for Cora, who favoured a particularly bacchanalian drama for her events. In the winter months, she had tables full of plump, ripe fruit brought in, laid out on tables of Parma violets (not moss, as was the trend). The violets alone cost her £3k.

If anything, the skills of hosting, of companionship, of dramatics, were the most crucial triptych in the courtesan’s arsenal. The erotic sides were private, ill-discussed. It was the ballroom, not the bedroom, that made stars. The legends of Cora are numerous: she is alleged to have broken her own priceless crystal glass when a guest dropped theirs, just to make them feel better. She danced on the £1k worth of orchids a suitor sent her. Allegedly she filled her bath with vintage champagne and invited her guests to watch her take the plunge. She once served herself, naked, to her party guests on a long silver covered platter carried in by four servants. Arguably, half of these are figments of the imagination, quick-spun inventions, but they carry the poignant essence of demi-monde show[wo]manship within them.

The dubious reputation of the courtesan also made them natural salon hosts, and some courtesans, like Emma Hamilton or the French La Païva took full advantage. La Païva’s salons were held at her home, open to the monde every day, with more select company kept on Fridays and Sundays. Like Cora, she inundated her guests with fairytale spreads of fresh fruit and other impossible luxuries, no matter the season. Reportedly, as one of her guests speculated on the income yielded by her assets, she responded exasperatedly; “Do you think I could give you peaches and ripe grapes in January on [£1 million] a year? Why, my table alone costs me more than that!”6.

It took longer for English evening entertainment to diversify. Restaurants were not a thing, and private evening entertainment really only came in two flavours; long ‘party’ dinners, and late evening balls. These ‘party’ dinners were attended almost exclusively by the mature and elderly— young unmarried ladies retired from eight pm to nine thirty to wake up refreshed before their late night balls. Once more, it was a courtesan who led social change, and Catherine Walters’ Sunday afternoon tea parties quickly became the rival of even the French salons, talking politics and gossip over the same silver tea sets. Scandal goes best with a nice earl grey, don’t you think? It only deepens the flavour.

II.V 2B or not 2B kept

“Cora learnt […] the art of eroticising not only her behaviour in the bedroom, but her whole way of life. Everything about the courtesan, from the way in which her apartment and carriages were appointed to the smallest detail of the way she walked and dressed, was given over to the idea of pleasing men. And it was from this, ultimately, that her power came.

It was no less effective for being, very often, highly artificial.”

• by Katie Hickman, from “Courtesans: Money, Sex and Fame in the Nineteenth Century” (2003), p241

There are certainly those out there who attempted to demonise the courtesan as a financial dominatrix, an opportunist preying on poor, vulnerable men, bewitching them into handing over their wallets. But don’t let the morality policing of the Victorians fool you; the image of every woman supposedly being on the brink of being a prostitute is also a fantasy. The pornographic idea of the dominatrix is no less potent than its opposite (don’t make me pull out the Margaret Atwood quote).

The light-hearted tone of accounts of Sophia Baddeley or Harriette Wilson being harassed by an ever-persistent onslaught of men does much to negate the horror of them, but not all of it. The major reason Cora Pearl so suddenly retired is because one of her suitors, Alexandre Duval, upset that she would no longer see him when his payments stopped, tried to force his way into her home not once, but twice. The second attempt succeeded. In the heated argument that followed, he took out his pistol, intent on shooting himself, Cora, or both. Duval survived the bullet, but Cora’s reputation was irrefutably damaged, and she was exiled from France as a direct result.

Gilded rooms, antique mirrors, and vases of fresh flowers could not gloss over the fact that the courtesan (much like the sex worker today) was held in contempt for emptying the pockets of the poor men who were so “helplessly” besotted with them. Never mind the fact that many of these men did try to go back on their deals or weasel their way out of the contracts they themselves had drawn up. This is one of the classic contradictions of the patriarchy; the assumed pedestal of male superiority vs. the argument that they are mere slaves to their lust and/or anger. When a patron of the courtesan Agnes Willoughby wanted to contractually promise her an obscenely high yearly allowance, his family dragged the case to the Commission in Lunacy to have him be declared insane, and therefore stop him from being “taken advantage of”. Surprising no-one, he was found perfectly sane.

The idea that a woman could “hypnotise” a man into doing anything he didn’t want to do was only ever weaponised to eschew male responsibility, and in clear contradiction with the legal and moral treatment of women. In the law, women were on par with children and the insane, with the rights to match. Married women could be divorced, but they could not initiate a divorce, regardless of how her husband treated her. Legally, she was her husband’s property, and much like the servants or the children she was expected to fall in line. Preferably quietly. If their husband spurned them, “deserved” or not, they would be social outcasts. Men, on the other hand, were allowed to separate passionate romances from practical ones; marrying for money and having a mistress on the side was perfectly acceptable, as long as one was discreet. The same could absolutely not be said for women. One mistake on their end often meant living, and likely dying, in destitution.

But within this tight script for women, the courtesan flipped it. She took on the masculine role of the compartmentaliser, the one dealing the cards, separating business and pleasure. These demi-mondaines knew the rules of the game perfectly well, the silver balancing act of propriety, pleasure, and politeness. And they were met with condescension for it, whether subconscious or conscious. The Victorian ideal of the “angel” wife was entirely built upon this; maintaining women as the moral fixtures of the house in order to effectively declaw them. Forced moral high ground is a uniquely isolating place, after all, my dear. The pedestal strips away all value except for purity. The blank slate of forgiveness, understanding, empathy. No bark and no bite. The courtesan Ninon de L’Enclos went as far as to write that “Feminine virtue is nothing but a convenient masculine invention.” Convenient because, in its moral mock-superiority, it kept women chained into what was, in actuality, just submissive inferiority again.

Despite the idea of the courtesan “dominating” financially, intellectually, and (depending on the patron) sexually, being the draw of her services, there is evidently almost always lingering resentment on the male side, ready to engage in a pointless tug-of-war to dominate whenever they feel their pride hurt. Having the Ideal Woman is one thing, but she must certainly not aspire to think of herself as Ideal without the suffix of Woman, without the reminder of her place as ultimately inferior. The courtesan, to some men, was meant to sparkle only as attachment, as status symbol, as object made beautiful by a man[‘s money]. And yet they openly defied all parts of this philosophy. Even laughed at it. La Païva once took a suitor’s offered money and told him she would be “his” only for as long as it would take for the note to smoulder and burn. Her suitor could not appreciate the antics.

A quote commonly misattributed to Oscar Wilde goes; “Everything in the world is about sex—except sex. Sex is about power.” The art of the courtesan was also about power, especially holding onto it, and money served this purpose. Whenever their patrons felt the need to make them jump through hoops, they would refuse to play, precisely because they could afford it. Stop paying and see how fast the door locks. The jewellery, real estate, expensive horses, and other gifts enabled these courtesans to be exactly as selective as they wished to be. If their reputation began to fade, the material spoils of their adventures were their insurance policy (if not reaching for blackmail à la Harriette Wilson). Beyond the initial mythologizing value, many of them sold of their assets from the height of their careers at the end of their lives, to make ends meet. A luxury civilian women couldn’t often count on.

Unlike the sex workers of popular culture- going all the way back to Émile Zola’s “Nana” (1880) and beyond- who must always die a gruesome death as punishment for their wickedness, many famous courtesans died well precisely because they were courtesans. Because they had the connections and money to die a dignified death. Sophia Baddeley died after being forced to return to acting, addicted to laudanum, and in debt, but supported emotionally and financially by her friends and former lovers. Elizabeth Armistead married for love and died happily7. Harriette Wilson died just barely skirting the edge of poverty. Cora Pearl died in exile from France, without the pearls, though supported financially by a club of her old admirers. And Catherine Walters, the last great Victorian courtesan, died at old age from a stroke at home.

The era of the courtesan- subversive, fantastical, and glittering- had come to an end. And with it faded their unique skill to use their desirability as currency. The champagne went flat. Today, the necessity of their career paths is diminished in the face of new freedoms for women, but there are still facets of their lives to desire to emulate. Their inventiveness, assertiveness, the singular precision with which they curated the aesthetic legends of their identity. All of these immensely seductive qualities are what have kept them alive, even beyond the grave. Even once their pearls were sold, the recipes to their signature drinks lost, and their walking routes faded into obscurity. The grand fantasies are immortal, ever-lasting. These myths we weave of ourselves are perhaps the only true immortalities we could ever reasonably aspire to. The story of a banknote burned lasts much, much longer than the fire itself.

“I have never deceived anybody because I have never belonged to anybody. My independence was all my fortune, and I have known no other happiness […].”

• by Cora Pearl, from her memoirs, taken from Katie Hickman’s “Courtesans: Money, Sex and Fame in the Nineteenth Century” (2003), p228

III. Gathering Ghosts

“Strength came out of softness and graceful violence;

• by Anaïs Nin, from “Mirages: The Unexpurgated Diary; 1939-1947” (2013)

Forgive me, I am running out of words as I write them. For my last grand history of this letter, I wish merely to share the images of my birthday party this past September 12th. Of course, the theme was everything gothic horror; Dracula/Nosferatu, “Bloodborne” (2015), and H.P. Lovecraft— my invitation was a jumbled tangle of references and lore8. It was a splendid night, with no less than ten guests in attendance, all dressed in their best Gothic maiden finery. White nightdresses, rosaries, and lots of black lace, in line with the tragic references I adore. I was gifted with antique glass bottles and vampire fangs and gorgeous candles and a shirt bearing the face of Edward Cullen and compliments that went straight to my head. Bourbon, gin, and prosecco were consumed, together with ripe fruits and cake. I would like to imagine we made the courtesans proud that night.

As a proper hostess, I had ventured to engage all five (if not six) of my guests’ senses. The decorations included wooden stakes, a gratuitous amount of candles, and a swarm of plague rats. “Bram Stoker’s Dracula” (1992) played on continual repeat in B&W on the TV. The soundtrack included the likes of “Bloodborne” (2015), “Nosferatu” (2024), “Mary Shelley” (2017), “Bram Stoker’s Dracula” (1992), and “the VVitch” (2015). My favourite scented candle spread the scent of brown sugar, pumpkin, and cinnamon through the room. Snacks included a selection of Dutch crisps (my ancient heritage), indulgent bacon-wrapped dates, and a delectable fruit platter, complete with everything from cherries to figs. The table was set with a lace tablecloth and the cake, which I made myself, was chai flavoured, with blackberry jam, and a vanilla mascarpone frosting. Everything was a dream.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* On the List *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

Exhibitions, Events, and Talks. So, so, so many things to do in this second half of the month, my dear! Just to give you a selection of identities to inhabit; you could attend the launch party for Erotic Review’s fourth issue on the 18th, or attend Aether’s “After Dark” event that same day. You could submerse yourself in a truly indulgent selection of poetry, performance, and music at the new “a Woman Becomes a Wolf” event on the 19th. Or you could luxuriate in Avice Caro’s soft folk music on the 21st. Finally, you could attend a Samhain ritual on the 30th, or you could make your way down to the Benjamin Franklin House to see yours truly perform some spooky poetry. Choose wisely.

Furthermore, the British Library is hosting a talk on Oscar Wilde’s postmortem reputation tomorrow, October 16th. Speaking of quickly approaching dates, the National Portrait Gallery has a limited time exhibition “Factory of Femininity” open until October 19th, which explores how 20th century feminine ideals were formed in front of and behind the camera. Additionally, the Viktor Wynd museum is exploring “Dream Horror” in film via online lecture on the 19th, and the frightening “Parisian Theatre of Violence”, the Grand Guignol, in-person on the 27th, hosted by the fantastic Madeleine LeDespencer.

Film, Music, and TV. The 17th of October is set to be a day for the musical history books; Ashnikko is dropping her energetic album “Smoochies”, the Last Dinner Party is bringing us their highly anticipated sophomore album “From the Pyre”, and pop-rock fans have something to anticipate in Maggie Lindemann’s album “I Feel Everything”. To close off a month of amazing music, Florence and the Machine’s album “Everybody Scream” is dropping on Halloween, October 31st.

There is also plenty of monstrous fun to be had in the cinema this month, befitting of the season. Guillermo Del Toro’s electrifying new adaptation of “Frankenstein” will be available in theatres nation-wide starting on the 24th. To celebrate the 20-year anniversary of Tim Burton’s “the Corpse Bride” (2005), the film is back at a selection of cinemas for a limited time, including the 25th and 26th at Picturehouse. For a courtesan-adjacent pick, the BFI is screening the opulent “the House of Mirth” (2000) from October 25th to November 6th.

The Prince Charles Cinema also has an endless line-up of horror and terror classics selected for the rest of the month. Some choice picks include the chilling “Possession” (1981, playing 17th-31st), the witchy “Haxan” (1922) and the classic “Carrie” (1976) on the 20th, the original “Scream” (1996) on the 23rd and 27th, and an opportunity to channel your inner Sabrina Spellman with the pioneering “Night of the Living Dead” (1968) on the 26th.

In the Stars. Having just missed the Harvest moon on the 7th, the next lunar event to look forward to is the new moon on the 21st. Most importantly, Samhain is quickly approaching on October 31st. It is the time when the veil between our world and the spirit world is thinnest, the prologue to the darker parts of the year. Celebrate with bonfires, divination, and crisp red apples. And in case I don’t see you before then, happy Halloween!

Obsessive Tendencies: What I’ve Loved Lately

1. Koi Shoes, Gurren Strappy Platform Heels, [Burton-esque, reminiscent of Emma’s shoes in “Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children”, 2016], £55

2. Jellycat, “Broox” Bat plushie, [In the midst of my extremely unexpected life changes, this little one has been my house hunting buddy], £30

3. NECA, Ultimate Nosferatu Black & White Action Figure, [My birthday gift to myself and celebrated party guest] £41.95

4. Fortnum & Mason, Alcohol-Free Sparkling Tea, [I crave to have a cellar filled with bottles of this delight, perfectly courtesan-esque for the sober-curious among us], £19.95

5. Replica, “Jazz Club” Eau de Toilette, [A smoky, mysterious scent reminiscent of whiskey and tobacco, but with a distinct floral kick], £62 for 30ml at Space NK

6. Dark in Love, “Doll” Coat, [I’m beyond obsessed with this coat; very feminine and dainty, doll-like], €76 at Fantasmagoria

“I had feared ghosts from the past, regrets, but there was only the heady perfume of it, not the pain. I lived the pain so deeply that it consumed itself and left nothing but a perfume.”

• by Anaïs Nin, from “the Diary of Anaïs Nin, Volume VI, 1955-1966” (1976)

The house smells like smoke and violets; overwhelming, eye-watering, sweet. The third year anniversary of the White Lily Society (26th of October) is approaching swiftly! Something to savour amidst all the chaos. I wish I could write to you of a September that’s been kind, my dear, but I feel too tender to lie to you. Pray for the remainder of this October to treat me just a little bit better, is all I ask. Small requests for big results. Ritual is ever-increasing in importance; at night I leave the prime cuts off of my plate as little supplications to the universe. Tiny offerings to take care of the heavy sentimental bones weighing me down. Fret not, my dear, the dust is slowly settling into cardboard boxes and new steel keys and open endings. I will take the mouse inhabiting my kitchen with me in folded hands. Comfort can be stifling without us knowing of it. I think twenty four will be the year of blood, and devotion. Marbling and separating. Clotting. Let me pour champagne over top.

Until my next letter,

With love (and violence),

x Sabrina Angelina, the White Lily Society 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

Currently reading: “Dracula” by Bram Stoker (still) // Most recent read: “To Wake the World” by Carys Maloney

White Lily Society links // Sabrina Angelina links

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📼 Song of the (past) month: Caribbean Blue - Enya

8

I had to include my invitation somehow, because I made it from scratch and enjoy pointing out all the references I hid in it :)

[Going top to bottom unless otherwise specified] The main image is a vintage postcard of Whitby Abbey, the ruins of which inspired Bram Stoker to write “Dracula” (1897). [Top left] includes an acquaintance card from Count Dracula himself, and a random news clipping about a vampire sighting. [Lower left] The scraps of a letter from Vlad the Impaler, and a Borrower’s Permit referencing a slew of H.P. Lovecraft stories and mythos, including Asenath Waite from “the Thing on the Doorstep” (1933).

[Right side] The telegraph card references Cainhurst Castle from “Bloodborne” (2015)— I had to find a way to explicitly include the theme for those who wouldn’t find all the references! Next is a tag referencing the “Healing Blood” from “Bloodborne” (2015) as well, with some references taken from in-game item descriptions and cutscenes (“Fear the old blood!”). The main letter is meant to resemble mourning stationery with its black edge, and references both “Nosferatu” (1922) in Orlok’s faint shadow on the paper, and the 2024 adaptation using the seal from the film and slightly reworked dialogue ˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆｡☆

Suburb Sisters.

white fences and lace trims, 
perfect green lawns and ditsy floral curtains,
hide the tattered nightgowns and decaying dolls inside.

a gentle ghost in their friends or parents eyes,
their only means for existence being the pack of boys and their wolf cries,
as they circle this purgatory of purity, fantasising and awaiting their feast.

beneath the crooked crucifix, the four blonde sisters cling to each other,
knowing it's the only way to escape their mother's rosary wrath,
they know there is a place where they can forever be a teenage girl,
in an unknown but nevertheless better world.

lux opens the doors to the prim and proper predators,
and the suburban sisters start their dance with death.

a sleeping pill and water carafe, a clumsy knot, and the click of an oven dial,
the girls succumb to the sleepy siren call.

and when the wolves finally see, they run,
not out of fear or grief,
but bitter with the loss of the dreamy sisters they couldn't claim,
death providing solace for the idle maiden again.

This poem was submitted to the White Lily Society for the limited time submission prompt “Death and the Maiden (II)”

Amelia E., 23yo, London // @ ameliaa.ela on instagram // A couple poems published in digital magazines, but most hidden in her notes folder.

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Today, on my birthday, I would like to re-introduce myself as your humble curator and/or cult leader once more, using the Proust questionnaire. Incense-dazed and keyboard-weary, my name is Sabrina Angelina, nice to meet you. I am her, she is me. I am a character, I am a prophecy, and I am the little sleep paralysis demon at the foot of your bed. Worry not. Tell me a fairytale and I will be on my merry way. Driven by the urge to consume candlelight, no doubt. I am the great worshipper of a run-on sentence, and [most of] the White Lily Society has weaselled its ways out of the dusty crevices of my mind. Allow me to shed some light through recreational narcissism.

1. What is your idea of perfect happiness?

Multiple options: (1) Locking myself in my attic to write and research and read. Preferably by candlelight. (2) London when it is grey out and the weather is on the colder side, and the rain weaves in and out throughout the hours. (3) A successful night with friends; feeling seen; acknowledgement. The inspiration that comes from closeness. The identity euphoria of a new thing clicking into an old place.

2. What is your greatest fear?

I have a minor phobia of hearing my own heartbeat. Also, for about half a decade I battled severe emetophobia, which I’m glad to say I’ve mostly conquered. I’m also quite anxious about death; the loss of sensation which is completely beyond my comprehension. It terrified me greatly as a child. Which is probably why I snuggle up to death more and more in my work. Consider it some sort of twisted, perverse exposure therapy. Helpful and masochistically indulgent.

3. What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

Residual crudeness and/or speaking before thinking. Not articulating myself well enough as a result. [In the past it was envy, but I’ve come a long way in quelling any lack in my life that could stoke jealousy.]

4. What is the trait you most deplore in others?

Having a closed, iron-gated mind; habitual inconsiderateness; a destitute lack of passion.

5. Which living person do you most admire?

Dita von Teese! I have a great weakness for anybody who has, through sheer force of will, moulded both themselves and their life to their desire. It’s a very seductive mix of ambition, yearning, and type-A devotion that is endlessly enticing.

6. What is your greatest extravagance?

Perfectionism; needing my surroundings to be aesthetically pleasing in order to feel relaxing; ritualistic dramatics.

7. What is your current state of mind?

I’m always in a state of perpetual residual daydream, a grasp for a little bit more, or consequentially a devil on my shoulder urging me to chase productivity above anything and everything else. The daydreams are potent; growing up the way I did, I really did believe my life would be like “the Vampire Diaries” (2009-2017) or “Twilight” (2008) and I would gather with friends for cozy research, wander around candle-lit castles, or fall in love with vampires. I never really stopped mourning that (unreal) life, or reaching into fantasies to get it— when the sky is grey and rainy, and the weather temperate, like it is now, it seems a lot more within reach. The dreariness is intoxicating.

And the life I am creating for myself through the White Lily Society, where I lock myself in my attic to write or do research, where I live and breathe Gothicism, and I volunteer at a cemetery— that life is exactly the one I’ve been dreaming up for myself for decades now.

8. What do you consider the most overrated virtue?

Puritanism, or completely strait-laced moral rigidity projected onto everything from books to lifestyles. The most illuminating bits of life [often] happen in the grey.

9. On what occasion do you lie?

I had a really silly habit of lying to over-exaggerate as a child, just inflating numbers at large for dramatic effect, which I am still trying to kick for the most part. Just don’t trust me with spoken dates, numbers, or values. Ever. It’s all guesswork. I’m better with outlines, but prefer to double-check if speaking on the record (as I am doing now).

10. What do you most dislike about your appearance?

I am not photogenic enough to be attending as many events as I do, my dear. Though I’ve long made peace with my appearance (and my body, especially), I would much prefer the option of crossing out all bad pictures of myself on a physical negative, à la Marilyn Monroe. Or simply let go of the foolish notion of ever letting one’s guard down within twenty feet of a camera.

11. Which living person do you most despise?

Please don’t make me think of them!

12. What is the quality you most like in a man?

I tend to be interested in men that have opposite interests from me, but are very openminded, non-judgemental, and kind. I’m also particularly attracted to skill, knowledge, or people unapologetically geeking out over their own things— that goes for both genders, though by observation I do gravitate more to women artists, and STEM men.

13. What is the quality you most like in a woman?

In women, I often look to be inspired. People who have embraced outlandishness really intrigue me. With both genders I consider a good match in a balanced “Venn diagram” so to speak; a shared basis, usually attitude-wise, as well as a foundation of shared interests, and then each our own things as well.

14. Which words or phrases do you most overuse?

I tend to speak without much thought (bad habit), so most over-used are all those short affirming phrases I tend to spit out while mentally formulating a long-form response. See: “same”, “felt”, “real”, or any other variation of these.

15. What or who is the greatest love of your life?

London, the Big Smoke.

16. When and where were you happiest?

Right now, baby!

17. Which talent would you most like to have?

Gracefulness.

18. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

I’d very much like to be more verbally eloquent and well-spoken. I manage well on paper, where I have time to mull things over and adjust them, but my speech still has ways to go, in my opinion.

If I’m allowed a few more requests I’d also like instantly better posture and eternally perfectly-styled hair.

19. What do you consider your greatest achievement?

The thesis I created for my MSc in Strategic Fashion Management at UAL:LCF; “How Not to Disappear: the Impact of High- and Low-Aesthetic Advertising on Easing the Effects of Luxury Fashion Brand Fatigue in UK Gen-Z and Millennial Consumers”. It’s a 140 pages long, 16k word document of my own research and statistical analysis: I got 600 people to take part in my experiment! And I loved the feeling- despite all the pain- of locking myself in my attic and just writing, researching, studying. It was addictive. If only all of my university experience looked and felt like that. A girl can dream!

[B-side answer: this lovely White Lily Society community, felt especially when a member reaches out with their work or appreciation]

20. If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be?

I love crows and ravens, or snails (Spiders are more so a theoretical love of mine, not really in practice). Though I think my soul would also do well haunting a doll of some sorts.

21. Where would you most like to live?

Realistically; where I am now (London), or Paris.

Idealistically / in a symbolically potent way; New Orleans (French Quarter or Garden District), somewhere in the Pacific Midwest (a forest cabin with a wood-fire stove) ((I’ve never been to either of these places)) (((Odds are I would maybe last five minutes in the woods by myself))). Or I’d hide out in the attic of my friend’s house in the Swiss Alps, stealing little breadcrumbs from the kitchen when she’s not around to notice...

22. What is your most treasured possession?

An antique baroque silver jewellery box from my grandmother. My grandfather’s ornate clock. The locket I lost last April and still mourn (my other grandmother’s). My own baby teeth. The little metal ballerina figurine my mom gave me. A 2012 folio edition of Angela Carter’s “the Bloody Chamber” (1978). My Monster High Draculaura creeproduction. A set of six crystal glass bowls I thrifted and always hold onto with both hands lest I drop them. A big sturdy box full of priceless memories and postcards from my friends.

23. What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

That post-9pm feeling of needing to completely redo your life, reinvent your self, and just do more. Here’s a tip for future me: don’t trust the intensity of your feelings once the sun has set. Ever. The darkness lies when it whispers.

Or, alternatively, learn more from the enjoyment I get on the fringes of this feeling. I relish general melancholy, not so much the pointed edges of it. But I love to feel bad when I can do so dramatically, in a lacy nightgown, and by candlelight.

24. What is your favourite occupation?

To forget myself in the midst of writing, reading, and researching.

25. What is your most marked characteristic?

I am, in all things, Venus-heavy. My realm is one of beauty, aesthetics, romantic tendencies, seduction, and devotion. Therefore, my life work is to create in tune with my desires, something that is beautiful and inspiring to others. I hunger for approval, and to be appreciated / admired, and am sensitive to disharmony, especially visually. As a result I also tend to be quite detail-oriented. Any error, no matter how tiny, is an immediate thorn in my eye.

26. What do you most value in your friends?

All my friends are people I admire, people that inspire me, people that possess traits I would like to cultivate more of in myself. Uplifting, dreamy people I can talk to for hours on end without boredom in sight.

27. Who are your favourite writers?

Angela Carter is the only writer who’s never missed for me. My favourites include all of “the Bloody Chamber” (1978), but especially the short story “the Tiger’s Bride”. And from her other short stories “Flesh and the Mirror” and “the Cabinet of Edgar Allan Poe”, not to mention her non-fiction work “the Sadeian Woman and the Ideology of Pornography” (1978).

28. Who is your hero of fiction?

Most definitely a red flag, but Katherine Pierce from “the Vampire Diaries” (2009-2017) had a devastating effect on my pre-teen psyche. I loved her extreme confidence, self-assured manner, and seductive smarts. Other favourites from the TVDU include Caroline Forbes, and the underrated witch Genevieve. I also love Lucy Westenra from “Dracula” (1897), Kathryn from “Cruel Intentions” (1999), Buffy Summers from “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” (1997-2003), Margaery Tyrell from “Game of Thrones” (2011-2019), Olivia Pope from “Scandal” (2012-2018), and Helaena Targaryen from “House of the Dragon” (2022-). But my current favourite is Lottie Matthews from “Yellowjackets” (2021-). I love characters that are clever, seductive, and/or supremely tragic.

29. Which historical figure do you most identify with?

Oh, God, how does one even answer this? Truly, I don’t think there’s any one figure out there whom I sympathise with and who also exhibits genuine parallels to my life. I suppose a lot of Anaïs Nin’s writing about sensuality, about needing escape, about being multiple personalities in one, really hits close to home for me.

30. Who are your heroes in real life?

Angela Carter, Lord Byron, Dita von Teese, Anaïs Nin, Ethel Cain, Christine McConnell.

My dearest friends: the one I’ve known almost twenty years, who always teaches me to be more open, and unguarded. The friends who make me laugh in the silliest of ways. My inspiring artist friends who are continually unfolding themselves. Anyone who is down to sit on my couch and let me show them my books of vintage glamour-erotica. All the friends I stuck with throughout the years for reasons too plentiful to even begin to type out, or simply because they bring some light to the dark days.

31. What are your favourite names?

For feminine names: Adeline, Alice, Meredith, Lucy, Edith. Ambrose, Rowan, Percy, Jasper, Oscar for the masculine. A current favourite pair is Lenore / Byron.

32. What is it that you most dislike?

Judgemental people; bad faith arguments; anybody lacking consideration.

33. What is your greatest regret?

Not wearing the clothes I wanted to wear as a teen because I was waiting to be “skinny enough” (whatever that means!!!). Not doing what would have brought me happiness for fear of what others would think. Losing a part of a necklace my mom gave me to be a family heirloom when I was thirteen or so.

34. How would you like to die?

Not at all.

35. What is your motto?

Donec manus scribentis morte obstet; “Until the hand that writes is stopped by death”, translated to Latin, taken from Anne Radcliffe’s “the Romance of the Forest” (1791).

On a final note, before I blow out my candles, allow me to curate you a list of twenty-four of my favourite songs to celebrate my twenty-fourth year alive. It’s an entirely selfish purpose, this pressing up against my own tastes. Allow me to fill my hands with it once more.

˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆｡☆ 📼 An assorted list of most beloved songs…

1. “Compass” - the Neighbourhood // 2. “Two-Headed Mother” - Ethel Cain // 3. “i was all over her” - Salvia Palth // 4. “the Night We Met” - Lord Huron // 5. “In My Room” - Chance Peña // 6. “My Love Mine All Mine” - Mitski // 7. “the Lighthouse” - Halsey // 8. “the Blackest Day” - Lana del Rey // 9. “the Albatross” - Taylor Swift // 10. “Cassandra” - Florence and the Machine // 11. “Lovers from the Past” - Mareux // 12. “Angel” - NewDad // 13. “I Love my Boyfriend” - Princess Chelsea // 14. “Wicked Game” - Chris Isaak // 15. “Monolith” - Twin Tribes // 16. “Goo Goo Muck” - the Cramps // 17. “Mentally Not Here” - Elita // 18. “Sister” - She Wants Revenge // 19. “Burn Alive” - the Last Dinner Party // 20. “Scissorhands” - Maggie Lindemann // 21. “Flash” - Cigarettes After Sex // 22. “Nutshell” - Alice in Chains // 23. “Petals” - Hole // 24. “Mascara” - Sunday (1994)

Sabrina Angelina is dedicated to the intersection of love and violence, a term she coined to describe classical Romanticism's tendency to pair passion and suffering, tragedy and pleasure, together. Consumed by this concept, she writes on Substack and curates the White Lily Society page dedicated to arts and culture.

White Lily Society links // Sabrina Angelina links

Come, join the White Lily Society, and become a martyr of deliciousness.

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"Lucy Westenra"

Gorgeous ghost girl, bite into a
poisoned apple, meant for you but 
three souls younger. A spectre of satiation, 
just around the bend of mildew,
doll joints aching. You followed the
man with the cloven hooves until the
end of the known world and now
the rot permeates your being. 

The stake is gentle when compared to the beast.

Did that virgin girl find her rest in the embrace of the bat?
Was the final ache the sweetest one? The hurt reminiscent
of the bounce of soft golden ringlets on the cold hard stone
of the grave. Ever-awake, always asleep, 
you walk a tightrope of ill fortune.

The glass of the coffin is as thin as the eyelid, closed
only as a false protection charm in the moonlit night. 
There is no god in the bay, not across that cursed harbour. 
To die took two hundred steps— the final one is the pounce into the 
monster’s arms. Three velvet suitors line the casket. 

Up in the dark room, your mother unravels
the stitching in her frail heart.
What is the static supposed to do about it?

Switching the channel is useless when the dial is set to love, unconditionally.

Front room love, parlour love, settee love
never dies. The devil was your friend before he
was the face of a faceless melancholy or the
voice of a kind of agony you can only place
after the grandfather clock chimes nine—

A secret kept in the first room, the first house,
is one puncture wound away from the world.

They'll not mention the prophecies in the obituary,
nor the dreams, nor the horror. Gentle hearts 
have broken for less: you are the proof, my dear. 

Over absinthe, they’ll focus their talks on the
rush of pale blood in your cheeks. The life lost—
not slain, but merely relinquished in the battle. 
Your supposed friends won’t soon forget the shadow of you,
who finally knew, with preciseness, what she hungered for.

This poem was posted as part of the limited time submission prompt “Death and the Maiden (again)”

Sabrina Angelina is dedicated to the intersection of love and violence, a term she coined to describe classical Romanticism's tendency to pair passion and suffering, tragedy and pleasure, together. Consumed by this concept, she writes on Substack and curates the White Lily Society page, dedicated to arts and culture.

White Lily Society links // Sabrina Angelina links

Come, join the White Lily Society, and become a martyr of deliciousness.

Subscribe now

“Dog days are over, and here comes September. Not autumn yet; simply September, which can be as sweltering as mid-July and as chill as late October, and usually manages to be both.”

• from the New York Times, 30th of August (1942)

01/09/2025, London, UK

My dear,

Back from the land of the undead, I await dreaming1. My head rests on a pillow of straw, which my dark dreams intend to spin into gold. A sweet mythology of thorns. There are those influences at play; silent whispers that talk of vampires, ancient gods, the plight of a dreamwalker. August, silly six letter month, is a realm of fantasy. It gathers importance like stalks of wheat, it ripens itself for the escapism the year will undoubtedly need. Eight is the figure of the harvest; infinite looping ouroboros number, wreath on the may-queen head of summer, dying like a beauty queen ought to. Now that this resplendent feast table is complete, the interpretative action is all yours.

To me, the dying stars hold importance for my own chart; my birthday falls on the 10th of September. Virgo sun, gemini moon, scorpio rising2. Don’t be mistaken, my dear, these placements’ exclusion here is entirely used as psycho-analytical bait. In other words, the trap is set. Intrude on my privacy if you like; it is only a plaid to luxuriate on. There is always space for one more. Anyhow, the colder months are only a cocoon for us, golden harvest-children. September’s lovely initiates. The new year is only unfolding itself, not collapsing, not crumbling.

This month’s newsletter is largely an unadorned affair. At least, to the degree I can resist ornamentation, which means not at all. Don’t ever be lulled into a false sense of boredom, my dear. Or worse still, brevity. I spent my August wandering, and so this letter concerns itself with wandering as well. There is the physical wandering, the travel, the steady stream of events to report back on. And there is escapism, in a list of fantasy book recommendations tucked neatly into the third section of today’s spread. The hot weather always makes me itch for detachment, annotating escape routes into the margins.

So let us now undo our stitches, and weave a journey of postcard stamps…

I. Archive Sources

“If you're doing nonsense it has to be rather awful, because there'd be no point. I'm trying to think if there's sunny nonsense. Sunny, funny nonsense for children—oh, how boring, boring, boring. As Schubert said, there is no happy music. And that's true, there really isn't. And there's probably no happy nonsense, either.”

• by Edward Gorey, in response to being called gothic, from an interview with the New Yorker (1992)

Let me not deceive you, my dear. The past month (as you will soon see) has been much too eventful to open a book for longer than an hour at best. Try as I might, a restless mind is not fertile ground for concentration. All I had time to devour, in between outings and happenings, was little sections of “Dracula” (1897), synchronised in real-time with the book’s events. Bite-sized hypnosis on the go. As Mina and Lucy wandered the Whitby streets, so did I, forming an elusive kinship and curiosity with the latter, my fellow sleepwalker. It fascinated me, that sweet and tragic portrait of Lucy, always cut out of the novel’s many adaptations. Though this letter may not be about “Dracula” per se, my travels gave me a perfect hunger for the novel’s many layers. Which explains today’s menu of academic sources, of course.

1. “Vampiric Seduction and Vicissitudes of Masculine Identity in Bram Stoker's ‘Dracula’” - link

This paper looks at Johnathan Harker’s character arc throughout “Dracula” (1897) and its reflections of masculine attitudes and identity formation. In the early chapters of the novel, Johnathan takes on the Gothic ideal of the heroine kept prisoner, gender-bent ever so slightly to be a portrait of male-on-male violence perfectly coinciding with Harker’s bristling with the traditional masculinity he is expected to grow into as a young career man, and as fiancé to Mina. In a way, Dracula as vampiric threat is an argument crafted to be fought and then dutifully revoked, invalidating no opinion along the way. His threat to masculinity is only ever so important as to settle Harker into his own, and strengthen his resolve. Harker’s looming identity crisis in the novel is effectively sparked and solved by the trauma of its events.

“[…] Harker's reluctant sexual and professional development - hindered by his servile relation to Dracula, occasional feminine identification, and glimpses of homoerotic desire - is symptomatic of a deeper psychic process in which Harker's ego, in response to external pressures of his impending initiation into business and marriage, allows its own limited, temporary destabilization in order to be re-stabilized in a modified form which can accommodate these external pressures. […] the process of seduction.”

2. “Feminism, Sex Role Exchanges, and Other Subliminal Fantasies in Bram Stoker's ‘Dracula’” - link

As a piece of writing, this paper inventories Victorian sexual attitudes and taboos, in contrast to their subtle appearances in “Dracula”. All the salacious stuff is here, my dear. Homosexuality, group sex, struggles of dominance. There is a good bit about my beloved Lucy as well, and her treatment in the plot as woman/angel before her inevitable demise. I especially enjoyed the author pointing out that Lucy “never brings the experience [of Dracula’s plots on her] into her own consciousness”.

“But, the butchering of Lucy and the vampire women takes on curious overtone considered from this point of view. Reminiscent of knights of the Round Table, the men gather in chivalry around ultra-pure, sweet, good, frail Lucy and--incongruous heroism--slaughter her. […] Again, Stoker manages to have it both ways--these butcherings are presented as ultimate chivalry because they release the woman to goodness.”

3. “Vampiric Affinities: Mina Harker and the Paradox of Femininity in Bram Stoker's ‘Dracula’” - link

Johnathan is not the only Harker to wrestle with gender in the novel— his fiancée and (later on) wife Mina also has her own remarks on the time’s changing conversation of gender, especially surrounding the “New Woman”. Stoker’s stance on them might not be progressive- the vampiric women-of-desire always meet the stake- but his negotiations of Mina’s character are notable nonetheless for the ways in which they walk the line. Not to mention Mina’s close relationship with Lucy, which carefully balances itself between purely friendly affections and romantic ones. The juxtaposition of Lucy and Mina, and their respective representations of femininity, is endlessly fascinating.

“[…] it is the deep affinity [Mina] feels with the Count, and the constant self-scrutiny demanded by Van Helsing, that makes this narrative of subject formation particularly Gothic. Count Dracula, much like Mary Shelley's creature, is the perfect monster because of the sheer number of anxieties collapsed into his transgressive body and seductive embrace. The incursion of the monstrous vampire brings to the surface issues of Mina's social indoctrination into proper femininity while simultaneously cloaking them as "just" a Gothic romance.”

II. Notes from August’s Voyage

“Last night I seemed to be dreaming again just as I was at Whitby.”

• by Bram Stoker, from “Dracula” (1897)

Home-body as I am, even I occasionally have to venture out into the dying light of the world outside. Life does not stretch itself in the house, and cabin fever can be a serious affliction. My August was to be a month of dalliance and eventfulness, I resolved. Perhaps I overdid it though, with only eight days of the month ending up devoid of any engagements whatsoever. Every other day was spent traveling, attending events and concerts, or hosting guests here at Blackberry Hill House. The life of a socialite can be so overwhelming! Nevertheless, let me channel “Dracula” (1897) and take out my journal to recount August’s parade of happenings. Sans vampiric stalker, that is.

II.I Yorkshire Hauntings

A month or two ago, my York-based friends invited me to stay with them for “York Georgian Week”, a themed week of events celebrating all things eighteenth century, with an appropriately ghostly twist wherever possible. York is supposedly the most haunted city in Europe, after all. My friends had seen a Byron-themed lecture on the schedule and immediately thought of yours truly. Well, I could only be flattered, of course. I am known to be a big admirer of the Byronic and I make no qualms about hiding it. So off to York I went, eagerly awaiting ghosts, brazen poets, and most excitingly of all, a true Georgian Ball3, held at the historic York Assembly Rooms. Before I knew it, I was dressing in my best gown and stepping into the gorgeous space built 1730-1735 for the purpose of such high society events. The long Greek Revival hall had the perfect atmosphere for revelry, complete with chandeliers, and lots of scandalous little corners to hide away in, even for just a moment.

Draped in perfectly virginal Austen-esque white, I chose to dress for the “Regency” period of the century, though there was a great balance of both early-century elaborate structured dress and the more austere high-waisted styles most commonly associated with the era present in the ballroom. The gin flowed, all the darlings took to dancing, and the orchestra played into the late hours. I, myself, made use of my fan for all sorts of ~subtle~ communications and machinations. A lady does need her tricks, my dear! Some of my favourites included covering my left ear with the open fan (meaning “do not betray our secret”), placing a closed fan on the left ear (“I wish to get rid of you”), or placing the closed fan near my heart (“you have won my love”). All undoubtedly useful gestures in such strenuous social settings, where the eyes of many are always watching, and ready to pounce.

One such social killing ground was the dance floor, ripe with ripped hemlines and vicious heeled attacks on many partnered feet. My close friend James and I at least had the fortune of attending the optional regency dance class the day before the ball, so we weren’t completely rhythmically stranded unlike the majority of the other guests. All the intricate casting and siding movements were great fun: if only there had been a dictatorship of dance, by which I mean mandatory classes for all. Then we could have danced well into the night, sans call-outs, slaughterhouse commotion, and intensive guiding. Better luck next time!

The other big event of my travels was a little road trip to Whitby to see, of course, the famous Whitby Abbey ruins that inspired Bram Stoker to write “Dracula” (1897). To tell you a secret, my dear, I have never read “Dracula”, despite me owning no less than four or five copies of it. There is no grand conspiracy at play here; I have simply been too intimidated to start reading. The spine of the story was already at risk of breaking under the weight of my considerable expectations. But do not be alarmed! I have changed my ways, and am reading the story as it unfolds following Dracula Daily— which I highly recommend. It’s a very immersive experience.

And so it happened that I set foot within the grand ruins of the Abbey, in perfect sync with the story, and my dear Lucy’s nightmares, I walked the 199 steps up, stared into the harbour, and lingered in the cemetery. All for the sake of accuracy, of course. And though I love the sweet tragedy of Lucy’s character, I have a personal connection to Mina. You would be forgiven for not knowing, but “Wilhelmina” is actually the third of my three middle names (Angelina being the first). In my name’s context it is, of course, a tribute to the Dutch queen, who reigned from 1890 to 1948, as well as my late grandmother of the same name. But I enjoy it just as much as a reference to the brave and inquisitive Mina Harker, and my beloved world of vampires.

Some of us were simply meant to be vampire bait, no?

While at the Abbey, we (James and I) also caught a bit of this semi-comedic “Dracula” play they put on multiple times a day. It’s a far cry from Stoker’s original stage-play; family friendly and complete with slapstick humour, but the way it moved about the space was actually quite immersive to follow. The ruin itself is very awe-inspiring and impressive— it is easy to see its seductions of the imagination unfolding within. Or if you want to be a shameless tourist (no shame in it if you ask me, my dear), the play is notable for the way it condenses almost all the visitors in one spot at a time, meaning you can get some clear shots in the meanwhile without all those pesky people in the way.

Whitby (the town, not the Abbey), is a quaint seaside dwelling with a population of about 13k people. By nature, its sleepy, oceanic environs attracts pensioners and day trip tourists, which offers a humorous juxtaposition with the town’s more goth dispositions; Whitby is also known for hosting the famous “Whitby Goth Weekend” twice a year, an event which nearly doubles the town’s population (almost 12k visitors!). Naturally, there are plenty of distractions for the gothically inclined, beyond jet and the hard stick-like “rock” candy, like the “Whitby Dracula Experience” James took me to. It’s a horrible, campy, “haunted house” style attraction with (mostly) animatronic jump scares. Though the final jump scare was live, and took about three years off of mine. Legend says you can still hear my (very dainty) scream far into the distance…

Back in York, we passed by the usual tourist fare, such as the Whip-Ma-Whop-Ma-Gate, the Shambles, and the gorgeously Gothic Minster. We also dipped into the “York Castle Museum”— I say “dipped”, but I mean “made a three hour excursion”. We love to dilly-dally, guilty as charged. No speed-running here, my dear. The museum has a recreated Victorian street and a large collection of Victorian paraphernalia to boot, all laid out in a fully immersive layout complete with costumed actors and dioramas. Good to get some home decor inspiration, learn about York’s chocolatey history, or simply take a look at the old prison, including the cell (allegedly) once occupied by the infamous highwayman Dick Turpin.

We also went for a tour on one of York’s very own “ghost buses”, which was a highly choreographed lovechild between stand-up comedy, interactive theatre, and actual non-fiction tours. Some of the jokes didn’t quite land, though the converted bus atmosphere is very cosy. I would actually recommend the walking “York Ghost Tour” we went on last year over the Ghost Bus, but to each their own. My final event of the trip was another one organised as part of the Georgian week, namely the aforementioned lecture on a newly resurfaced Byron letter! The talk was hosted by Dr George Simmers, who wove an effortless, but detailed web, connecting Princess Charlotte, politics, and Lord Byron to explain the letter’s importance. A wonderful closure before getting on my train ride home to Kings Cross, which wasn’t complete without my first full listen to the new Ethel Cain album “Willoughby Tucker, I’ll Always Love You”. A phenomenal, brooding, dark masterpiece perfectly matched to the journey’s grey skies and inevitable delays.

II.II Everything Else(tm)

In the years before one of my best friends was lost to Paris, I often found myself taking a bus near Old Street station, looking over at Bunhill Fields Burial Grounds, and feebly promising to return and have a proper look. Well, all those promises faded with the years, until a few weeks ago, when by complete coincidence, I found myself making good on them. Bunhill Fields is a small cemetery space, right in the city, and not one of the seven magnificent cemeteries. But to my surprise it does hold a few very notable figures, including the poet William Blake, and Thomas Hardy, after whom the (now removed) Hardy Tree at St. Pancras Churchyard was called. Connections, connections! Stumbling upon them always injects me with a fresh love for this city I inhabit, and all its many secrets still undiscovered.

I also had a lovely friend from the Netherlands stay with me for a few days, though we decided to take it slower and focus on each other’s delightful company, which was most definitely for the best. I am ambitious, my dear, but contrary to popular belief I do not like to play on the knife’s edge. So we contented ourselves with movie nights, relaxed wanderings, and feeding the local pigeons. The aforementioned Parisian friend also dipped back into the Big Smoke in August, and we spent one day on my couch while I played the Silent Hill 2 Remake in absolute terror, and one day out and about, having a look at the Yoshimoto Nara exhibition at the Southbank Centre before it ended. It wasn’t an exhibition I had on my radar before, but I enjoyed seeing the cutesy trappings of Nara’s style combined with the clear punk-rock influences.

In other, rapid fire recollections, I also did some event photography and videography for the latest instalment of “a Woman Becomes a Wolf”, completed my first ever crossword puzzle, attended the BFI showing of “to Die For” (1995) with my mom, attended a tour of the Wimbledon grounds, and went for a very lovely afternoon tea at the Cavendish Hotel with my parents, where the champagne flowed quite liberally. As is tradition, I also had to attend the 2025 edition of London’s “For the Love of Fantasy” convention, which was very-lowkey this year. Whereas last year was a sumptuous buffet of guests from “Twilight” (2008), “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” (1997-2003), “the Vampire Diaries” (2009-2017), and “the Originals” (2013-2018), there was really only two or three guests of interest to me this year. A bummer to be sure, though I did see Daniel Gillies (Elijah Mikaelson, TVDU), Billy Burke (Charlie Swan, “Twilight”), and Stephen Moyer (Bill Compton, “True Blood”) in the flesh, and snapped a picture with Danielle Campbell (Davina Claire, “the Originals”). Here’s to next year being a return to form, hopefully.

Don’t think it ends there, my dear. This last week, too, has been a whirlwind of events. During the day, I hid away in my attic, typing away at this letter to you. But in the evenings, I donned my best attire to go out and revel like a true maenad should. There was not a day where I didn’t see the midnight hour pass. I celebrated the birthday of my lovely friend with cigarettes, laughter, and toy cameras, donned my best trad goth look for ’s “goths v preps” party4, and got musical whiplash from the juxtaposition of attending (pretty much) back to back gigs from dreamcore band Cryogeyser and blossoming pop queen Addison Rae. Oh, well.

I suppose there are much worse afflictions to suffer from than a life well-lived, my dear.

III. Books for Daydreaming

“[…] it's a wonderful book to read because you have to comb the content against the texture and it gives you fabulous insights into human nature. It is the same with trash movies, trash TV. WrestleMania. The Kardashians. I'm fascinated by it. So I don't say read Tolstoy and nothing else. Read everything. See everything. The poet must not avert his eyes.’”

• by Werner Herzog, from an interview with the Guardian (2020)

It is no secret that I love my academic and pop culture darlings equally. I am just as likely to love a non-fiction work about the history of madness as I am a book of pulpy romance. All vampires are equal to me, from “Carmilla” (1872) to “the Vampire Diaries” (2009-2017). When I first started the White Lily Society, I decided quite early on that I was not interested in being a judge-jury-executioner in the semantics of taste. Subjectivity is where community thrives, after all. One must have things to talk about, to discuss, or else the salons would be empty and ideas would cease to exist.

From time to time, it is good to cleanse the palate and read something less intricate5. Even the most grounded of souls can relish in escapism; isn’t that what we read for? One should have no qualms in reading either to expand or to escape. Of course, there is plenty of literary fiction that blends the two, but when I am talking of my favourite escapist reads they tend to follow a very similar script; they’re intended for a younger audience (YA), have dense world building, focus on political intrigue and/or mysteries (with shades of moral grey), and may include a “Death and the Maiden” style romance on the side. I have a type, what can I say? Let me unpack five of my favourite escapist reads for you now, my dear.

☆ “the Bone Season” by Samantha Shannon

“the Bone Season” (originally published in 2013, author’s preferred text released 2023) was brought to me by my dear friend Izzy (Isabelle), who lamented how little attention this favourite series of hers got. Before I knew it, she was at my door, signed hardcover with sprayed edges and all in hand. I never make a promise to check out a recommendation lightly, and so I allowed this gorgeous tome to take me on a 400 page journey. Two days later, ending with a seven hour reading day, I was done. Suppose my attention span is fine after all. Hooray!

“the Bone Season” is set in a not-so-distant future steampunk London, in which the oppressive regime of Scion is waging war on clairvoyance. Our main character Paige Maloney is a [clair]voyant of the highest order, a dreamwalker, who ends up captured and sent to the penal colony of Oxford. Mysteries begin to pile up, and if Paige wishes to escape her captivity and make her way home, she has to start unraveling them all, one by one. This is the first book in a series, with some dauntingly dense world-building, but that makes it a very immersive read; your pinkie finger will surely be marking the glossary for the first hundred or so pages. Personally, I relish the density, but it’s very much a matter of taste.

Why I loved it: the steampunk setting, which is so often under-utilised in media. All the London street name-drops, not to mention the atmosphere of Oxford, lit by gaslight and wonder. Paige Mahoney is a fierce protagonist with depth and growth throughout the book(s). All the mysteries and (assumed) “plot holes” slowly get resolved in the first and later books in the series. Be warned, though there is a scrumptious “Beauty and the Beast” style romance in this first book, is it decisively not a romance novel. Read it if you’re intrigued by the world’s many mysteries, or wonder what a revolution of clairvoyance would look like, and let the romance be a side-plot.

☆ “the Cruel Prince” trilogy by Holly Black

The “Folk of Air” (2018-2019) trilogy6 is the story of Jude Duarte, a mortal girl raised within the dangers of Elfhame, surrounded by the schemes and tricks of the Fae. She may be a second citizen in Faerie, but she has one trick up her sleeve: the ability to lie. Soon, Jude is swallowed up by the slithering politics of the Court— a good distraction from the cruel prince who seems hellbent on making her life hell… Or is it?

Why I loved it: I adore Holly Black’s world-building within her “Folk of Air” series. Just the food descriptions alone are so lush and magical. This trilogy is full of mysteries that all get their due answers in time, and the writing is quite tight. Connecting the dots early is fully possible and encouraged. Jude “If I cannot be better than them, I will be so much worse” Duarte is a great, intriguing protagonist, and an absolute menace. Definitely not a pushover. There are plentiful political schemes and plots, as well as a subtle romance B -plot on the back-burner (Don’t let social media fool you; these books are politics first, mystery second, romance third).

☆ the “Belladonna” trilogy by Adalyn Grace

“Belladonna” (2022) centres around Signa Farrow, a girl who can see ghosts, but can’t die. Sent to live with her last-remaining distant relatives at Thorn Grove, she is soon approached by a restless spirit, whispering of murder, poison, and grave danger. It is up to Signa to use her unique skillset to solve the crime and prevent any further ones, potentially with the help of Death himself.

Why I loved it: it is literally Death and the Maiden. Need I say more? Compared to the previous two recommendations, this series is definitely more romance-heavy. The first book can definitely be read as a sumptuously gothic stand-alone mystery/romance7. There’s ghosts, inheritance schemes, and spooky atmosphere. But the banter between Signa and Death was my favourite part, and I very much enjoyed their relationship as my main motivator to keep turning the page.

☆ “the Originals: the Rise” by Julie Plec

Part of a stand-alone, non-canon prequel trilogy to my most beloved TV show “the Originals” (2013-2018), this is a short story following the Original vampires Klaus, Elijah, and Rebekah once they first set foot in New Orleans ca. 1722. Set within the “Vampire Diaries” (2009-2017) lore, you could realistically read these books without prior knowledge of the TVDU, though that, in my opinion, defeats the point. The story is quite loose, focusing on the same political struggle between the supernatural factions of New Orleans; the vampires, witches, werewolves, and the humans who live among them.

Why I loved it: I’ve only read the first book “the Rise”, which is a short, enjoyable, campy read that could have been a flashback episode straight from the show. The real draw is not the plot, but a chance to spend more time with the Original siblings; the ghostwriter does an absolutely phenomenal job at nailing their character voices, body language, and manners of speech. Elijah keeps his word, Rebekah falls in love, and Klaus is his usual unpredictable self. It’s a self-contained story and can be read in one sitting, which is probably for the best, because I’ve heard less than stellar reviews of the second and third book. Nevertheless, I am always eager for more TVDU content.

☆ “the Twilight Saga: Midnight Sun” by Stephenie Meyer

The lion fell for the lamb, that much we know. More specifically, we know how the lamb fell in love with the lion, as it happened in “Twilight” (2005). Not much of the story necessarily changes with the lion’s perspective in “Midnight Sun” (202), and yet this parallel book contains almost double the pages of its counterpart. In spite of that, when this gem first saw daylight a few years ago, I sucked it dry in a matter of days. It was like my own, personal brand of heroin.

Why I loved it: This book is genuinely unhinged. “Twilight”, near and dear as it is to me, is already stuffed with comedic little details, but being in Edward’s head is like a supernova of superfluous details, ripe for the picking. Did you know Bella’s skull is dented from being dropped so much as a baby? Or that Edward counted bugs in the beloved meadow scene to distract himself from the urge to kill Bella? Would you like to see Alice’s cover story plotting in full, glorious detail? Say no more. This is by no means a short book, but it flies by for the sheer nonsensical chaos and extremely melodramatic yearning it contains. Addictive and entertaining, without a doubt.

“Read, read, read. Read everything -- trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! You'll absorb it. Then write. If it's good, you'll find out. If it's not, throw it out of the window.”

• by William Faulkner

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* On the List *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

Exhibitions, Events, and Talks. There’s a few notable events on at the Viktor Wynd museum, both online and in-person this upcoming month. Starting with a zoom lecture on the history of the Danse Macabre on September 18th (tickets £6). Additionally, the eponymous Viktor Wynd, the founder of the museum, is celebrating the upcoming launch of his new book, a collection of dark fairytales. Wynd is telling his dark, grim tales, in-person on the 8th (tickets £15-20), or online on the 29th (tickets £6).

The Wallace Collection is celebrating Dionysis with a handful of short 15 minute in-person talks, each highlighting a different decorated object related to the god: a drinking glass on the 3rd, a painting on the 10th, a rifle on the 17th, and a gilded table on the 25th. At the V&A, their new “Marie Antoinette Style” exhibition opens on the 20th! Be sure to snatch tickets asap, as they always have a way of evading one’s grasp… Supplementing those fabulous fashions, they are also hosting a lecture on regency fashion on the 22nd: in-person tickets £15-18, or £6 for the livestream.

In our miscellaneous pile today, you should be warned that the Courtauld’s “Abstract Erotic: Louise Bourgeois, Eva Hesse, Alice Adams” exhibition ends on the 14th. London Fashion Week will be on from the 18th until the 22nd. Highgate Cemetery is hosting its spooky annual bat walks again, with a date on the 15th. Highly recommended if you wish to see some bats, roam dark tombs, or navigate the cemetery by torchlight. The atmospheric Sir John Soane museum is hosting a twilight night of Romantic poetry on the 19th, tickets £35, while the Freud Museum is hosting a talk on dreams in cinema and the subconscious on the 25th, tickets £15.

Last but in no way least, the Etcetera Theatre Camden is hosting a limited run of a new play about femicide, feminism, and revenge on the 14th and 15th. “Meat For the Fridge” is written by a fellow White Lily Society member, so go support them! Tickets £14.14

Film, Music, and TV. If you like dark guitar riffs, dreamy sounds, and ethereal vocals, shoegaze-band “NewDad” might be for you! They’re releasing their new album “Altar” on September 19th ˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆｡☆. Or if a different form of darkness calls to you, you can rejoice in the second part of “Wednesday” season 2 going live on Netflix on the 3rd of September.

Continuing their David Lynch tribute line-up, Picturehouse is screening 1997’s enigmatic “Lost Highway” on the 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, and 10th, hosting another “Twin Peaks” (1990-1991) season 1 marathon on the 13th, and screening the Lynch-spiration “Vertigo” (1958) on the 6th, 7th, 8th, and 11th. Their regular re-release line-up is also looking juicy, with the puppet-filled fantasy film “Labyrinth” (1986) on the 20th, 21st, and 25th, the tender “Phantom Thread” (2017) from the 27th to the 1st of October, Hitchcock’s gothic horror “Rebecca” (1940) from the 27th to the 2nd of October.

The BFI instead is focusing on classroom films, screening the French female-focused drama “Girlhood” (2014) on the 3rd (with intro), and cult classic “the Breakfast Club” (1985) on the 20th and 29th (with intro on the 10th). I can vouch for the extra light the curator intros shine on their respective films, as I saw “to Die For” (1995) with introduction last month, and it was a fantastic compendium to the film!

In the Stars. Lovers of darkness gather around, as the day of the full moon on September 7th will also bring a lunar eclipse. A perfect time for a coven-gathering, perhaps? Venus, the Moon, and the star Regulus will meet in the sign of Leo on the 19th, marrying romance and lavish excess. Additionally, the new moon is set for the 21st, and the fall equinox, or the start of meteorological autumn, for the 22nd. The start of autumn is also the end of Virgo-season, as the 23rd transitions into Libra-season.

Obsessive Tendencies: What I’ve Loved Lately

1. Disturbia, Lilias Devoré Tiered Maxi Dress, [The perfect lazy day dress for a subtle goth vibe], £75

2. Dark In Love, Amour Button Up Dress, [A steampunk moment, perfect for wandering around Whitby or vampire-themed conventions], £79 via Sai Sai

3. Ethel Cain, “Willoughby Tucker, I’ll Always Love You” on vinyl, [Not now sweetie, mommy needs her daily WTIALY-listen on vinyl], £31.99 at HMV

4. LUSH, “Guardian of the Forest” Body Spray, [Mysterious and musky, as if you’re an eldritch forest creature awakening from a long slumber], £32

5. Funko, Universal Monsters: Bitty Pop! Town Vinyl Figure: Dracula (With Castle), [Trinkets for the master! Trinkets are the life!], £6.99 at Forbidden Planet

6. Astral Pewter, Spider charm necklace, [Picked this up at the Astrology Shop near Covent Garden, and I can’t stop wearing it], £6.92 with cord or £4.62 without

“I am resisting entering life again, pain, activity, conflicts. Everything is beginning anew; the day is soft but perishable, like a sigh, the last sigh of summer, heat and foliage. Soft and sad, the end of summer, and leaves falling.”

• by Anaïs Nin, from “the Diary of Anaïs Nin Volume 1, 1931-1934”

Alas, typing with my long acrylic nails feels like being a beast of the keyboard. A grotesque idol of academic glamour and incessant wrist-aches. The best of both worlds! Going into my old age of twenty and four years, such wear and tear is to be expected. I am the princess of carpal tunnel syndrome. Knock on wood. This upcoming September teases a visit from my best friend Lily8, two gruelling weeks without internet here at Blackberry Hill House, and birthday celebrations galore. As a result, I am busy planning my big Nosferatu-Dracula / H.P. Lovecraft / Bloodborne themed birthday, and all that a party of such a nature would imply.

August is an odd in-between month, a veil of the living and dead, that brings out a jovial strangeness in people. Just a few days ago on the Underground, a group of guys unseen was… howling? Forgive me for not harbouring the bravery needed to investigate this case of lunacy echoing through the tunnels. I feel compelled to share odd details of my life, my dear, like the lengthy conversation I had with the local copy store employee about the revival of cassette tapes and vinyl. In the corner of my study, a burning candle purports to smell like “graveyard cobwebs”, but smells oddly sweet and pumpkin-like, if you ask me. According to my newly-acquired mood ring I am loving and romantic almost all of the time. Did you know the human brain is theorised to hold about 10-100 terabytes of information? I think more than half of my storage space is just purely referential knowledge, a spool of winding connections. Give me another year and I will develop a spider web for a frontal lobe.

Until my next letter,

With love (and violence),

x Sabrina Angelina, the White Lily Society 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

Currently reading: “On Mysticism: The Experience of Ecstasy” by Simon Critchley // Most recent read: “the Bone Season #2: the Mime Order” by Samantha Shannon

White Lily Society links // Sabrina Angelina links

This letter is sealed with a kiss and a blood-red postal stamp. Subscribe now if you want to receive more [love] letters. Come, join us, and become a martyr of deliciousness.

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📼 Song of the (past) month: Tempest - Ethel Cain

2

If you wish to analyse my chart, go ahead. Just be sure to link me back with the findings and indulge my astrological narcissism. It would be a great birthday present ˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆｡☆

Big Three ~~~ ☉♍︎ sun in virgo (10th house) / ☾♊︎ moon in gemini (7th house) / ↑♏︎ ascendant in scorpio (1st house)

Personal Planets ~~~ ♂♑︎ mars in capricorn (2nd house) / ♄♊︎ saturn in gemini (7th house) / ♃ ♋︎ jupiter in cancer (8th house) / ♌︎♀ venus in leo (9th house) / ♎︎☿ mercury in libra (11th house)

Generational Planets ~~~ ♇♐︎ pluto in saggittarius (1st house) / ♆♒︎ neptune in aquarius (3th house) / ♅♒︎ uranus in aquarius (3th house)

“Late August, given heavy rain and sun / For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. […] / You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet / Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it / Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for / Picking”

• by Seamus Heaney, from “Blackberry-Picking” (collected in “Death of a Naturalist”, 1966)

[TW] This newsletter deals with the Intersection of Love and Violence through the “Death and the Maiden” trope, “Beauty and the Beast”, and vampire romance. The word “rape” is used once (in a quote) and not further dwelled on in Section II.IV. Discussions of power dynamics and imbalances are plentiful. Reader discretion is advised, as always.

01/08/2025, London, UK ☆

My dear,

Praise Dionysus! The cold dark approaches once more and my maenad heart beats a little faster. Joyous, wine-drunk ecstasy of the storm. Soon, it will be grey enough to relight the torches within me. The rain is a promising whisper. For now, one must make do with the remains of the sweltering sunlight. This accursed heat. Nothing rotten nor Romantic grows in it with ease. It is a stifling hothouse, but the end is in sight. A good thing, because my patience is fraying at the ends. It is moth-eaten and thinning, delicately delirious.

My dreams have been plentiful. Ever since I stopped sleeping with my head pointed north, they have been vivid and frequent, though refreshingly harmless. It’s good, to have some reprieve. The furniture moves, still, but the terror abates. My nightly wanderings. Reliable puncture wounds in the fabric of time, the thick weavings of it, the syrupy ways of the clock. During daylight hours, writing has been my one, trusty weapon in slowing down the time. Writing as transcendental practice, as meditation, as mysticism for the self-starter. Who needs ecstasy when they have the written word? A baroque use of language is a sixth sense to aid disorientation in the waking world.

Despite the (undesirable) lack of gloom, the past month was full of “vampire girlfriend” themed submissions, bringing a little bit of Forks, Washington or Mystic Falls, Virginia with them. From a story reclaiming the gruesome “Dracula” (1897) narrative, to a haunting photo-editorial, and everything in between. There was a poem channelling the lion and the lamb from “Twilight” (2008). And there were short essays, about cannibalism and vampiric love, and about the patron saint of gloomy graveyard girls. Something for everyone to sink their teeth into, my dear, no matter if you identify as Death or the Maiden. Which brings us to our next order of business.

Another themed submission prompt.

With the return of our beloved Death and the Maiden, our Beauty and our Beast, it’s only right to uphold the tradition of a matching limited-time submission prompt. If you missed out on last year’s submission window, or perhaps have even more to say, rest easy, for you now have a second chance at the afterlife. Take a sip of absinthe and wander down the dark paths of your imagination; imagine a whirl-wind romance with Death, think about the Intersection of Love and Violence(tm), or weep for a tenderness lost out on. Cast yourself as a Beauty, a Maiden, a Psyche, a Persephone, or even their loathsome counterparts. Pick your poison, little dove. Ingest it wisely.

“Lord Death came close to me. I could feel no heat from him, hear no breath in his lung. He was utterly still beside me, but there was a strange comfort in that stillness. It was as if he had eternity to stand beside me, and forever to listen. There was no time or motion to disturb us.”

• by Martine Leavitt, from “Keturah and Lord Death” (2006)

Once the feast is over, see what fragile bones can be fished out of the remains. Cast a divination of katabasis, martyrdom, and succulent compassion. What is your own relationship with Death like, personified or not? What does it mean to hold space for the monster? Is there courage in being the lamb rather than the lion? All manner of work is welcome. Old and new, written or otherwise, personal or fictional. Submissions for this themed prompt close on August 30th, and you can find our full submission guide here. Happy submitting!

Without further ado, allow me to open up my jowls. Here, crawl right in. Get comfortable, my dear. This will be a long one.

I. Archive Sources

“Darling, its only the fairy tales we really live by.”

• by Katherine Mansfield, from a Letter to J.M.Murry (1920)

You didn’t think I would swallow you up without at least intellectually providing for you first, did you, my dear? No, I fear that is not the way things are done here. It’s best to have some respect for those you intend to devour, after all. Little escapes you, so you must be aware that this here letter is our highly anticipated third instalment of “Death and the Maiden” themed fare. To match, I have sourced a small exhibition of supplementary reading. A minor test of courage. The vows before the marriage.

1. “Beautiful Maidens, Hideous Suitors: Victorian Fairy Tales and the Process of Civilization” - link

This paper uses three Victorian women-authored “Beauty and the Beast” tales to show how the later versions of this story, beyond their original fairytales, recast their focus from the intense and frightening sexuality of the Beast, and instead put it onto Beauty and her navigating of the tale’s gender roles. These Victorian retellings are tales of growth into accomplishment and feminine autonomy construction, contrasting their earlier folk counterparts in their distinctly “civilised” bourgeois conflicts of combined wealth and courtship.

“In the second half of the nineteenth century, British revisions of "Beauty and the Beast" attracted many women writers. Its appeal probably lies in the fact that the story may be viewed as "a female pilgrim's progress," in Marina Warner's terms: it deals with the violence of male sexuality, which the heroine must learn to tame-and accept—and which marks the main stage of her education into womanhood.”

2. “The Supple Suitor: Death, Women, Feminism, and (Assisted or Unassisted) Suicide” - link

Using a host of poetic examples, this paper looks at how the “Death and the Maiden” tradition and its framing of Death as a flirtatious suitor in the artistic imagination have created a gendered idea of the “erotic suicide”. While the death drive (thanatos) is, in itself, not gendered, the ways in which men and women typically yearn for death is. It could be said that men typically write about their longing for death in a more conceptual sense, purely as respite, while women tend to personify and eroticise Death, as figure, falling in line with how the arts have portrayed the union of Death and the Maiden. Think of my favourite transcript from “Romeo and Juliet” (1597); “Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe / That unsubstantial Death is amorous, / And that the lean abhorred monster keeps / Thee here in dark to be his paramour?” (Act V, Scene III)

“Did Dickinson not only dread death and dread her dread of death but also, at the same time, fear wanting death? Certainly the constellation of anxieties around the erotic encounter of Death and the Maiden suggests that she was using this centuries-old theme to explore a troublesome aspect of her preoccupation with her own demise. Both "Death Is the Supple Suitor" and "Because I Could Not Stop for Death" elaborate the tale of the phantom wooer and the fainting female, exposing not only the potential deadliness of the erotic, but also, more to the point in the context of my theme here, the seductive eroticism of death.”

3. “Beauty and the Beast, or, the Wound Too Great” - link

As a “Beauty and the Beast” retelling, Clarice Lispector’s version is unique in the sense that it features no romance. Instead, Lispector has utilised her Beauty, and put the Beast indefinitely off-screen, to narrow in on the class aspect of the fairytale. Beauty, relegated to the identity of a housewife and full-time enjoyer of lavishment, gains something almost akin to class consciousness through her run-in with a homeless man. A most interesting continuation of the wealth dynamics in the original French fairytale.

“She saw that she didn't know how to run the world. She was an in-competent, with her black hair and long, red fingernails. That's how she was, like in an out of focus color photo. Everyday she made her lists of things that needed doing or that she wanted to do the next day…..that was how she'd become so tied to idle time. She simply had nothing to do. Other people did everything for her.”

II. Death and the Maiden: Tokyo Drift

“Give me your hand, you fair and tender creature; / I am a friend and do not come to punish. / Be of good cheer! I am not savage, / Gently you will sleep in my arms."

• by Franz Schubert, via Archive Source 2

By now it should be clear to you, my dear, that my thoughts about “Death and the Maiden” are a plentiful, overflowing, never-ending well. I wrote a full-length 12k word thesis about the subject last year for the White Lily Society’s first Substack anniversary, and now I am back to regale you with yet more. Brevity not desired, obviously. This is indulgence of the finest kind, extravagance and excess in service of celebration. It goes without saying that this letter builds on what has come before it, so do run your eyes over the modest part I, and its much more elaborate sequel, part II, before braving this here part III. Jumping into the latest part of the trilogy is not entirely recommended. You have been warned aplenty.

In a previous letter, we looked at the “Sleeping Beauty” fairytale in depth, starting with the original tale, and then semiotically dissecting it in turn. This letter will borrow a bit of the former’s structure, using the “Death and the Maiden” parallel “Beauty and the Beast” to provide us with our beginning structure. For easier reading, I have indexed the sections of this thesis of mine below. It’s highly recommended to use the search command to skip to certain juicy bits if you so desire. Or you could simply sit back with a warming cup of tea, my dear, and let me take you by the hand. The choice is, as always, entirely yours.

Index.

• II.I “Beauty and the Beast” - recounting the original BatB fairytale and its hallmarks

• II.II “Animal Brides and Bridegrooms” - about gendered conventions in fairytale BatB stories

• II.III “the Erotics of Captivity” - dreams of annihilation, or, “why Death is sexy”

• II.IV “Death as Maiden” - links between femininity and death (contd.), feminine jouissance, and maenads

• II.V “the Call of the Monster” - Death and the modern romance hero as amalgamation of seductive villain and virtuous hero

• II.VI “Dream-walking / Death-walking” - dreams, sleepwalking, and “Nosferatu”

Enough stalling, let us open the storybook now.

II.I Beauty and the Beast

“Beauty, take these flowers. They have cost your poor father dearly.”

• by Maria Tatar, from “Beauty and the Beast” (as found in “Beauty and the Beast: Classic Tales About Animal Brides and Grooms from Around the World”, 2017), p32

Our beloved “Beauty and the Beast” is categorised by Hans-Jörg Uther’s 2004 “the Types of International Folktales: a Classification and Biography” as a tale type 425C, aptly also named “Beauty and the Beast”. But the story is also often combined with tale types 300 “the Dragon Slayer”, 425 “the Search for the Lost Husband”, and 425A “the Animal as Bridegroom”. Before the French bourgeois spin of nightly suppers, maiden sacrifice, and an unlikely love story, earlier folktales composited elements of beastly adversaries, of animal brides and bridegrooms both, and their spouse’s quests to return them home after a fatal error. Either way, the traditional “Beauty and the Beast” (from hereon out abbreviated to BatB) we were raised with, tale 425C, often has the following key ingredients, as specified by the very in-depth “Thompson Motif Index of Folk Literature”1:

1. L221 Modest request: present from the journey

2. S222 Man promises (sells) child in order to save himself from danger or death

3. C761.2 Taboo: staying too long at home

4. D735.1 Beauty and the beast. Disenchantment of animal by being kissed by

   woman

The traditional BatB story starts all the way back in 1740, with a tale penned by the French Gabrielle Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve, and was later, in 1756, taken under de wings of Jeanne Marie Leprince de Beaumont for some small tweaks. Villeneuve’s version emerges already formed, quite close to the story we know; after the loss of his goods and, consequently, his fortune, a merchant is forced to live in poverty with his three daughters, and three sons. But in the midst of their ceaseless complaining, the youngest daughter stands out. Not just for her positive outlook, but for her gorgeous looks: she is called Beauty, of course. One day, the merchant ventures into town on word that his wares have safely arrived after all.

Before he goes, he asks his children what he should bring back with him as gifts, now that their riches are due to be restored. Everybody asks for lavish, expensive presents, but Beauty wants only for a single rose. The news soon turns out to be a falsehood, and defeated, the merchant starts the arduous journey home. Worsening weather and misfortune lead him to a mysterious mansion, where he finds the table set, the fire lit, and a comfortable guest room prepared for him. Now, who could refuse such hospitality when in need? Who would even want to?

Above: the merchant finds the Beast’s mansion. From “The Beauty and The Beast” (originally “Skønheden og Dyret”, 1989). Original Image Source: see film

Without any trace of his host, the merchant gets ready to leave when his eye falls on a magnificent rose bush in the gardens. It is a thing of beauty, thorns and all, a gorgeous blood-red sea of blooms. And while he is downtrodden in his persistent lack of wealth, he finds himself eager to grant at least one of his children’s wishes. So, he plucks one flower from the bush. Almost instantaneously, he is faced with the lord of the home; a dreadful Beast, who instills a great terror in the merchant. The Beast cuts him a deal; die for his offence, or send one of his daughters in his place. Of course, the merchant swiftly agrees, not at all intent on holding up his end of the bargain, and returns to his children.

Back home, he recalls the story to his daughters, gloomy and terrible. The rose has begun to wilt already. Beauty does not need to be persuaded to take her father’s place, as her great empathy leaves her no other choice. And so, she makes her way through the woods and to the house that is to be her presumed executioner’s block. She seems unable to do anything but bare her neck. But the Beast immediately defies expectations by confirming that Beauty has come of her own free will. To her surprise, he does not plan for her imminent death, does not plan to devour her, bones and all. Her room is of the greatest comfort, littered with books, and she is a mistress of the home just as much as she is a prisoner. She finds in the Beast a humble, giving companion.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

“‘Beauty’ said the monster, ‘will you let me watch you dine?’.
'You are my master,' said Beauty, trembling.
'No, you are the only mistress here,' replied Beast. 'If I bother you, order me to go, and I will leave at once [...].'"

• by Maria Tatar, from “Beauty and the Beast” (as found in “Beauty and the Beast: Classic Tales About Animal Brides and Grooms from Around the World”, 2017), p35

In Villeneuve’s version, the Beast asks Beauty every night to sleep with her, in de Beaumont’s, he asks for her hand in marriage. No matter the offer, Beauty politely declines, carefully to avoid hurting the Beast’s feelings. There are many more, small differences. Villeneuve implies false parentage for Beauty, making her royalty— something which her tale shall return to in its final act. De Beaumont doesn’t bother. Villeneuve populates the manor with animal servants, while Beaumont keeps the pair in seclusion. In both, Beauty dreams of a fairy warning her of making judgment calls based on appearance, but in Villeneuve’s, she also dreams nightly of a mysterious, handsome stranger…

Even as the months pass them by, and Beauty begins to warm up to the Beast’s gentle, thoughtful ways, she cannot help but be consumed by a most intense homesickness. She builds up the courage to ask the Beast for leave, and he agrees, on condition that she returns within a certain amount of time, or he’ll die of a broken heart. Using a magic ring, Beauty is immediately home with her father and siblings, and it does her well. In Villeneuve’s version, it is Beauty’s brothers that can’t bear to part with her. In de Beaumont’s, it’s Beauty’s sisters, seeing her fine dress and jewels, who feel a renewed jealousy— they plot and scheme to make Beauty overstay, hoping she will incur the wrath of the Beast. Regardless, Beauty gives in and stays longer than intended.

Waking up in a cold sweat, she then has a dream of the Beast, lying dying in the courtyard, grief-stricken and abandoned. She returns posthaste to find her vision true. Realising her true affections for him, combined with the looming loss of the beloved, she fetches him some water to revive him. Words of love are exchanged, and after a night of enchanted sleep (Villeneuve) the Beast transforms back into the beautiful stranger of Beauty’s dreams. Or in de Beaumont’s case, the Beast spares no time waiting and reveals his true form on the spot. Villeneuve’s fairy-shaped Chekhov’s gun returns to tell Beauty of her royal lineage, and de Beaumont brings in a never-seen-before fairy to turn Beauty’s sisters into stone for their conniving wickedness. Beauty and the Beast (now, a prince) are married, to live happily ever after, my dear.

Sensible writers would let the story end there, but Villeneuve tacks on several lengthy sections detailing the backstory of the Beast. Economic eliminations on de Beaumont’s part, who removed these frills entirely. Fairytale savant Charles Perrault also adapted the tale, mixing elements of both versions. Perhaps the most famous BatB adaptation, the animated 1991 Disney version, chooses to re-use parts of Villeneuve’s backstory, opening the tale with the story of a young prince, home alone and refusing to shelter an old beggar woman.

Not an odd concept to modern audiences, perhaps, but as the woman reveals herself to be a fairy, the prince gets cursed, to be stuck as Beast until he can find someone who loves him as he is before the petals of an enchanted rose all fall off. A nice continuation of the rose motif, if you ask me, though entirely uncalled for to have the Beast’s household of servants all turn into whimsical, anthropomorphised household objects. Spare the innocent, at least! But I understand this is Disney after all, and we need a cast to dance and sing our songs— which will certainly not be the frightful Beast.

The Disney version undoubtedly leans hard on the appearances thing, as Villeneuve and de Beaumont’s fairy would approve of. “Don’t judge a book by its cover” and all that. Sometimes the beasts are really human, and the humans are beastly. Yet BatB is a pairing that, symbolically, can be utilised for a very wide variety of morals and deeper cultural meanings. It could be said to represent female anxieties about arranged marriages, the dangerous allure of human sexuality, or moralise about the transformative power of love. Not to mention the perverse shock value of the arrangement: innocent girl, held captive by a grotesque beast. Its roots lie in myths like that of Zeus and Europa, or Eros and Psyche.

The juxtaposition is of the sweet and the terrible, but also the poor and the wealthy, the empathetic and the animalistic. Conflict between body and soul. The animal and human pairing asks us to think outside these lines, for the Beast is certainly an animal, but he is also above other animals as he can talk, and think, and own property. The Beast defies convention in that way. He is a representation of the more animalistic urges, Freud’s “id”, yes, but he has in him also an unexpected dash of civilisation. And yet despite the Beast’s potency as sexual symbol, his union with Beauty is affirmatively one of companionship over passion, of making the most of it, of tending to love in the hopes that more can bloom.

Unlike the myths it takes from, BatB presents a much more nuanced, withdrawn version of love focusing largely on consent2 and patience. The Beast doesn’t [physically] force himself on Beauty. Beyond the original captivity, he allows her to set the pace within the confines of their forced proximity. But do not be mistaken by the sweet façade. The taming of the Beast is only enforced by the narrative it inhabits, the cage the words make for him, and the erasing glance of the author. There are still plenty of signifiers of eroticism and passion within the narrative, as we shall come to see in later sections.

II.II Animal Brides and Bridegrooms

“If Little Red Riding Hood frames the relationship between humans and beasts in terms of predators and prey, then Beauty and the Beast stories contrastingly tell us that, in a heartbeat, humans can become beasts and vice versa.”

• by Maria Tatar, from “Beauty and the Beast: Classic Tales About Animal Brides and Grooms from Around the World” (2017), p.xxi

Gender is, without a doubt, an essential part of the BatB trope, as well as that of DatM. But it also creates one of its most fascinating paradoxes: theoretically, both Death and the Maiden are gendered stereotypes taken to extremes. Brute force and sweet sensibility personified. And yet they both exist as liminal characters, time and time again, driving themselves, inevitably, towards polarity. They are characters of contradictions, even if the gendered undertones still largely dictate their behaviour.

Gendered attitudes to the DatM coupling are much clearer in BatB stories and its subsidiaries, early folk- and fairytales of animal brides and bridegrooms. In a strictly heteronormative BatB narrative, reversing the roles only reinforces this idea of difference. The animal bridegroom is a fixer upper, the animal bride is in need of capturing, not fixing. Per Maria Tatar; “In traditional animal bridegroom tales the man is portrayed as a predatory animal because he needs to be domesticated; the woman, for her part, is highly civilized.” (see Archive Source 1). Animal bride tales are largely about denying one’s deeper nature, about choosing contentment in captivity.

This is an odd contrast to the monstrous feminine as it is often depicted in horror, as a cunning threat to male power. The animal bride instead is a perfect woman, whose quest lies not in transforming herself, but in proving her own worth to others. She is met with human suitors who think little of her capacities as a domestic force, of her magic, or even of the beauty hidden underneath her animal skin. Because all animal brides are, without their unshapely cloaks, beautiful maidens. And they are always the most beautiful maiden around. No second best here, my dear. The rose that blooms for you is, without a doubt, the most precious one of all. Everybody is always saying so. Judged by jury and executioner, we find that she exceeds all others.

Reading a great amount of tales of both animal brides and bridegrooms, it is quite striking how different their stakes and story motifs often are. Animal bridegroom stories tend to have their female protagonists’ greatest sin be curiosity, or meanness, and they go on long, arduous quests to reverse their ill fortune. Once they break their animal partner’s trust, they must go to Herculean lengths to repair it. But they can never reverse the flaw of being born as women. These are the Psyches, who need to see the Beast that lays with them, who get their hands on Bluebeard’s keys, and can’t blindly follow orders— their instincts just won’t allow them to live uninsured. Complete trust is not so easily given by them. And this lack of blind obedience is a threat to the assumed power of the male. Even when the man of the house is a monster, is a beast, he is still better than a woman by authority of his gender, so the blame is always on her.

Even in stories of animal brides, the defining sin that drives the story’s main plot is feminine in character. Though their stories often silently open with assumed male ownership and domination, the onus of guilt is on the woman for fleeing, not on the man for “capturing” (read: “taking”, “abducting”, “forcing”) what is not rightfully his. It is entirely expected for these male protagonists to harbour magpie instincts. The tale of the animal bride is one that disputes and debates ownership over her.

Sure, the human male protagonists are much more likely to end up dead for their crimes, but that is a symptom of the increased violence in animal bride tales as opposed to their animal bridegroom counterparts. In a Japanese tale, a crane spins a beautiful cloth straight from her own chest, dabbled with her heart’s blood. A man “takes advantage” of a bull, or a bear-bride foresees her own death, as in two Native American tales. The female marriage candidates found to be second best to the animal-bride-turned-human are drowned in a river. A man gets upset with his donkey wife, and publicly throws her against a wall, after which he is rewarded with her final transformation into a beautiful maiden. Leagues of these story feature hunter protagonists, both literally and symbolically, ensnaring their brides in the wild and forcing them to stay. Of course, in the fantastical world of the fairytale, happiness is likely even in an unlikely marriage.

“From his hiding place the young hunter had taken a careful note of where his enchantress had laid her swan feathers. Stealing softly forth, he took them and returned to his place of concealment in the surrounding foliage. Soon thereafter two of the swans were heard to fly away, but the third, in search of her clothes, discovered the young man, before whom, believing him responsible for their disappearance, she fell upon her knees and prayed that her swan attire might be returned to her. The hunter was, however, unwilling to yield the beautiful price, and, casting a cloak around her shoulders, carried her home.”

• by Maria Tatar, from “the Swan Maiden” (as found in “Beauty and the Beast: Classic Tales About Animal Brides and Grooms from Around the World”, 2017)

What is the beast to the fairytale? Is the fairytale sympathetic to the Other? What message is aided by the asymmetry of species and gender? Unlike the female vampire, whose monstrous feminine sin lies in being a seducer, the animal bride is not hunter, but prey. The story barges down her doorstep and takes her with it, kicking and screaming. The wild bird, captured and moulded into the shape of a girl, her skin thrown into the fire, forcibly severed from her animal nature, is eventually nothing more than a prisoner of matrimony. Feral, yet biding her time. Once you show her the keys of the cage she will not hesitate to leave the nest. And unlike the female protagonists of animal bridegroom tales, the male protagonists won’t chase after their animal brides. There are always more fish in the sea to marry and court.

“[…] seven years later, the hunter related to her how he had sought and won her. He brought forth and showed her, also, the white swan feathers of her former days. No sooner were they placed in her hands than she was transformed once more into a swan, and instantly took flight through the open window. In breathless astonishment the man stared wildly after his rapidly vanishing wife […]”

• by Maria Tatar, from “the Swan Maiden” (as found in “Beauty and the Beast: Classic Tales About Animal Brides and Grooms from Around the World”, 2017)

II.II the Erotics of Captivity

“I have seen the cage you are weaving for me; it is a very pretty one […] for I loved him with all my heart and yet I had no wish to join the whistling congregation he kept in his cages although he looked after them very affectionately, gave them fresh water every day and fed them well. His embracements were his enticements and yet, oh yet! they were the branches of which the trap itself was woven.”

• by Angela Carter, from “the Erl-King” (collected in “the Bloody Chamber”, 1979)

The story of BatB also brings to the foreground cultural differences in how love and sex are thought of, and often separated. Think of the genre of “courtly love”, for example, which Lacan refers to as “a highly refined way of making up for (suppléer à) the absence of the sexual relationship.” (from “On Feminine Sexuality, the Limits of Love and Knowledge”, 1975, p69). The assumed absence of sexuality beyond subtext in the fairytale is a part of the culture and history it was born into. Polite literature during the birth of the BatB tale prefers to dance around the sexual act entirely, and to focus itself more largely on the ideas of romance. Likewise, taming the erotic spirit was the purpose of courtly love, in order to bend romance to ideas of chivalry, sacrifice, and a transcendence devoid of bodily benefit. It is a love entirely devised for the soul, not the skin. A love that exists in the heart, and so cannot be touched. And like the separation between love and sex, sex itself is also divided into its comfortable and uncomfortable parts:

“Human sexuality has at its core a basic conflict between tenderness, affection, and compassion on the one hand, and violence, aggression, and rough-and-tumble play on the other. That the language of love so often draws its power from the language of combat and the hunt reveals exactly how divided we are when it comes to considering the operation of sexual desire.”

• by Maria Tatar, from “Beauty and the Beast: Classic Tales About Animal Brides and Grooms from Around the World” (2017), p.xxv

Perhaps this split in narrative is personified in BatB: Beauty as Love, Beast as Sexuality. But the lines aren’t entirely so crisp.

Complicating matters even more, the boundaries of consent, domination, and submission are often blurred within BatB. While the Beast requires that Beauty comes to him of her own free will, what choice is there in the alternative, sending one’s father to the executioner? Combine that with continuous offers of courtship, and the waters are murky. The DatM trope, like BatB, loves to work the narrative within set physical confinements, enabling the erotics of captivity. The pairing is already eroticised in nature, ready-packaged with soft gasps and a potential for warring cruelty and tenderness, but the captivity element only underlines this. Vulnerability is the life-blood of this eroticism. Wound-showing-turned-romance.

It is important to note that captivity, here, comes without the association of bondage, without the association of servitude. Actually, in many BatB adaptations, the Beast lifts Beauty out of her sisters’ servitude— Beauty is a concentration of stereotypically “feminine” traits, but not forced to act on the domestic side of these. When she is caring, or nurturing, or gentle, she is so out of her own volition. The Beast does not make her cook, nor clean, but instead lavishes domestic devotion onto her. Fresh cut flowers, dresses and jewels, and extravagant nightly meals are all par for the courtship. The magical mansion in Beaumont’s version enables this even further, having no visible servants (no exploitation), but still presenting a veritable buffet of excess.

The castle as a property is frightening in the sense that its impregnable walls make clear that the vulnerable part is inside. The chambers of the heart. Within the castle’s stone walls and twisting hallways is a predator waiting for you. The killer is already inside with you. No need to invite him in. Locking doors is out of the question; anticipation is the conduit of eroticism. And that is eroticism in the philosophy of Bataille; the complete disconnection from individual identity facilitated by ecstasy. Coming, of course, from the Greek ekstasis; to be beside oneself. In that sense the castle is reshaped into labyrinth, with the Beast as its minotaur, architecturally representing the labyrinthine ways of the maze of courtship. What is gentle and polite, when one’s circumstances are so barbarous?

Loving the Beast (Death), ultimately is an act of masochism, in which Beauty (the Maiden) blurs her identity in pairing with the Other, who at once signifies desire and male agency. Simone de Beauvoir called it a “dream of annihilation”: “when woman gives herself up completely to her idol, she hopes that he will give her at once possession of herself and of the universe he represents”. (from “the Second Sex”, 1949) In DatM, it can be said that the Maiden partially yearns to die, in order to become Death. To take the aspects of him she has traditionally been disallowed. This is also true for the Beast, who sparks a curiosity in Beauty and in the reader, even more so as the Anthropocene advances. The curiosity only the repressed parts of us can evoke. “In a society in which most of us will never encounter true danger in the woods, the bear who comes knocking at our window is not such a frightening creature; instead, he’s exotic, almost appealing.” (by Maria Tatar, from “Beauty and the Beast: […]”, 2017). The more we disconnect from the natural world, the greater its appeal as cabinet of curiosities becomes.

Having one’s autonomy taken away is easily eroticised as submission; when Fleabag, from the modern show (2016-2019) of the same name, laments that she wants someone to think for her, to take the wheel on her life, it is an erotically charged confession. Masochism in the form of dissociation. This masochistic perversion was long thought to be natural in women, to be an extension of the “natural” feminine submission to male power. Wives were expected to submit to their husband’s will, the same way daughters submitted to their fathers. The picture of the self-flagellating devotee was a woman. Martyrdom, in turn, is a profession lined with women. Remember, my dear, it is the woman who chases after her animal bridegroom. When the roles are reversed the plot does not demand the male hero to go to such extreme lengths.

II.III Death as Maiden

“[…] the perennial sadness of a girl who is both death and the maiden.”

• by Angela Carter, from “the Lady of the House of Love” (collected in “the Bloody Chamber”, 1979)

Much has been written about the innate connections between femininity and death3. Edgar Allan Poe famously wrote that “the death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world” (from “the Philosophy of Composition”, 1846). To be a woman, a girl, is to be a veiled being, living in the margins of a world not made for you. Mildly alike to being queer, or belonging to any other kind of minority. Which is why the DatM structure lends itself so well to queer or mixed-race interpretations, adding more depth. The figurative “Maiden” is Other, more like Death than “she” might know. Everything else is entirely open to interpretation.

Certainly, DatM lends itself to re-interpretation much more than the hetero-normative, largely wealth-obsessed gaze of BatB. When Louis and Lestat embrace, for example, in the AMC adaptation of “Interview with the Vampire” (2022-), their union is one of close understanding, because they are both outsiders to some extent. Louis, as a gay person of colour in 1910s New Orleans, and Lestat, as self-appointed “non-discriminating” creature of the night, as ultimate predator. They are closer for their individual “outsider” status, but still invariably far apart within society. DatM breeds a certain kind of thematic understanding that is also, inevitably, full of tension. Their common ground does not seamlessly make way for romance, but it might enable it.

In historical romances we might label as DatM, the outsider or Other was also understood to represent a different kind of death; a social one. Cathy of “Wuthering Heights” (1847) can’t be with Heathcliff, because his race and class would essentially force her into the ultimate ego-death, to give up the life she has been accustomed to, the prejudices she has seamlessly accepted that allow her to live the way she does. Their romance would require her removal of the veil of ignorance, and she finds that too much to ask of herself. An un-comfort too large. Jane, in “Jane Eyre” (1847) could not give up the social security of marriage to be with Rochester, regardless of their passion. The iron grip of comfort is the ever-alluring, antithesis to unification with Death.

The [contested] marriage, as stand-in for a more symbolic unification, extends the otherworldliness of this cliff between the respective worlds of Death and the Maiden, of society and outsider, of living and dead. Elisabeth Bronfen, author of “Over Her Dead Body: Death, Femininity and the Aesthetic” (1992), writes about the ambiguity of the “bride” figure, that is, the woman between adulthood and marriage, as “undefinable” because “the danger and fascination that the bride exerts can also be attributed to the fact that she could potentially belong to everybody, that she could be anything and everything” (p270). The woman, in her hyper-flux of identity states, as object both with and without direct ownership, threatens and fascinates the male order. She is both dead and alive, undead, in the process of dying and of living, of being reborn. In that sense she is Death: like him, she oscillates between existing as invisible spectator and spectacle of threat.

Does the Maiden wish for invisibility, like her beloved Death? Does this slipping in and out of roles like plush robes ultimately suit her? Can the margins be made into a home? Arguably, to be a woman is to be looked at, to be treated as aesthetic object of erotic voyeurism in life, and in death. To be a beautiful woman is even more so. The animal bride is both victimised and protected because of her beauty; the swan who takes off her animal skin to bathe gets marital shackles for her sin of existing as both beautiful and unclaimed, while the cursed frog helping a prince eventually has to prove herself as both adept and beautiful in order to survive. But more often than not, to be beautiful is enough to be considered as bride, as object to be claimed, as reward for a male hero’s bravado.

“"Beauty can be a great threat." Her extreme grace became confused with bewilderment and a deep melancholy. "Beauty frightens." "If I weren't so pretty, I would have had some other destiny," she thought […]”

• by Clarice Lispector, see Archive Source 3

Hypothetically, the freeing embrace of Death should be the end of beauty. But the beautiful corpses littering art continue an aesthetic claim over the beautiful as property; “culture uses art to dream the death of beautiful women” (by Elisabeth Bronfen, “Over Her Dead Body”, 1992, p.xi). The embrace of Death is one that lifts social stigma and restrictions, because it is at least partially built on understanding. “Of course she comes alive in this house of death.” (by Sarah Krasnostein, from “The Trauma Cleaner: One Woman's Extraordinary Life in the Business of Death, Decay, and Disaster”, 2017). But neither death nor beastliness can save the Maiden from the innate performance of beauty. The corpses are lovely and the animals were actually gorgeous maidens all along— which is why Angela Carter’s decision to end one of her BatB adaptations (“The Tiger’s Bride”, 1979) with Beauty joining the Beast in his inhuman appearance is so subversive.

The DatM and/or BatB romance is essentially a dispute of ownership. The Maiden as beautiful bargaining chip. “As we have seen / in the tale of Persephone / which should be read / as an argument between the mother and the lover— / the daughter is just meat.” (by Louise Glück, from “Persephone the Wanderer”, collected in “Averno”, 2006). When the argument isn’t between mother and lover, it is between [male] society and those that exist beyond it: “[…] in the horror film, the wanton sexuality of monsters is not primarily feared because of the damage it may do to the hapless woman involved, but because it is an affront to male sexuality” (by David J. Hogan, from “Dark Romance: Sex and Death in the Horror Film”, 1986, p93).

The idea of the woman unclaimed threatens the male order. Following Jacques Lacan’s philosophy, the woman “does not exist” because she is defined as not-man. There is no defining the woman, as she escapes an encompassing neat definition. Language and symbolism cannot expand widely enough to envelope her completely. This is in line with our idea of the Maiden, who is simultaneously alive, dead and dying, always. Through her existence outside of the male (phallic) order, she threatens it, because it opens her up to a unique kind of pleasure; what Lacan calls “feminine jouissance”. It’s Bataille’s “eroticism” enabled by an existence as Other, as undefined, as non-existence. Essentially, feminine jouissance is rapture, possession, bliss.

While phallic jouissance is limited by structures like language, or law, feminine jouissance, as extension of the woman’s “Otherness”, is a smile of ungoverned, ungovernable excess, even mysticism. It is beyond understanding and impenetrable, thus it is frightening. Lacan long understood this when he wrote that women are more suited to mysticism, to transcendence through the loss of the self. The undefinable concepts are the woman’s home.

Perhaps this is what the maenads, Dionysus’ female followers, felt as they feasted to excess in their bacchanals, their rituals of wild and drunken abandon. Did they feel the presence of their god as they ripped men apart with their bare hands? Did they feel freed from their non-existence? Was the loss of identity, ultimately, an erotic occurrence? Bataille would certainly concur. Dionysus is also the god of insanity, after all. And insanity is a space of both a beautiful terror and a unique ecstasy. “Beauty is terror” wrote Donna Tartt; “Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it” (from “the Secret History”, 1992). The sacred can bring us to our knees: “The fear and trembling that modern man cannot rid himself of when faced with things sacred to him are always bound up with the horror inspired by a forbidden object” (by Georges Bataille, from “Eroticism”, 1957, p223). I shouldn’t have to tell you that fear is an aphrodisiac, my dear. The abject- Kristeva’s space where terror makes meaning collapse- can also be richly seductive. “Abjection is a resurrection that has gone through death (of the ego). It is an alchemy that transforms death drive into a start of life, of new significance.” (from “Powers of Horror: an Essay on Abjection”, 1941, p15).

“We love the wolf. We love the love of the wolf. We love the fear of the wolf. We’re afraid of the wolf: there is love in our fear. Fear is in love with the wolf. Fear loves. Or rather: we are afraid of the person we love. Love terrorizes us”.

• by Hélène Cixous, from “Love of the Wolf” (collected in “Stigmata: Escaping Texts”, 1998)

Being close to terror via Death can very much be a form of healing for the Maiden; 2024 film “Lisa Frankenstein” posits this as its mission statement, having its main character Lisa Swallows accidentally resurrect a corpse, and then embark on the ultimate romantic quest— the quest to put him back together. With a few axe murders along the way, of course. This monstrous, undead man, explicitly not a part of the phallic order as he lacks a working phallus, is both Death and the Beast. He exists to be stitched back together, literally. He is transformed. Yet in a way, the narrative gives him the feminine archetypal arc; there to support, prop up, and propagate Lisa (the Maiden’s) journey through identity formation, grief, acceptance, and ultimately, death. His physical mini make-over is there to enable her spiritual, then-physical transformation. Who knew dying for love could be so sweet?

But Lisa is also somewhat of a monstrous feminine character, in the sense that she isn’t shy to bare her teeth. We have previously looked at the Maiden in more detail, undoing her stitches, but it serves to be reinstated here. The male order would rather have the woman as perennial victim; as delicate, fragile object in need of protection. The beautiful corpse. The monstrous feminine subverts this by making the woman the predator, instead of the prey. Pretty skirts pair better with sharp teeth.

Sometimes, the figurehead is all the Maiden is meant to be. She can certainly read that way. Saccharine and sickly sweet. Most times, though, she exceeds her own stereotypical confinement through the nuance provided to her by what should, by its own reasoning, be a tale of strict divergences. Death and the Maiden close the gap of understanding in service of supporting each other’s narrative growth, and ultimately, transformation.

II.IV the Call of the Monster

“There’s something about a guy who’s mysterious, and dark, and you don’t know everything about that’s very appealing, because the girls always like the bad boy”

• from an interview with Nina Dobrev, who played Elena Gilbert on “the Vampire Diaries” (2009-2017)

So, the Maiden is a threat because of her Otherness, because she actively desires the Other, Death. This active desire is an antidote to the stereotypes of the female condition: “To be the object of desire is to be defined in the passive case. To exist in the passive case is to die in the passive case- that is, to be killed.” (by Angela Carter, from “the Sadeian Woman and the Ideology of Pornography”, 1979, p88). But what is there to desire about the Beast, about Death? Specifically, what makes the Maiden desire him? We have already seen that men and women’s ideas of Death personified take on different meanings in Archive Source 2.“[…] women poets have often imagined death as multiply and richly seductive.”

It is not simply the call of the void, or death drive (thanatos), that drives the Maiden into Death’s arms. Remember, in Greek mythology, Eros and Thanatos were “nearly” twinned personifications. Romance and Death encircle each other, as do Desire and Terror, Love and Violence. Death and the Maiden are the ultimate Intersection of Love and Violence. Which is why it’s interesting to also further dissect the figure of Death / the Beast, and all his contradictions. Because neither Death nor the Maiden wholly rule the domain of Love, or Violence. They both partake in either cup.

Being the absolute representation of everything stereotypically thought to be “male”- social and economic power, brute strength, sexuality- Death (the Beast), like the Harlequin romance hero, represents a threat to the Maiden’s (Beauty’s) chastity, innocence, and world view. This somewhat questionable sexual threat is not actually about being “ravished”, so to say, but instead offers an opportunity to play coy about the very real bodily and emotional threats of courtship. A wink and a nod at the fictionalised surroundings in which there is never any real danger, and where it is often the female fantasy that casts itself in the role of prey. “It is not a question of a pornography of a rape-fantasy or an erotics of violence; rather, it is a simple, an elementary way of realizing in character and action the violent danger that sexuality in the abstract is understood as posing” (by Jan Cohn, from “Romance the Erotics of Property”, 1988, p24).

This is all so that fairytale erotics of captivity, and the DatM dynamic itself, can freely dance around the guilt of being an active participant in desire, and all the consequences that can come with it. Looking at Death in abstract, or his beastly counterpart, he is a contradiction of desire, both psychically and semiotically. Intensely repelling, but also charmingly magnetic. Make no mistake, the Maiden’s disgust of him is a mock-passivity. It is active desire in a trench coat. In framing sexuality as looming, beastly threat, the shame of desiring can largely be sidestepped, as it can be “forced” upon her. This sort of irony softens the burn of public desire, a sort of prescribed nonchalance that lessens the intensity of being caught wanting. Beauty humbly never wants for anything except a single rose, but gets everything regardless.

“To have a wound in your leg-that's reality. And everything in her life, from the moment she'd been born, everything in her life had been soft and smooth, like the leap of a cat, like a charade.”

• by Clarice Lispector, see Archive Source 3

While Death is easily understood to be dangerous, deadly, he is also a figure of tenderness. The DatM romance operates on the principle that we, as audience, tensely believe his dangers don’t extend to her. My beloved Intersection of Love and Violence is, despite appearances, not a blanket of approval of all things fair in love and war. It is simply a statement of the intricacy in human emotion, my dear. Roland Barthes writes that “it is not violence which affects pleasure, nor is it destruction which interests it; what pleasure wants is the site of a loss, the seam, the cut, the deflation, the dissolve which seizes the subject in the midst of bliss.” (by Roland Barthes, from “the Pleasure of the Text”, 1973, p7).

DatM, BatB, and vampire romances all operate on this golden principle that Death’s violence is always pointed away from the Maiden. “He would never hurt her”. Except, of course, when he does. There are, after all, DatM pairings where physical violence does take place in either direction: Klaus Mikaelson repeatedly endangers Caroline Forbes’ life in “the Vampire Diaries” (2009-2017), Lestat and Louis fight physically in “Interview with the Vampire” (novel 1976, show 2022-), Hannibal stabs Will in “Hannibal” (2013-2015), ditto for Eve and Villanelle in “Killing Eve” (2018-2022), not to mention Rey stabbing Kylo Ren in “Star Wars: the Rise of Skywalker” (2019).

Perhaps this interest in stabbings and [vampire] bites is interesting to take note of, as they are both a distinctly penetrative act. Consumptive, even, in the case of the vampire, or the Beast that Beauty fears will devour her. The DatM romance has sharp edges, it is messy. Unsafe. The ecstasy of eroticism is the antithesis of the comfort zone. It brute-forces transgression, transmutation, and eventually transformation.

Bataille argued that the taboo of death and the taboo of violence together create a fascination with the corpse: a mix of interest and disgust much like the Maiden’s conflicting feelings for Death. “We are at once repulsed by and attracted to [Death]; we shouldn’t long for Death in this way, because it is the lack of everything we have ever known – death is violent, uncaring, Godless, and cruel, the opposite of all that life should represent. But at the same time, Death is secure and promising. Why shouldn’t we embrace what we are, what we will become?” (see Newsletter 13, Archive Source 3). Our interest is piqued when the darkness looks back at us, no matter the horror it might inspire.

The Maiden also often brings out a more human aspect in Death. In “the Vampire Diaries” (2009-2017) a scene of the villainous vampire Damon (Death), gently touching human Elena’s (the Maiden’s) cheek as she sleeps is overlaid with his brother journaling in torment over Damon’s moral bankruptcy. “But [I] was wrong, there's nothing human left in Damon. No good, no kindness, no love. Only a monster... who must be stopped.” (S01E03 “Friday Night Bites”)— which is obviously visually juxtaposed with his growing tenderness for the Maiden Elena, for which he will later endeavour to change his ways.

Previously discussed4 big bad of the same show, Klaus Mikaelson, also gets his own DatM romance, though without fulfilment, with the newly turned vampire Caroline, who muses about the transformational effects of love: “I know that you’re in love with me. And anybody capable of love, is capable of being saved” (S04E13 “Into the Wild”). Though Klaus’ status as rotational villain of “the Vampire Diaries” (2009-2017), and later anti-hero of spinoff show “the Originals” (2013-2018) obviously prescribes that he can never be fully cured of his villainous ways or past, in order to facilitate the plot.

This doubling of villain and romantic hero is becoming status quo in the modern romance novel, Jan Cohn posits in his book “Romance and the Erotics of Property” (1988). Whereas the Victorian novel often had a stale, “good” hero, and a sexually seductive, threatening villain, popular romance has more often now folded these two figures into themselves to create a new hero who is, at the offset, both morally grey and sexually enticing, but through the course of the plot will be redeemed by love, and “tamed” to some extent. All the violent, anti-social, brooding tendencies will be either killed off or reshaped in service of the heroine, the Maiden. Male aggression tamed in the service of love.

Though this is not to be mistaken for a total de-clawing of Death. Modern romance tropes like “he hates everybody but her”, “grumpy x sunshine”, or “touch her and you die” all relish in keeping the hero’s “bad” side around and neatly boxed up to be dusted off and brought out whenever the story needs a fresh injection of [erotic] excitement. Appropriate fare for a generation who largely felt that Beauty looked a bit… dejected in seeing her Beast’s transformation in the 1991 animated Disney classic.

“The transformed or tamed (read “humanized”) prince is not nearly so memorable as the Beast, a figure of power and vulnerability combined. That is a rich combination of natures. It is the Beast as beast who rivets attention and burns the story into one’s mind. It is the Beast on whom storytellers, writers, and artists focus their imaginations. The climax of the story is Beauty’s love of the Beast himself, not the transformation and marriage, which is anticlimactic if pleasant. Therein lies the great disappointment of many graphic and literary conclusions of “Beauty and the Beast.” The prince seems bland in contrast to the powerful reconciled beast; he is in fact anticlimactic to the forceful struggle of balancing beauty and beast.”

• by Betsy Hearne, from “Beauty and the Beast: Visions and Revisions of an Old Tale” (1991)

Marina Warner refers to the tension between Beauty and Beast as “the seduction of difference” (from “From the Beast to the Blonde”, 1994, p272), but the kicker is that they are not as different as they seem after all. They each see concepts in the other that they wish to assimilate to, or nurture. “[…] what the wolf loves in the lamb is its own goodness.” (by Hélène Cixous, from “Love of the Wolf”, 1998) What Bella seeks in Edward (“Twilight”, 2008) is to appropriate a bit of the supernatural world he inhabits, the excitement his vampiric nature brings. Edward, in turn, relishes the normalcy and fragility of the human Bella. Her soul. This is what their tension throughout the saga amounts to; for either one to get their wish is for the other to sacrifice theirs. Which is why Edward, as “post-feminist” “perfect masculine”5 figure eventually succumbs to Bella’s wishes.

Tamed Death, the vampire boyfriend, and the modern romance hero are expected to contain “every positive aspect of masculine privilege, without personifying those more threatening facets of hyper-masculinity — the violence or the uncontrolled sexuality.” (by Ananya Mukherjea, from “My Vampire Boyfriend: Postfeminism, "Perfect" Masculinity, and the Contemporary Appeal of Paranormal Romance”, 2011). In a sense, they exist as a puzzle box for the Maiden, for the reader. A problem to be solved. They are a lack, an absence, a malnourishment. An “affliction”, per “Nosferatu” (2024). Perhaps this is the allure of Death, that which the Maiden is drawn to all along. In inhabiting an ever-shifting semiotic space, Death becomes largely congruent with Lacan’s idea of the woman, as we have seen before. This is how Death can exist as hyper-masculine, and simultaneously be feminised as Other. And through the fairytale gaze in particular, Death in the form of Beast, is then able to be neutralised narratively precisely because of this ever-shifting meaning6.

“When women tell fairy stories, they also undertake this central narrative concern of the genre – they contest fear; they turn their eye on the phantasm of the male Other and recognize it, either rendering it transparent and safe, the self reflected as good, or ridding themselves of it (him) by destruction or transformation. […] moving from the terrifying encounter with Otherness, to its acceptance, or, in some versions of the story, its annihilation. In either case, the menace of the Other has been met, dealt with and exorcized by the end of the fairytale […].”

• by Marina Warner, from “From the Beast to the Blonde” (1994), p276

II.VI Dream-walking / Death-walking

“And lo, the maiden fair did offer up her love unto the beast and with him lay in close embrace until the first cock crow. Her willing sacrifice thus broke the curse and freed them from the plague of Nosferatu.”

• quote from “Nosferatu” (2024)

Previously, we discussed the “beautiful dreamer” trope and its enmeshed relationship with the DatM trope and vampire romance, but there is another nighttime trope oft-associated with DatM which has gone overlooked: sleepwalking, or, somnambulism. Ever since Bram Stoker’s “Dracula” (1897), sleepwalking has always had a place in the pantheon of DatM-related motifs, calling to mind Lucy sleepwalking and meetings with the monster. Scandalous and erotically charged.

Count Dracula noticeably attacks his victims asleep, or in the space between slumber and wakefulness, when it is understood that they are at their most fragile. Sleepwalking is the ultimate vulnerable state, my dear. A representation of the Maiden’s mortal fragility in comparison to the immortal force of Death. Like ecstasy, jouissance, or Bataille’s eroticism, it is a representative dissolving of human identity, a chasm where reality and unconsciousness meet. It is a state between life and death. When Lucy’s sleepwalking intensifies again in “Dracula” (1897), weeks before the Count even sets foot in Whitby, we as readers are meant to understand that it is her symbolic wandering towards death. The call of the underworld. A sign of an unstable, volatile nature. Trouble is brewing and it has marked Lucy, God help her soul.

Similarly, unauthorised “Dracula” (1897) adaptation “Nosferatu” (1922) took this idea and let its Mina, named Ellen, sleepwalk on the edge of balconies. Quite literally the brink of life and death. Like in “Dracula” (1897), Ellen / Mina has a spiritual, even psychic connection to Count Orlok / Count Dracula. Robert Eggers’ subsequent 2024 adaptation takes this idea and runs with it. Ellen’s dreams and her sleepwalking are big plot points, alerting us to the sense that something is off. “He is coming, he is coming!” she murmurs in her sleep, carefully building the film’s horrific sense of dread. Like Mina, she is marked for death, for Count Orlok, who is almost explicitly a figure of Death with a capital D, a harbinger of plagues and darkness personified. We are told over and over again that Ellen is the perfect mark for Orlok, his “pretty bride”; “Demons like those whose lower animal functions dominate”. The woman mystic.

“Dracula” (1897) is a story of modernity in conflict with folk tradition; the Count preys on the “modern” people of London precisely because they have gotten lost with the rites and rituals that could kill him. They are easy targets, ripe for the slaughter. Lambs of God and industrialisation, weak to his ancient ways. “And yet, unless my senses deceive me, the old centuries had, and have, powers of their own which mere ‘modernity’ cannot kill.” (by Bram Stoker, from “Dracula”, 1897). “Nosferatu” (2024) in turn unfolds Ellen’s character to be a deeply emblematic and spiritual woman who “would have made a great priestess of Isis in heathen times”, or so she’s told. The [Lacanian] woman is undefinable, in-between, and Ellen is the manifestation of this idea, being literally caught in-between times, a victim of a tug of war between modernity and old tradition. Professor Von Franz (Van Helsing) tells her: “I am but an able tourist in this occult world. You were born to it. It is a rare gift.”

Ellen goes beyond the sleepwalking trope into near-hysteric, excessive, rapturous “episodes”, complete with bodily convulsions and other dreadful accoutrements. Death has marked her, and he is coming to collect. Even when the DatM story does away with the sleepwalking, it likes to infest its Maidens’ dreams with the influence of Death. Mina dreams of the Count, the vampires in the TVDU (“the Vampire Diaries” universe, including its spinoff shows) can manipulate dreams, Sookie in “True Blood” (2008-2014) dreams plenty of her vampire suitors over the course of the show, Laura dreams of Carmilla in “Dracula” predecessor“Carmilla” (1872), and Beauty dreams of the Beast in the original tale.

These dreams are often erotic in nature, if not outright sexual representations of the Maiden falling under Death’s spell. Almost as if that half-conscious state is a segue, a river Lethe, a place between life and death where the Maiden and Death can meet, free of the physical consequences of their fraught union. Though this certainly does not make it a level playing ground, my dear.

“Certain vague and strange sensations visited me in my sleep. The prevailing one was of that pleasant, peculiar cold thrill which we feel in bathing, when we move against the current of a river. this was soon accompanied by dreams that seemed interminable, and were so vague that I could never recollect their scenery and persons, or any one connected portion of their action. But they left an awful impression, and a sense of exhaustion, as if I'd passed through a long period of great mental exertion and danger.”

• by Sheridan le Fanu, from “Carmilla” (1872)

Perhaps this pattern of sleepwalking and dreams is also a testament to our weakening defences as we fall asleep; when we lay our head down to rest, we are preparing for a journey into a world unknown. A world ever changing, sometimes hostile and sometimes amiable, but always unknown. We can never know what awaits us when we close our eyes. It is the ultimate disarming of the spirit, the ultimate submission of mind, the ultimate erotic ideal of anticipation. Sleep, in general, is loaded with erotic connotation, as the bed is easily equated to the marriage bed. Which, in turn, is easily a deathbed. Bataille wrote about eroticism as the momentary death of the self (“Eroticism”, 1957), the interruption of self as discontinuous being and a contact with the continuous. The vampire, Death, is continuity taken flesh. Immortal in form, transcending time and space through ancient customs and rites, living under the hazy law of folklore rather than the law of men. Therefore, the union of Death and the Maiden is textbook eroticism.

The vampire's encroachment on the mind is another erotic violation— it is not enough for Death to have the Maiden's body, he hungers for her mind and soul as well. Complete enmeshment, a cannibalisation. As long as there are sanctuaries he shall not rest. The vampire consumes life (energetically) through blood, and Death consumes life (literally) through death. Then, what is the dream to the vampire? What purpose does Death seek in somnambulism? What new frontier is breached in the Maiden’s subconscious?

Perhaps the answer is lust, or rather, desire. Dreams get under the skin in a way that nothing else can. In “True Blood” (2008-2014) humans who drink vampire blood experience more frequent, erotic dreams of the vampire in question. Analysing Freudian attitudes to the dream, Ernest Jones writes that “a repressed wish for a particular sexual experience may be represented in a dream by imagery which, though associatively connected with them in the unconscious, is very dissimilar in appearance to the ideas of that experience: or, on the other hand, the ideas may appear in the dream, but accompanied by such a strong emotion of dread that any notion of their representing a wish is completely concealed from consciousness.” (from “On the Nightmare”, 1951). The contents of the dream are secondary to their purpose; the liberation of repressed desire. And repression is certainly a large part of the Maiden’s attitude towards the taboo Death represents: “Don’t you get it? [He] is my shame. [He] is my melancholy / He stalks me in my dreams. All my sleeping thoughts are of him every night.” Ellen admits in “Nosferatu” (2024).

What the subconscious wants and the conscious chases are often different things. Ego and id in conquest. Whereas Freud posited that all dreams fulfilled a subconscious desire in some way (“the Interpretation of Dreams”, 1899), Jung saw the dream as a fence-post for conscious lack. The difference in philosophy means the dream is either a processing of the unaware, versus a nightly theatre of unmasking. Whichever you subscribe to, desire is still front and centre. Of course the vampire, a creature entirely of consumption and want, cursed to never be fully satiated, would use a weapon crafted for desire in its vicious games. Death hungers.

Dreams feature heavily in the vampire mythos. Stephanie Meyer dreamed up the idea for “Twilight”, complete with sparkle and all. Ernest Jones points out that “the belief that the dead can visit their loved ones, especially by night, is met with over the whole world” (from “On the Nightmare”, 1951). The dream as un-reality, as land of pure uncanny, governed solely by imagination, is the perfect meeting place for the unimaginable. It can be bent by will to be anything, depict anyone, serve any purpose. It is the ultimate servant to Death’s desires. This complete brute-forcing of the human will is another hallmark of the vampire story: hypnotism, “compulsion”, or “glamours” are very often present. Yet another way that the Maiden is weak to Death’s influence.

Excuse me for parading my darlings around yet again, but I would be remiss in excluding a second Klaus Mikaelson ship from “the Originals” (2013-2018) from this piece. Because where Klaus’ dalliance with Caroline in “the Vampire Diaries” (2009-2017) is one of a thousand year old Original vampire (think; special vampire7) and a newly turned “regular” vampire, his relationship with Camille in “the Originals” (2013-2018) is much closer to a true DatM representation. It ticks all the boxes; Klaus is a representation of Death, of male sexuality, violence, and power. Whereas Cami as Maiden (and as therapist by occupation) is caring and empathetic towards him, equally intrigued and repulsed. A signature scene of their unfolding push-and-pull romance happens when Klaus shows up to Cami’s apartment, looming in the folds of her white curtains flowing in the wind. She invites him in, and he uses his vampiric powers of mind compulsion to force her to forget her trauma surrounding her brother’s death, and in turn, to “sleep and […] dream of a world far better than this one. A world where there is no evil, no demons, and all people desire only to be good.” (S01E04 “Girl in New Orleans”)

Unlike the vampire as cause of somnambulism, here vampiric presence is instead a brute-force cure for nighttime disturbances. It is a clever reversal of the vampire-as-nighttime-disturbance trope, at least in part— Klaus’ influence on Cami’s mind is not welcomed by her. When she eventually dies, the show ticks another DatM box by making explicit all the ways in which the Maiden has transformed Death. On her deathbed, Klaus tells Cami: “You stayed my hand... [you] quelled my rage. You inspired goodness in me... and unlike all of the souls I've encountered and forgotten in the long march of time... I will carry you with me.” (S03E19 “No More Heartbreaks”). In her own way, she is granted a kind of immortality.

Free will is a large part of the vampire mind control trope (as I’m going to refer to it, for the sake of brevity), as it is the hinge of the audience’s suspension of outrage, an acceptance of the skewed power dynamics at hand. This half-illusion of informed consent must be maintained to keep all the other fantastic liberties of the story in check: mind control must not be used to force the Maiden’s hand, at least not romantically. All other uses of these gifts to bend her to the vampire’s will are grey area, on which you’ll find opinions are widely divided. Damon’s (“the Vampire Diaries”) abuse of Caroline (when still human) is a hot button topic in the TVDU fandom, precisely because it carries a sexual undertone; he sleeps with her under influence of his compulsion, and we are explicitly shown a scene of her begging in fear8, in her nightgown, and set within her bedroom, which ominously fades to black, leaving far too much to the imagination. Or rather, enough for the debates to be on-going.

If a piece of vampire media wants its romance to be beloved, it is better to tiptoe around the idea of any tampering with the heroine’s free will: “Twilight” (2008) briefly plays coy with the idea (“I'm the world's most dangerous predator. Everything about me invites you in: my voice, my face, even my smell.”) before later instalments turn Bella into the ultimate immunity-shield against any and all vampiric powers. Sookie in “True Blood” (2008-2014) is immune to vampiric glamours, and good guy Stefan simply refuses to use compulsion on Elena in “the Vampire Diaries” (2009-2017), even gifting her a necklace containing the one herb that can protect her against it.

In the end, the Maiden has to go willingly to Death. Beauty must make her own journey into the jowls of the Beast. Any victory won unfairly in love is hardly one at all.

“Young soul, put off your flesh, and come / With me into the quiet tomb, / Our bed is lovely, dark, and sweet.”

• by Thomas Lovell Beddoes, from “the Phantom-Wooer” (1851)

III. Notes for an Anniversary

“When a woman has scholarly inclinations there is usually something wrong with her sexuality.”

• by Friedrich Nietzsche

Two years, and tens of thousands of words into this magnificent journey, I wish you a happy second anniversary of this Substack! As always, I very much intend to keep the extravagant well-wishes for the Society’s anniversary in October, but I do want to use this little corner of the letter again to thank you, my dear. As much as I jest about “locking myself in my attic” every month to write, it truly makes me feel less apathetic, and much more alive. Paradoxically, cozying up to Death, to the Intersection of Love and Violence, has been an innately healing practice for me. And there’s never been anything more rewarding than seeing how many people get it.

Thank you, truly, for reading my words (especially these long DatM, diatribes), for engaging with them, and for sending in your own! It’s a never-ending honour to be able to share my monthly hyper-fixations and ramblings with you, and to get to do so with such an understanding, respectful, ghoulish audience. In the best way possible. Together we have built a community where jokes about “Twilight” (2008) can live next to theory by the likes of Bataille, Lacan, and Baudrillard. Just as it should be.

And it wouldn’t be half as lovely without you. ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ☆୨ৎ

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* On the List *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

Exhibitions, Events, and Talks. First and foremost, the “London Month of the Dead” events went live this past month— do make sure to check them out if you somehow missed it, or sign up to their mailing list to snag tickets to their highly coveted October agenda of events. The White Lily Society’s favourites for this year are the “Necrophilia” talk on the 12th of October, “Gothic Angels of Death: Mourning, Memory and the Feminine Gothic in the Cemetery” on the 16th, “The Mourning Trade: The Rise of the Funeral Director in Victorian Britain” on the 18th, the “Death and the Maiden” concert on the 18th, and their evening of silent short horror film adaptations of Edgar Allan Poe on the 24th. Best to book in advance, my dear!

Then there’s this month buffet: a Woman Becomes a Wolf returns with another foray into poetry and performing arts tonight, the chess club Bataille is having a silent opening on the 6th, bound to be scandalous and cerebral, Alannah Cyan is celebrating the launch of her new photobook / pseudo-bodybuilder magazine about control and devotion on the on the 7th, Ethereal Maison is hosting a salon of artwork until the 9th, and beloved indie brand Rabbit Baby is having a selection of artists celebrate their newest collection on the 26th.

Film, Music, and TV. The BFI has been keeping its line-up sun-drenched, and thus inappropriate for us vampires and other creatures who snarl at the sun. But if one is still up for a satirical comedy in which Nicole Kidman plays a weather-girl driven to murder in pursuit of fame, they are screening 1995’s “To Die For” on the 2nd and 23rd, or with intro on the 13th.

As for re-releases, Picturehouse has a dazzling line-up prepared for August, starting with the erotic mystery film “the Handmaiden” on August 2nd, the classic Marilyn Monroe comedy “Gentlemen prefer Blondes” (1953) on the 2nd, 3rd, 6th, and 7th, as well as Dario Argento’s technicolour nightmare “Suspiria” (1977) on the 23rd, 24th, 27th, and 28th.

Picturehouse is also continuing it’s David Lynch tribute line-up, screening his short films starting August 1st, hosting “Twin Peaks” (1990-1991) season 1 all-day marathons starting on the 9th (with intro on the 3rd), and screening “Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me” (1992) starting August 15th, as well the “Lynchspiration” “Experiment in Terror” (1961) from the 16th. Last but certainly not least, Deeper Into Movies is screening cult-classic blue-drenched coming of age drama “Thirteen” (2003) at Farr’s Dalston on the 23rd. Tickets start at £5.

Lovers of the strange and unusual can also rest easy, as Netflix’ “Wednesday” returns for part 1 of Season 2 on August 6th. Part 2 is due to be released on September 3rd. The tail-end of the month is also looking to be one of musical polarities; Ethel Cain’s sophomore album “Willoughby Tucker, I’ll Always Love You” will be released on August 8th, while Sabrina Carpenter’s already infamous “Man’s Best Friend” will come out of hiding on the 29th.

In the Stars. August’s full moon on August 9th is also known as the “full sturgeon moon”, “harvest moon”, or “storm moon”— an indicator of seasons changing, finally. The majority of the month is taken up by Leo season, perfect for all things dramatic, devoted, or decadent. If you wish to cast a spell and invite extravagance into your life, the best day to do so will be on the 11th, when six planets are in alignment: Mercury, Jupiter, Venus, Uranus, Neptune, and Saturn. Truly a magical occurrence.

Obsessive Tendencies: What I’ve Loved Lately

1. Sunday 1994, “Car Chase” t-shirt, [I am truly blessed that one of my favourite bands has such cute merch], $33

2. Maybelline, Superstay Matte Ink Liquid “50 Voyager”, [The lipstick I wore to see Dita von Teese in “Diamonds & Dust”; a luscious deep brick red], £10.99

3. Lush, “Sticky Dates” shower gel, [The most scrumptious vanilla scent], from £6.50 (70g)

4. Lush, “Sticky Dates” body spray, [Perfect to layer and make the vanilla sweetness last all day]. £28 (200ml)

5. Victoria’s Secret, “the Wink” Black Balcony Lace Push Up Bra, [I refuse to wear anything but black lace, ever], £35

6. Edward Gorey, “The Gashlycrumb Tinies” (Collector's Edition), [A perfectly macabre bedtime story; “A is for Amy, who fell down the stairs. B is for Basil, assaulted by bears” etc.], £12.99

“I fell in love with the idea that the mysterious thing you look for your whole life will eventually eat you alive.”

• by Laurie Anderson

And so, my arduous yearly journey comes to an end once more. That my desk and my mind have not collapsed in yet with the weight of all these books, all this research, all these references, is a minor miracle. I fear I am always using these farewells to report on animals in my house, like a harbinger Disney princess, utterly obsessed with omens. Regardless, here is last month’s tally: one moth infestation-turned-hoax, two tiny mice caught and released, and one stray pigeon rescued off my roof and given a brief house tour. She was entirely unimpressed with my choice of decor. Upon catching said pigeon, I was told by an animal shelter volunteer that being “a little bit psychic” would help. The Achilles heel of a London pigeon is apparently (and bizarrely) the human intuition.

This month ahead, this gorgeous August, will be a bit crushing perhaps. My plate is ever too full for my appetite, voracious as it can be. I am aiming to be overloaded with meaning. To re-imagine all the chaos as Dionysian. For now, I leave you these final words:

“Do you know what it means to be loved by Death? No pain.”

• from AMC’s “Interview with the Vampire” (2022-), S02E2 “Do you know what it means to be loved by Death?”

Until my next letter,

With love (and violence),

x Sabrina Angelina, the White Lily Society 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

Currently reading: “On Mysticism: the Experience of Ecstasy” by Simon Critchley // Most recent read: “Beauty and the Beast: Classic Tales about Animal Brides and Grooms from Around the World” edited by Maria Tatar

White Lily Society links // Sabrina Angelina links

Whether you identify as Death, or as Maiden, the White Lily Society is the place for you. Here, the Beast dances with Beauty. Terror converges with divine, Faustian knowledge. Vampire boyfriends are welcome on the proverbial premises. So, join us, and become a martyr of deliciousness.

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📼 Song of the (past) month: Nettles - Ethel Cain

“Hey! There’s more to me than just ‘gloomy graveyard girl’…”

A doll with doe eyes, long chocolate locks and eyelashes like ebony wings. Porcelain skin the perfect shade of olive. I find myself dressing like her subconsciously, favouring low-rise bootcut jeans with circular buttons detailing the rear-end, and begging my beloved eyebrow lady to thin my eyebrows out as much as she can.

Despite her alleged whiny persona, the infamous Elena Gilbert remains our it-girl vampire girlfriend 16 years on. Her portrayal by Nina Dobrev is best celebrated by fans throughout seasons 1-3, where her compassionate nature burns its brightest flame. She is reminiscent of vanilla and cinnamon, in all her gritty edge despite her girl-next-door exterior, riddled with grief yet always tackling it with grace. She hangs out in cemeteries, journals on a daily and unapologetically possesses a wardrobe that many will spend the rest of their teenage life replicating. There isn’t one V-neck shirt in my closet that hasn’t had lace sewn into the neckline, and she is wholeheartedly to blame.

So, what is it that calls teenage girls to Elena Gilbert? Is it the saccharine sweetness that makes her cold-hearted doppelgänger, Katherine Pierce, profusely gag? Is it the effortlessly cool exterior she breathes when she has people sacrificing their lives for her wellbeing left, right and centre? Or is it only based on aesthetics, TikTok edits and Pinterest moodboards? I would argue that above all– it is the mystique of the vampire girlfriend. Kickstarted by the popularity of Twilight in 2008, followed by The Vampire Diaries in 2009, the phenomenon continues to spread like wildfire. The mere fantasy of dreaming up your own vampire boyfriend, who will forever protect you and lust after your blood, is enough to drive a generation of teenage girls feral. With the release of Nosferatu in January 2025, a glimpse of this reaction was seen in the same generation that nurtured Twilight and The Vampire Diaries, where many women were thirsting over Bill Skarsgard’s Orlok. Naturally.

But the difference between our it-girl vampire girlfriends, Bella Swan and Elena Gilbert, is that Elena possesses a completely different stance on vampirism. From the very start of her exposure to the supernatural, she accepts Stefan Salvatore’s (Paul Wesley) affliction without ever expressing a desire to join him on the dark side. Our doe-eyed doll is innately human and is very much okay with it. Many fans believe that the minute Elena transitioned into a vampire, her entire character changed for the worse, and that’s where her hate-train takes off. This satisfaction with being ordinary, in a world full of vampires, werewolves, hybrids, – both vamp’ and wolf – symbolises Elena as the perfect role-model for teenage girls, expressing the acceptance of normalcy. This isn’t to say that Bella is a terrible role-model for wanting to be a vampire. What is important here is Elena’s commitment to wanting to feel every emotion throughout her humanity, despite being swarmed by grief and battling trauma. Elena is the candle that fights to stay lit even as the wind howls, yet Bella is the moth that dives into the flame – not to die, but to become one with it.

Despite the many hurdles thrown at Elena, she never hardens in her fight. She remains soft. Her empathy and hope are what drives her innate self. With teenage girls often criticised for being far too sensitive or whiny, witnessing Elena Gilbert only solidifies their belief in feeling – never shaming them.

Timeless and quietly elegant, Elena’s wardrobe consists of basic necessities with detailing to help differentiate her signature style. Blending her welcoming mannerisms and natural girl- next-door aura, it perfects intentional romanticism. It depicts her entire core perfectly: approachable, emotional, passionate. Our “gloomy graveyard girl” is only ever dressed in earthy tones, depicting her grounded nature and emotional depth. The it-girl vampire girlfriend effortlessly radiates a sense of enigma and allure, yet with one smile, you feel as though you’ve known her your entire life.

Filled with Hollister basics, rustic silver jewellery and leather jackets galore, her style has proven to never die after all these years. In a world full of Aria Montgomery – in all her weird girl grandeur – and Blair Waldorf – with her maximalist headbands and frilly button- ups – Elena’s style is effortlessly distinct with little intervention from eccentrics. With a perfectly basic Henley top and any old pair of jeans, straighten your hair and it’s the perfect look for those autumn evenings where everything seems the right amount of gloomy.

“We have history together.”

• Elena Gilbert

Those who lived through the 2010s cling to Elena Gilbert for the same reasons a new generation does. Nostalgia for a sepia-toned world, low-rise True Religion jeans, V-necks with lace trims and pin-straight hair. Softness in a brutal world, swathed in sorrow, she symbolises the distinction between the fantasy of being chosen and the reality of choosing yourself. 16 years on, she isn’t just our vampire it-girl anymore. She’s a mirror, a moodboard– a reminder to be human in all its messiness and warmth.

To the gloomy graveyard girls, with their muddy converses and yearning bambi eyes, lend your ears for the ultimate Elena Gilbert experience: a day (or two) in Mystic Falls, 2009.

This essay was submitted to the White Lily Society for the limited time submission prompt “vampire girlfriend”

Isha Khan is an aspiring arts and culture journalist, with a certain fascination for all things strange and weird. Born and raised in West London, her inspirations are quite Americanised, growing up with a deep love for Pretty Little Liars, Gilmore Girls and The Vampire Diaries. With a deep love for women in (bubblegum) horror films and the early 2000s, she wants to make sure her writing evokes the same feeling a Yankee candle does – in all its comforting glory.

Instagram: @ ishaboxd / Instagram: @ weirdgirlsha / Or find her on Substack

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Exegis. “If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride, and hug it in mine arms.” (Shakespeare, Measure for Measure)

Fetters and Ferns explores the pining of human love and the all-consuming desire to be embraced by the immortal and the mythical. Waiting in the long grass, amongst the ferns and the oak trees, the figure is haunted by a watchful presence she senses in the shadows, just beyond her reach.

These images were submitted to the White Lily Society for the limited time submission prompt “vampire girlfriend”

Maya, 26, is an artist and writer from England. She is inspired by the gothic, mythology, and theatre. To see more of her work, follow her @ mayas.menagerie (Instagram and TikTok), @ mayaswritings (TikTok), and her blog

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the guillotine sleeping with the neck.

in foggy forks, where we lay our scene,
asphalt-soaked rain stains the roads of the
a distressed denim and damp timber town.

a shivering girl emerges from the fir trees in scuffed converses and her dad’s plaid shirt,
curling into herself, arms guarding her porcelain heart.

his amber resin eyes rest on the the strawberry sweet veins under her skin,
and the natural orders of prey and predator begin. 

she is but a lone doe among the moss,
sheltered by a life of onyx caves.
he'll let her drain, he'll let her fade away,
but she bites and writhes as well as she runs.

pretty little lamb,
you've been looking just for me?
pretty little lamb,
why trade your dawn for death with me?

the prey scutters into my open jaw, 
and as she waits for the fangs to fall,
in her brown listless eyes and still unshaking neck he saw,
she wasn't scared.

a mutation against all the sense provided by evolution,
the monster, the predator and the vampire,
the means for her execution,
she trusted.

and so it is, that the lion succumbs to the lamb,
the guillotine sleeping with the neck.

This poem was submitted to the White Lily Society for the limited time submission prompt “vampire girlfriend”

Amelia E., 23yo, London // @ ameliaa.ela on instagram // A couple poems published in digital magazines, but most hidden in her notes folder.

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There is a thin line between hunger and desire. A mouth opens not only to speak, but to kiss, to bleed, and to eat.

Bella Swan and Maren Yearly, in The Twilight Saga (2008-2012) and Bones and All (2022), are not simply coming of age; they are being devoured, and learning to devour in return. What they hunger for isn’t just love—it’s something totalising, something that crosses the threshold of the body: into blood, into meat, into myth. To be loved, in their worlds, is to be consumed.

Twilight places us in the state of Washington, under a near constant cover of clouds and rain in a small town named Forks. There, Bella meets Edward Cullen. What he thirsts for, of course, is her blood, but more than that, he longs to protect her and to deny the part of himself that wants to consume her entirely. And Bella, for her part, wants to be consumed. Not merely by love, but by something that will leave her changed, permanently: to become both immortal and remain unconditionally and irrevocably in love.

In this way, Twilight dramatises a familiar longing—but dares to eroticise it through monstrosity. Bella is not repelled by Edward’s hunger for her; she is drawn to it. Bella’s desire is not passive; it is active and deliberate. Her desire to be turned into a vampire is not only about eternal love but about realising a version of herself that has been waiting to emerge. Unlike many heroines of teen fiction, Bella doesn’t resist change. She runs straight towards it. The bite becomes a rite of passage, a symbolic death and rebirth. To be with Edward is to lose her humanity, but for Bella, that loss is a kind of liberation. She does not want to be protected from monstrosity; she wants to become it. “My time as a human is over, but I've never felt more alive. I was born to be a vampire.” Bella says in Breaking Dawn - Part 2 (2012). “Everything was falling into place.”

Maren Yearly, unlike Bella, does not choose her hunger. It is something she is. Her appetite isolates her. After being abandoned by her father, she travels through rural America seeking others like her, and learning how to survive. When she meets Lee, the story moves from one of survival to one of recognition. Together, they navigate love alongside hunger and tenderness alongside violence.

The cannibalism in Bones and All is grotesque, but in other ways it is tender. The film does not shy away from the horror of what these characters do, but it also does not condemn them. Their acts of consumption are driven by need, not cruelty. A kiss turns into a bite. A body becomes sustenance. And yet, through this physicality, something deeply emotional emerges. This hunger is not just for flesh. It is for connection, for touch, for belonging.

“When he held me, everything had melted away, everything dark and ugly and rotten inside of me. Lee had made me pure. He’d let me do it.” Maren’s confession reveals the paradox at theheart of her desire and their relationship. She is not redeemed by overcoming her hunger, but by being loved through it. Lee does not recoil from her hunger; when the time comes, he embraces it, offering himself completely. “I want you to do it. This was always going to be it.” Lee said. “Love me. Eat.” In Lee’s arms, her monstrosity is not a curse to be hidden or denied—it is held, accepted, made whole and even sacred. He does not save her from herself, he gives her permission to exist. Love does not cure her appetite, but it gives it meaning.

This idea, that the lover must take all of you, your violence, your hunger, your need, is what binds Bones and All to Twilight, even as the two films differ in tone and execution. In both, to be loved is to risk being consumed, and for the girls at their centres, becoming a woman means learning to live with your appetite. In their hunger and their desire, these young women are neither victims nor villains. They are agents of their own becoming.

To be loved in these worlds is to be known fully and embraced—monstrousness and all. Their mouths open not just to speak, but to kiss, to bleed, and to eat. What links them is not just a taste for blood. It is that love, for them, is not a gentle thing. It is not clean or safe. It is ravenous.

This short essay was submitted to the White Lily Society for the limited time submission prompt “vampire girlfriend”

Robyn (@robynmcki on Instagram) is a 21yo recent UAL grad and aspiring film programmer/curator based in London. She recently curated a screening event of lesbian vampire short films for London Short Film Festival.

Come, join the White Lily Society, and become a martyr of deliciousness. Want to submit your own work to the White Lily Society? Look no further!

Mina hates Halloween.

But shops these days are larger than warehouses, sell everything, so the butcher’s counter is at the end of the Seasonal aisle. Pre-packaged meat makes Mina squirm. Too much like piercing through clear skin to the organs.

She needs the butcher, and Emily is right there, crinkling behind the counter in her plastic apron. But Emily hasn’t seen her yet. Mina can still leave. Feed in the worse way, but better than remembering this time of year. Then she can hide in her tomb for the rest of the season. She begins to turn, but a prickle of pride makes her stop.

She’s not a child. She’s seen bombs rubble London, the first sparks of electricity run through its streets, Halloween turn from ignorable American niche to October-long nightmare. Too many years, too many Halloweens, for her to still be scared. Mina pretends to breathe, remembering how it once meant calm, and steps down the aisle.

Lights are so bright in the modern age. None more so than the supermarket after dark. Their cold, white beams replace the past shrieks of street hawkers, showing off the supermarket’s wares and stinging Mina’s eyes. They are useful, however. Everyone looks dead in their glare.

Her legs stiffen as she passes the costumes. Across the aisle, above chocolate spiders and jelly-sweet ghosts, a cartoonish vampire grins from an orange banner. Take a Bite into Halloween! His fangs. The void of his mouth.

Stop looking. Stop. There’s the butcher’s counter. There nothing changes, no matter the season. Emily catches her eye and smiles. Mina walks faster. Sickness, hunger, hunger-sickness, ticks in her throat. Hygiene has improved in the last century, but the supermarket air still smells raw, fleshy.

“Please, Mum!”

Mina flinches, the child’s voice cutting through the beeps and trolley-trundles. A round cheeked girl drags her mother towards a witch’s hat and broom. The mother looks as pale as Mina, keeping one eye on a crumpled shopping list, the other on her daughter.

“They’re so expensive, darling…”

“But I need a costume for the disco!”

The girl’s eyes flick from the witch’s hat to a black net dress, top half corseted in red velvet. Dracula’s Bride, the label reads. Ages seven to eight, it says on the hanger. Twelve pounds.

“Ooh, Mum, what about…”

Mina spins round, snarling. “Don’t.”

The girl pauses, her hand brushing the velvet. Her mother blinks, as if awakened from a dream.

Mina sees outside herself for a moment. How mad she must look, in her tattered coat and mud-cuffed jeans, snapping at a little girl reaching for a pretty costume. The child trembles.

Soft but firm, Mina adds, “Listen to your mother.”

Said mother snatches her daughter’s hand and hurries her away towards Dairy Produce. The girl starts crying, wails echoing to the ceiling.

Emily nods as Mina ends her stiff march at the butcher’s counter. “Good on you.”

Mina rests her hands on the counter’s glass. Without body heat, she never leaves handprints, but Emily never notices.

“So many kids now think they can whine and whine and get what they want,” Emily continues, swishing out a fresh plastic bag. “In my day we’d get what we get and we wouldn’t be upset.”

Mina hopes Emily doesn’t notice her lack of reflection in the glass, “Things have…certainly changed.”

Emily scoffs. “Don’t give me ‘certainly changed’, you don’t look a day over twenty.”

I’m not. Mina’s head spins like blood in the glass of a sophisticated hand. The artists always get that wrong. There was nothing sophisticated about the way he drank.

“Thank you,” she says.

“The usual, yeah?”

Another nod. Emily traps five livers in her bag-covered fist, pulls it inside out, ties a neat knot. The plastic sags around the livers. Not tight as skin.

“You only see people in their eighties buying these now,” Emily says. The bag squelches as she places it on the counter. “So often we’re throwing these out. Glad you know what you’re doing with them.”

It’s better than the other way.

“I don’t like waste,” Mina says. “How are you getting home tonight?”

“Same as always. Pete’s picking me up. But it’s nice of you to check.”

Mina knows more than anyone the importance of checking. What’s out there keeps her going when she has no money for livers. When the livers aren’t enough.

“Be safe,” Mina says, taking the bag and walking away down a different aisle. Enough bravery for tonight.

She picks up a new bottle of foundation and pays for it along with the livers. There’s many aspects of herself she can make excuses for, but not the blistered cross on her forehead. She feels it without touching, skin tighter and drier, stretching across her brow down to the bridge of her nose. Unclean, unclean! What a wonderful day, when she thought that was as tainted as she could get.

Mina steps from the supermarket into the street. It is never truly dark in London now. Not just because of the streetlamps, turned on and off by some faraway switch. Shops never close their blinds, but blind with backlit displays all night long. Cars and buses glare at the world with white eyes. Mina can’t remember the last time she saw the stars.

She sinks into the crowds bleeding out of theatres and bars and just-closing shops. Locals, tourists, students, beggars, shouting and laughing in hundreds of languages. Their heartbeats, the blood pumping under their skin, warms Mina as she glides between them.

It used to overwhelm her, this London turned up high, but she has a trick. Look, listen, for the ones that won’t be missed. Men who shout crude comments. Drunks kicking cups the homeless gather their change in. Anyone with a sharp word, a sharp hand, for a child. He wouldn’t consider his prey in such a way. He didn’t care. It’s too small a consolation. They’re prey all the same.

So, not tonight. Tonight will be kind to her, since she was brave and went down the Halloween aisle. It will let her wend her way back to the cemetery without encountering any heartbeats that need to be stopped. She will have a quiet evening in her tomb. Light the candles to warm away the damp. Suckle on the livers to content her hunger until masks and capes are replaced with tinsel and old men in red. Her lips twitch. Sometimes that man reminds her of Van Helsing, when he was grandfatherly and gentle. Before she disappointed him.

A man is following her.

Mina feels his eyes caressing the back of her neck, confirms the suspicion through a glance in a shop window. His eyes glint. Seeing her body but not seeing her soul. Her humanity. If he’d tried, he wouldn’t be so intent on pursuit.

She can’t sigh anymore, but her shoulders drop as if she does. If she loses him in the crowd, he will find someone else. Someone weaker. She licks the back of her teeth. Time to be an animal.

It is never truly dark in London. But Mina knows where it is darker.

This alley will do. The rot from the skips will hide his scent. The bus horns and laughing crowds will hide any screams. But she’s an animal, not a monster. They never scream for long.

Not too sharply, Mina turns into the alley’s shadows. She slows her footsteps, so she can hear how close the man is behind her. Very. Not put off by her change in direction, not unnerved by the darkness.

Men lose their self-preservation when it comes to desire, Mina has learnt, as if they are at sea and believe they’re reeling in a prize fish. They get too close, invite her to darker places, in this case follow her to them. The man’s long arm even reaches for her shoulder like a line, his fingers hooks.

Mina stops. Mina turns. The man smiles, surprised at his successful technique.

Little does he know he’s reeled in a shark.

#

Mina steps from the alley, wipes her mouth on a tissue, and carries on. Her hands shake. He deserved it. He can’t hurt anyone else. Her plastic bag still shivers.

A wallet hangs heavy in her coat pocket. She pretends it’s hers, tries to forget who’s rotting in the skip. Maybe there will be enough money for something nice. Something to make her tomb more like a home. A new blanket, perhaps.

Or a book. Mina passes a bookshop window dressed in orange and black netting, paper bats dangling from the window frame. Even the reminder of Halloween doesn’t stop her from stepping into the bookshop’s amber glow. If she presses her nose close enough to the glass, she can smell new paper.

Every horror novel the bookshop owns crowds behind the window. Her book is propped up in the centre. A new edition, title silhouetted against a full moon.

Which one of the men put the book together? Maybe all three, hence the pseudonym. But it’s her book. Her hours at the typewriter, reading all the letters, listening to that madman scream and how Lucy died, gathering evidence so the world would believe them. The typewriter’s keys imprinted on her fingertips like the cross on her forehead.

Her only child sits in that window.

“Shop’s closed, love,” a man slurred, his reflection passing in the gap where hers should be. Not too close. Not pausing to continue their one-sided conversation. He can walk home.

Mina carries on in the opposite direction. Her child. She’d flicked to the end of that book once in a library, just to see if the men had told the truth. Poor Quincey still died. A less disappointing version of herself lived. Cleansed. Uncursed. Blessed with a son.

It’s a nice ending, the one the men cobbled together. Rushed but triumphant. The truth would be too depressing.

#

Jonathan had crept into her cabin on the train home. None of the other men had made a move to stake her yet, but she heard them murmuring as Jonathan opened her cabin door.

“…not long for this world.” Val Helsing. “We should consider…”

Jonathan closed the door. None of the men had spoken to her since the cross had failed to fade from her forehead. She couldn’t be trusted now. She was too exhausted to defend herself. Too exhausted to rise from the cabin bed and close the blinds.

Jonathan sat by her feet, hands in his lap, like a child waiting to confess to their mother. His body swayed with the train. Mina sunk further into the bed and closed her eyes. If he wished to deliver the blow, she could think of no one better.

He undid the top buttons of his shirt.

With a shock of energy, Mina sat up, gripped Jonathan’s wrist. “No.”

“I said I would follow you.”

“No.”

He didn’t know what he was asking her to do. It wasn’t just a bite. She would need to slit a line in her skin with nails sharpening even now. Bring Jonathan to her body, mouth to breast. She knew what it tasted like. How the blood flow took away her breath. The grip of fingers in her hair.

What if he changed his mind? What if he resisted? The animal growing within her already whispered, growled; he will be a perfect pet. If he changed his mind, so might she.

Mina shook her head, pulled away from Jonathan. “They will kill you.”

“Damn them!” he shouted, crawling towards her end of the bed. Since his month in Transylvania a new gleam had entered his eyes. Another thing to hate his captor for. “Those cowards aren’t even trying to help you.”

Did she want to be helped? She did not want to leave like Lucy, not because of the stake, but because of the contempt she would see in the men’s eyes before hers closed. How they would talk of her afterwards. A Thing. Unclean. As if she wanted his teeth in her throat.

But what was the alternative? To be like him. No matter how she died, she would never be a light of lights again.

“We tried,” she said.

Jonathan shook his head. “You cannot give in.”

Giving in was all she could do. To death or undeath.

Jonathan began crying before she had a chance. He fell on her chest and sobbed, fists in her nightgown, as if she’d agreed to turn him. As if this was his wound.

She found her arms numb as they circled him. Holding in her sigh as his sobs vibrated through her chest, waiting until she could trust herself not to snap. He had his wounds, she had hers. Even after reading his diary, she knew he hadn’t written of everything that occurred in that castle.

They lay together like carvings on a medieval tomb. Neither slept. As dawn snuck across her face, Mina said, “I want my death to be mine.”

Jonathan looked up at her, eyes still wet. “I will die without you.”

“You will live for me.” Mina sat up, cradled Jonathan closer. His eyes widened as he rested his head on her chest. Her heartbeat had already begun to dim.

“Then I want you to live for me,” he said. “Even as you are. Promise me.”

He didn’t realise how cruel he was being. Just as cruel as when he asked her to turn him. Yet her reason was powerless against animal instincts. Feed. Grow. Live. Mina stroked Jonathan’s hair as his eyes flickered closed. Love.

She left at the next station, without anyone except a conductor noticing. He gave her a wary glance, perhaps already seeing the creature beneath her skin.

Even as her body weakened, Mina was still a train fiend. She found her way to Paris, fainting only once. To Calais, staring at the veins pulsing under her fellow passenger’s throats. To Dover, feigning seasickness and tossing with the waves in her cabin.

Once on English soil, she looked for a quiet place to die.

#

Mina passes the cinema. It’s an oddity for businesses to be independent these days. They congratulate themselves on it, and so do their patrons. Hayfield Pictures is no different. It pretends to be the same cinema it was in the Thirties, with a gleaming white letterboard above the bulb-crowned entrance. Dracula Film Festival, it reads, letters bloody. 25th-31st October.

The world loves her child. Her story. Or it says it does. Sometimes it feels more like watching Lucy die again, seeing what she knows twist into a monster.

She wishes they saw him as a monster.

Posters line the cinema walls, illuminating the pavement in slabs of gold. She slips from tired-but-living to dead, dead, dead, washed out by their light. She wishes the films could be true, that the brightest light of all would obliterate her into dust.

A beautiful woman swoons under his red eyes. The Strangest Passion the World Has Ever Known!

A beautiful woman in a nightgown swoons, collarbones exposed to the bloody teeth hanging over them. The Terrifying Lover Who Died – Yet Lived!

A beautiful woman in a leg baring dress rears from his enlarged face. Who Will Be His Bride Tonight?

A beautiful woman lies under his gaze, smooth breasts like hills he has not yet conquered. Throughout history, he has filled the hearts of men with terror, and the hearts of women with desire.

A beautiful woman swoons in his arms. Love Never Dies.

She stops. It’s the same as the others, but somehow the worst. Background like a gravestone. The beautiful woman so limp, so helpless. And his stare. Not him, impossible, but it catches her all the same. Resist me if you dare, it says, but I know what you really want.

Mina steps closer to the poster. She can’t weep, she can’t breathe. All her anger, all her panic, curls in her head like a cornered dog, snarling and spitting. I screamed. I cried. I never wanted this. Her shadow stretches behind her, long and dark as a freshly dug grave.

Love Never Dies. Her jaw tightens. Love. Love?

“Fancy getting tickets for the festival?” a boy says.

Two young people stumble from the cinema’s entrance, not drunk but overexcited. Maybe they’ve seen a comedy. They both wear clothes they’d likely call vintage, but Mina remembers them on mannequins in department store windows. The boy’s flat cap perches on his sandy hair. A girl under his arm, all in black, has a grey beret angled over her curls. She’s smiling true, not trying to wriggle away. The boy is safe.

The girl pouts and looks at the boy from under her lashes, “I never read the book in school. I won’t know what’s going on.”

“You don’t need to read the book. There’s a vampire, he bites some hot girls, the German bloke stabs him. The end.”

“Isn’t he Dutch?”

“Ah, so you did pay attention!”

The boy wriggles his fingers under her armpits and she cackles, swatting him away. Mina can’t stop watching their breath in the air, their chests moving up and down. A hundred years ago it could be her and Jonathan, teasing each other about Wilde’s latest play.

When their breathing slows, the couple gaze at each other. Mina looks away. She’ll give them their privacy, reimagine their kiss with her and Jonathan’s faces back in her tomb.

Their lips stay apart by a scrap of air. The girl is the first to blush and look away. “A little bit.” She turns towards the posters and shivers. “I remember it’s scary.”

“Well, have I got some bad news for you about Halloween…”

“Not fun scary. Proper scary. You know I don’t like that.”

The boy’s face softens then. He scoops an arm around the girl’s shoulders and leads her to the posters. He’s so close Mina can smell the body spray men use instead of cologne, but he doesn’t excuse himself as he passes. Doesn’t even look at her. She might as well not exist.

“Nah, none of them are really scary. Especially this one.” The boy points a thumb at Love Never Dies.

“Ooh, this one looks kind of hot,” the girl says.

Now she creeps closer, no longer fearful but in awe. Her heart beats faster, but Mina knows the difference between the rhythms of fear and desire.

The girl traces a black-tipped finger down the actresses’ cheek. “God, I wish that was me.”

I wish I’d grabbed his throat in both hands and throttled him. I wish I’d smashed the vase on my bedstand over his head. I wish I’d thrown myself over Jonathan’s body, protected him, instead of giving in.

The boy laughs. “We can make that happen.”

The girl glances at him, smirks. “Oh, what are you going to do? Induct me into your harem of the night?”

“Well, now you’ve discovered my dark secret…I’m afraid you have no choice!”

With a twirl and a squeal, the boy spins the girl into an alley by the cinema. Mina follows their laughter into the darkness. She knows what can happen to women there.

The girl leans back against the cinema wall, the boy looming over her. Two muscled arms pin her in place. Yet she smiles, teeth white and cold, like those women from his castle. Come sister, come to us. Come! Come! Past and present laughing at her. Mina’s tongue is lead in her mouth.

“Oh, please don’t hurt me, Count,” the girl breathes. Please don’t hurt him. Don’t hurt Jonathan, please! Mina’s mind buzzes like an untuned radio.

It’s getting colder. The couple’s breath smokes between their lips, merges.

The boy puts on that stupid voice. “Ah, blood of my blood…”

It’s not real.

“Flesh of my flesh…”

It’s not the same.

“Let me induct you into eternal lifffe…”

He smirks and dips his mouth towards her throat.

Leave her alone, leave me alone, leave her alo –

Mina’s hands are on his shoulders. She’s so much stronger than him, pulling him away from his meal and making him her own. What would the caption on this poster be? Fear her madness, fear her wrath! The Bride Bites Back! Love Never Dies – Neither Does Hate.

Blood gushes into her mouth. Without breath it doesn’t suffocate, but fills her with his iron strength. She takes it away from him and hides it in the dark space of her veins, where he may never use it against anyone again.

She holds his arms to his sides. He can’t break free, only wriggle like a fish. Pathetic, pathetic man. How had he ever pinned her down in her bed, drank from her without her noticing? She’s stronger than him, she outlasted him, outlasted everyone. She will see the stars die, not him.

His screams ring her ears at first, until she bites deeper and they cut off. Such a high pitch. She would never expect him to scream like that. She likes it. She sinks her mouth into the hole in his throat, pushes it wider. Try being a lover now, she’d say without blood in her mouth. All those women, they’ll see you, and they’ll know what you are.

Another scream. The girl. Mina looks up. Her screams die down to heavy breaths, as if her lungs can’t take in enough air. Poor thing. So frightened by that horrible man.

Mina drops the body. It crunches on the tarmac. The girl flinches and hops back against the wall, eyes so wide Mina sees the blood vessels running through the whites. Mina reaches a hand towards her. For the first time, it doesn’t shake.

The girl runs. Puddles from that morning crash under her black boots.

Mina’s hand drops. Her red hand, blood splatters to the elbow. At her feet a limp puppet of a man, blood drying like paint over his skin. A void in his throat.

Not him. Not even someone who deserves it. Just a boy, loving a girl in a way Mina can’t understand. She sags to her knees. Cradles the boy’s head in her lap. Is this how you wanted me to live, Jonathan? Is it?

Once the body is hidden, she staggers from the alley. Glares at the posters.

Prowling back through the decades, she smears her bloody hands over his mouth and eyes. The excess drips down the poster’s glass, adds a red glint to the light on the pavement.

She steps back, shaking the last drops from her hands. There he is. The man that loomed over her, teeth and eyes red. Not the lover. The animal.

Everyone. They’ll see you, and they’ll know what you are.

This short story was submitted to the White Lily Society for the limited time submission prompt “vampire girlfriend”

Catrin Lawrence’s short fiction has been published by These Pages Sing, Gwyllion Magazine, and Black Hare Press. Corvid Queen will be publishing one of her original fairytales in November 2025.

Come, join the White Lily Society, and become a martyr of deliciousness. Want to submit your own work to the White Lily Society? Look no further!

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“July nights are short; soon after midnight, dawn comes.”

• by Charlotte Brontë, from “Jane Eyre” (1847)

TW. The meat and bones of this newsletter (Section II) is an extensive foray into the history of madness, London’s asylums in the 17th-19th century, and asylum horror. There will be respectful paragraphs touching on real-life institutional trauma, including brief descriptions of inhumane treatment. For my fellow emetophobes: there is a mention of the word “emetics” in sections II.II and II.III, no description or elaboration. There is a word-only mention of SA in section II.III in the quote towards the end. It is not further elaborated on. Reader discretion is advised, as always.

01/07/2025, London, UK

My dear,

Summer madness has properly taken root in me. Tangling like briars in my stomach and my head, and my thoughts are wiped clean. Sweat is the ultimate purifier. My dreams have grown more frequent, and I visit three of my friends’ dreams in one night. Busy, busy, busy. Besotted and beset by the hounds, I awake in my room, afraid of encroaching insanity. God, even masochism fails in the vicinity of a sunburn. And in the sweltering heat the city buses are more like beasts, like gentle giants, monsters of the road that huff and puff and sigh. We are all heating up, eternally, and never cooling down.

My dear friend said it best when she wrote that “Everyone knows how the moon makes lunatics of us but remember that in June, madness becomes the sun’s domain”. The sun is associated with warmth, but also with fire, with intensity. Here is a list of things my friends have associated with me in the last month; the word “ambrosial”, goth Paris Hilton in “Repo! The Genetic Opera” (2006), worn lace, well-loved pearls, scuffed stylish boots. Fine foods on crystal platters, graveyards, the delicate bones of a bird. Cinderblocks. The sound of bells ringing. Using these you can invoke me whenever you wish. I trust you’ll use the ability carefully, my dear.

This month we are taking the scalpel to madness. I have rustled through the London Archives and through many books, visited apothecary attics and operating theatres, have gotten my leg sawed off by a dear friend to get firsthand experience. What I have laid out for you today is an attempt to re-invent the history of the London asylum, to diagnose the madness of fear, the fear of madness, to alleviate the aches of the mind.

So, fill in this brief intake form for me, will you? I am just eager to get us started…

I. Archive Sources

“But here was a woman taken without her own consent from the free world to an asylum and there given no chance to prove her sanity. Confined most probably for life behind asylum bars, without even being told in her language the why and wherefore. Compare this with a criminal, who is given every chance to prove his innocence. Who would not rather be a murderer and take the chance for life than be declared insane, without hope of escape?”

• by Nellie Bly, from “Ten Days in a Mad-House” (1887)

Step into my office, please, my dear, and do close the door behind you. Before we open the archives, we must pad out our case-file a bit, so to say. Get the clippings and the second opinions and the multitude of pamphlets out. The notes scribbled in the margins and the pictures attached with pristine paper-clips. A post-mortem requires some cutting and reassembly, after all. Consider these sources your first incisions. A taste of the madness to come.

1. “H.P. Lovecraft and the Madhouse” from “The Literature of Madness: A Critical Study of the Madhouse in Gothic Literature” - link

Another writer oft-associated with madness, and by extension with the asylum, is H.P. Lovecraft. But it is interesting to note that his American perspective frames the madhouse as a sort of retreat. Yes, an unusual amount of Lovecraft characters have their brushes with insanity, but as the author of this paper brings to light, their madness is not of a psychological or internal cause, but rather caused by witnessing greatly stressing external truth. While the hospital is still frightening, and so is the prospect of madness, it is also, paradoxically, considered by Lovecraft to be a state of higher knowledge. The voices of the mad have a place there, an odd comfort amidst the cosmic horrors of Lovecraft’s writing.

“For Poe, madness calls into question the reliability of his narrators; for Lovecraft, madness is always an empathetically reasonable response to the threat of impossible, incomprehensible and unknown things from elsewhere; here, madness gestures towards the post-human body and the fearful processes of becoming or of encountering the other. For Lovecraft, this effect is emphasised by the fact that his writings deal in mad knowledge, and as a result, madness becomes a source of authority in his fiction.”

& “Lovecraft gothicises the madhouse in a departure from the Victorian oppressor of truth, and in a way that is not as exploitative of mental illness as in later Gothic asylums; for Lovecraft, the madhouse is sanctuary and madness is a legitimate claim to authority.”

2. “The Feminization of Madness in Visual Representation” - link

Carefully examining an array of engravings from the 18th and 19th century, this paper takes a look at the specifically feminine gendered expectations of madness, such as in archetypes of the “Ophelia” love-struck melancholic woman. Clearly, this ideal of a madwoman in opposition to the madman is a character also threatening male power, but doing so through sexual suggestiveness and aggression of social norms (as opposed to physical aggression). Only later on did the characteristic of physical aggression get grafted onto the stereotypical madwoman, as melancholy came to be less associated with insanity than with the human condition itself. This transition was completed during the early nineteenth century, as the depiction of the madman morphed into a more sensible gentleman, while the madwoman got the manic, irrational, aggressive treatment— a perfect visual to aid in curbing women’s up and coming wish for equality and cement them as irrational, dangerous, and overly sensitive.

“By the 1850s, when asylum statistics first confirmed the perception that female inmates were likely to outnumber their male counterparts, figures of mad-women, from Victorian lovestruck, melancholic maidens to the theatrically agitated inmates of the Salpêtrière, already dominated the cultural field in representations of madness. This situation denotes a clear shift in the understanding of madness as a gendered disorder […]”

3. “Narrative and the Mental Health System: Removing Horror from Mental Health Experiences and Environments” - link

While the traditional horror-soaked narrative of the asylum has certainly done more harm than good, this paper argues that narrative as a tool can actually be used to recontextualise them. Looking at some real-life experiences of traditional mental health institutions and their similarities to folk horror through sheer setting and structure, this paper goes on to look at an example institution which reversed these negative traits and yielded positive results— a hope for mental health care that does not inadvertently destabilise its wards.

“As a health practitioner, I had become blind to the system that I worked in. So familiar had I become with stories of trauma within unusual settings, that I had not fully accepted that the links to horror were being reinforced by the modern systems and cultures in mental health care environments. […] Scovell outlines that folk horror stories are traditionally set in places isolated from mainstream society, places that have their own sets of rules outside of societal norm, places where strange and uncanny events happen to those within the system (often against their will) and where people held within the environment are cut off from trusted relationships.”

II. Asylum-Bound

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

"And lo, the Hospital, grey, quiet, old,
Where Life and Death like friendly chafferers meet.
[...]
A tragic meanness seems so to environ
These corridors and stairs of stone and iron,
Cold, naked, clean - half-workhouse and half-jail."

• by William Ernest Henley, from “Enter Patient” (collected in “In Hospital”, 1903)

As many of you know, I occasionally spend a day or two a month volunteering at Highgate Cemetery, a gorgeously overgrown Victorian cemetery: a resting place for live and dead alike. On my languid bus rides home, now sweltering in the heat, I always pass by the abandoned old Archway Hospital, standing tall in the face of centuries changing. The large brick building is imposingly Victorian, looking every bit the part of a haunted asylum, all boarded up and shrouded in secrecy. It speaks to the imagination, and oh, it spoke to me. It whispered all manner of phantasmagoria into my ear, begging for a bit of research.

As it turns out, the old hospital was in fact not an asylum, despite having the atmosphere of a proper madhouse to its brick shell. Looks can be deceiving, my dear. Nevertheless, the seed was planted… Asylums were on the mind… June madness and a simple spark make for a great instigator, it seems.

II.I a Little History of the Asylum

“Madness no longer exists except as seen. The proximity instituted by the asylum, an intimacy neither chains nor bars would ever violate again, does not allow reciprocity: only the nearness of observation that watches, that spies, that comes closer in order to see better, but moves ever farther away, since it accepts and acknowledges only the values of the Stranger. The science of mental disease, as it would develop in the asylum, would always be only of the order of observation and classification. It would not be a dialogue.”

• by Michel Foucault, from “Madness and Civilisation” (1961)

The asylum as we imagine them started all the way back in the fifteenth century in the Netherlands, with madhouses (“dolhuizen” in Dutch) designed simply to keep the insane off the streets, to avoid disturbances to public peace. The notion of treating the mad, what we commonly associate with the asylum, was still a distant dream, and would be for another few centuries. No, the first concern was simply to get the mad off the streets, and separated from the other “nuisances” of society. Before that, there were separate establishments aimed at keeping the homeless and “idle” incarcerated and forced to work; correction houses that severely punished the supposed sins of the deviant. But the Dutch soon realised a need to keep the sick separate from the (in their eyes) slothful, and so they started the madhouse.

Seventeenth century France, by contrast, had very little interest to sequester the sick away from society at large. The care for anybody struggling with mental health issues fell largely on their family, whose best interest was in keeping their relatives confined in secrecy, lest shame befall them. The madness of the day was shame, and treatment was secrecy. Best to keep the unruly under lock and key within the home, or, if the family grew exceedingly tired of the burden their unlucky relative provided them with, they could petition the king to issue a lettre de cachet, and have them confined indefinitely in a religious institution— if this sounds familiar, my dear, it’s because this treatment was the same one provided to the notorious Marquis de Sade. Scandalous, indeed.

It goes without saying that abuse of this system was rife. Where there is a will, there is a way, after all. It wasn’t unusual for political opposition to the King to be locked away, or anybody else who had crossed the wrong (powerful) people, and the masses didn’t take long to start voicing their discontent with this system. But while in France the lettres de cachet and their inevitable abuse evoked a mass fear of false imprisonment, the English associated the madhouse with another form of mistreatment: one motivated by greed. English society was, at the time, rapidly inventing new services and products to advertise and sell, and new professions to go along with it. The care of corpses, for example, and everything a death in the family brought with it, was now being taken out of the domestic space and into the hands of specialised undertakers. Madness was no different, my dear.

A trade of lunacy was quickly established, and proven to be quite lucrative indeed. Like in France, the British largely saw their mad relatives as stains on their family reputation, and they were willing to pay to be rid of the burden they provided. But the madhouse was still more prison than treatment facility: “Neither licensed nor regulated to any significant degree throughout the century, and in the business of providing tactful silences, madhouses were often isolated and sinister spaces.” (by Andrew Scull, from “Madness in Civilisation”, 2016, p134).

London’s very first and most famous madhouse was Bethlem Hospital (more often referred to as “Bedlam”), founded in 1247, though only dedicating itself to the insane somewhere in the fourteenth century. Admittedly, very little is known about the treatment of its patients during the medieval period, though it likely included restraint and seclusion. It seems paperwork took a long while to get into fashion as well. But Bedlam undeniably continued to grow with the centuries, and its position as the most prominent London asylum was largely unshaken, despite the hundreds of small charity hospitals that also popped up with the times. No, the first time the infamous Bedlam gained any sort of competition was with the founding of St. Luke’s Hospital for Lunatics in 1751.

Whereas the newer parts of Bedlam has been quite extravagant, pandering to the pockets of its wealthy patients no doubt, St. Luke’s was grim and minimalist, fashioned with bars over the windows, plain-looking, and clumsily situated into existing buildings. The asylum business was about discretion, and they cared little if their patients were cold, hungry, or chained up. The idea of purpose-building a hospital, too, was quite unheard of! It’s no wonder then that the general population soon came to be frightened of the madman, exacerbated by their jail-like environments, and the Gothic imagination which loved to sensationalise the madhouse.

II.II Asylums of London and the History of Madness

“In important ways, that is, madness is indelibly part of civilisation, not located outside of it. It is a problem that insistently invades our consciousness and our daily lives. It is thus at once liminal and anything but.”

• by Andrew Scull, from “Madness in Civilisation” (2016), p10

This time around, writing this letter, I was not content simply picking up bits from books and articles, and fashioning a monster of my own. Perhaps the sun had gotten to me, or perhaps I simply imagined myself a Very Serious Writer, out on the trails to find myself a story. Nevertheless, my first stop, emboldened in my capacities as a researcher, was the London Archives, where I spent a day leafing through the registers and paperwork of some of the major asylums, 1791-1935. My main focus was on St. Luke’s Hospital for Lunatics (Bedlam’s records being exasperatingly hard to track down), and the Asylum for Idiots (Surrey, 1847)— though the latter was not located in London, some of its files are available at the London Archives because its superintendent brought the files with him when he went on to found Normansfield Hospital, which was situated in London.

[I have included my request history in the footnotes1, so you can retrace my steps if you wish to, my dear..]

St. Luke’s hospital was in business from 1751 to 2011, and admitted a wide range of patients deemed “curable” or “incurable”, on account of mania, the monomanias (not distinguished in the records, but generally thought to be nymphomania, kleptomania, and the likes), melancholia, and acute dementia. From the records of its first century of operations (1751-1851), rules rendering patients inadmissible were quite tight; being pregnant, previously treated at any other hospital, or insane for more than twelve months all disqualified you from being treated at St. Luke’s. In 1850 (one of the years for which detailed records survive), the majority of patients admitted as “curable” was aged 26 to 25 years old, almost 2/3 stemmed from the countryside as opposed to the city, and most were servants by occupation or simply listed “wife” as their profession— women outnumbered the men by 107 to 72 that year. The same is true for the century 1751-1850, when St. Luke’s “curable” patient history recorded 10778 female patients to 7311 male patients.

One such male patient was “F.B.”, a 37yo cabinet maker, who went for a stay at St. Luke’s Hospital in April of 1851, his intake noting his “attack” of mania as being caused by “losses in business & drink”. Admitted by his wife on account of posing a danger to both himself and others, his physician wrote the following “evidence of insanity”: “That he is confused in his ideas; has failing of memory, uneasiness, restlessness, is terrified & regards everyone with suspicion as meditating something against him & has made use of threats of violence against himself, his wife & a constant restlessness, sleeplessness, fear & suspicion of everyone who approaches him, sudden startling as it from seeing phantoms. an evident feeling of some dreadful evil impending—”2.

F.B. was discharged as recovered in November of 18573, a full six years after his admittance to the hospital— much longer than the average stay, which was 2-4 months at the time of his admission, or 3-6 months at the time of discharge4. During the first century of its operations, St. Luke’s dealt with 18089 patients deemed “curable”, and cured 7818 of them (roughly 43% of the total “curable” patients), as well as a further 660 admitted as “incurable”. And while women outnumbered the men as patients, they matched those numbers in cures as well: of those admitted as “curable”, 5005 women were cured, as opposed to 2813 men. A total of 1821 patients died across categories, most commonly, it seems, from exhaustion5. Noting that the population of London was around 2.3 million in 1851, those are quite significant numbers for just one of the city’s many asylums to process, though perhaps less so when taking into account that patients clearly were prepared to travel from the countryside to be treated in the city’s asylums.

Notes of treatment supplied at these asylums is noticeably sparse throughout the archives, or is simply illegible to modern sensibilities— those cursive handwriting styles are a most challenging opponent, my dear. Sometimes, they are scrapbooked with legislations and treatises, like the 1913 regulations on the mechanical restriction and restraint of patients, issued by the Commissioners in Lunacy, stating that all restraint should be documented and constantly supervised. Out of the list of restraints allowed, two in particular speak gruesomely to the imagination:

1. the “continuous bath” - a form of long duration hydrotherapy in which the opening of the bath is covered to exclusively allow the patient’s head out.

2. the “wet or dry pack” - a wrapping or restraining of the full body in sheets, sometimes soaked with water.

Seventeenth and eighteenth century opinion fully insisted that an iron fist was the only way to rally the mad back to sanity: “Discipline should therefore accompany the traditional medical remedies of the depletion, evacuation and bleeding.” (Scull, p145)— even King George III was not exempt from this notion, and was met with corporal punishment as part of his so-called “treatment”. Foucalt writes that “Fear appears as an essential presence in the asylum.” (from “Madness and Civilisation”, 1961). For a while, fear was thought to be the cure to madness, and a brief period of time also favoured the idea of disorientation as healing; whether by sensory deprivation, shocks, or through elaborate swinging mechanisms that did not agree with patients’ stomachs. Records from 1851 also show that St. Luke’s experimented with the use of ether and chloroform, but found the substances lacking in regards to actually curing the mad. Generally, asylums favoured a treatment consisting of a heavy detox program of combined laxatives and emetics, as if madness could be one of the waste products its patients emitted.

Think of a modern juice cleanse taken to extremes, though you’ll be hard-pressed to find a modern spa offering authentic period experiences…

II.III Oh, my Nerves!

“Madness is the product of society and of moral and intellectual influences.”

• by Esquirol, taken from Andrew Scull’s “Madness in Civilisation” (2016), p226

Over time though, seeing the sparse results of these harsh treatments, a newer philosophy of treating the insane came to be. One that relied heavily on moralism, and considered to be more “humane”. The argument being that fear tactics only trained lunatics like animals to feign the results their jailers desired— actual progress notwithstanding. No, the madman was still a rational being, thinkers argued, and so should be treated as such. And it caught on; even St. Luke’s has a note reading that “The moral treatment of our patients is based upon those benevolent principles which have been so humanely endeavoured to be carried out at other Asylums. We believe that the only question which can now arise is by what method the insane can be treated in the most humane manner”6. Though the definition of “humane” is definitely lacking from our modern standards, that’s for sure, my dear.

It is easy to look at the barbarous slices of known treatments provided to patients as absurd, but it is crucial to remember that madness was not yet entirely believed to be a mental illness. In fact, great importance for the medical field in earning the lucrative right to treat lunacy laid in establishing the various ailments of the mind as somehow physical, and thus within their realm of expertise. The mind was still largely thought of as the soul, and to imagine the soul as able to deteriorate would be unthinkable. Therefore, there was a great emphasis on the brain as instrument of the soul, and open to fallacy without questioning the superiority of man. A solution was found: “Bedlam madness, and the milder forms of melancholy, hysteria and the like, were symptomatic of disorders of the brain or the jangling of nerves.” (Scull, p167)

The term “the English Malady” originated in 1733, collecting all manner of ailments including “Nervous Diseases of all Kinds, as Spleen, Vapours, Lowness of Spirits, Hypochondriacal and Hysterical Distempers” (Scull, p163) under one neat, elitist umbrella. It caught on like wildfire with the upper classes. Nobody wanted to be simply hysterical or hypochondriac, and therefore associated with the vulgar, beastly lower classes. The English Malady, in contrast, was a highly civilised affliction, affecting only the most refined of high society, their sophisticated lives leading to the most sensitive nervous system. The vast superiority of England simply made them more susceptible to various grievances— see, my dear, complaining has always been the British pastime!

Even though the disease was now effectively elevated, the treatments remained largely the same for a while: bleedings, emetics, and strict diets galore. But physicians quickly realised the harm in scaring away their well-paying high society clients with such base treatments, switching instead to milder ones. Changes of scenery, light travel, flattery, prescriptions of opium, and travel to spa towns to partake in the healing waters were all recommended for such cases. This reasoning of madness was both seductive, and reassuring; lunacy was not beyond control, and could be mitigated through rational means. Elsewhere throughout the country, new kinds of moral treatment were undertaken in asylums to “seduce” the common mind away from madness. These facilities did away with their prison-like environments in favour of societal miniatures that aimed to re-introduce the mad to sanity through a microcosm of the world outside its gates, complete with work, self-restraint, and what philosopher Foucalt dubbed “gigantic moral imprisonment” (from “Madness and Civilisation”, 1963).

Despite the period’s insistence that certain types of madness were a symptom of civilisation and thus should disproportionately affect the bourgeois, it was the working class that was over-represented in the asylums. And as the permanent population in asylums grew steadily in the same trend, by the 1850s it became nearly impossible to deny that madness actually affected the lower classes at much greater rates (no doubt due to their harsh living conditions). The classist theory of nerves had in fact created a wider divide between the “beastly” madness of Bedlam, and the mild, flowery melancholia of the wealthy, now separated almost completely from one another. As a result,

“Conditions were if anything still worse in institutions that specialized in the confinement of the mad. […] two of the largest private, profit-making madhouses in London, testified that they were infested with fleas and rats and were so cold and damp that many patients suffered from gangrene and tuberculosis; patients were also grossly abused by the attendants. Beating and whipping were widely employed, and female patients were frequently raped.”

• by Andrew Scull, from “Madness in Civilisation” (2016), p191

The horrid conditions of these madhouses did not escape the public, and a new governing body was founded in 1845: the Commisioners in Lunacy. Its purpose was to supervise the lunacy trade, and to pass new laws that mandated licensing and funding for all manner of asylums, both public and private.

The theory of nerves had successfully lifted madness into the realm of the mind, and “Few doubted the proposition that madness was rooted in the pathologies of the brain and the nervous system” (Scull, p216). But it was still hoped that physical symptoms could illuminate the secrets of lunacy. After all, some patients who had gone mad and died had been found to have characteristic lesions on the brain: a yet unconnected effect of pre-existing syphilis infection mistaken for one of madness. Death registers from the Asylum for Idiots 1855-18687 show at least a part of this interest in the physical idea of lunacy, as the vast majority of deaths was followed by a postmortem autopsy, despite their causes of death mostly being attributed to a variety of respiratory ailments like phthisis (ie. tuberculosis), pneumonia, or bronchitis. These inquiries yielded very little results, as one could imagine.

II.IV False Imprisonment

“But the idea of absolute insanity which we all associate with the very name of an Asylum, had, I can honestly declare, never occurred to me, in connexion with her.”

• by Wilkie Collins, from “the Woman in White” (1859)

So, the British feared the asylum out of fear that its greed-motivated management would detain them for a pay check, while the Americans feared the asylum as a state-sanctioned prison for the (mainly) criminally insane. In France, the aforementioned lettres de cachet also evoked a mass fear of false imprisonment, though much more politically motivated. Being locked up and mistaken for insane, it seems, is a fear as old as time, and who could blame the Victorians with the looming structures of asylums in view, shrouded in secrecy, or later with plentiful accounts of their barbarousness brought into the light? The disorienting fear of confinement, of being mad, or being falsely mistaken for mad were not irrational in the slightest. There were plenty of cases to back these terrors up. But the largest instigator for them was, quite probably, our beloved Gothic literature.

“Many patients likened the experience [of the asylum] to being confined in a living tomb, a cemetery for the still breathing. Madhouses at this time, moreover, with their barred windows, high perimeter walls, isolation from the community and enforced secrecy, invited Gothic imaginings among the public at large about what might transpire hidden from view. Circulation of these Gothic tales had begun in the eighteenth century as soon as such establishment appeared, and showed no signs of slackening as the numbers of the mad in confinement surged in the nineteenth century.”

• by Andrew Scull, from “Madness in Civilisation” (2016), p238

Gothic novels love to falsely imprison its heroines in madhouses, or set scenes there to play off the disturbing chaos of the Other. From “the Distress’d Orphan; or Love in a Mad-House” (1726) to “the Woman in White” (1860), women especially bear the grunt of asylum incarceration, whether justly or otherwise. “Female persecution and imprisonment are of a more modern cast with the asylum replacing the convent and the country house the castle.” (by Fred Botting, from “Gothic”, 1995, p87). Though un-characteristically, in “Dracula” (1897) it is Renfield who gets imprisoned, half-insane and half-foreboding Cassandra of vampire toil and trouble to come.

Speaking of vampires and [false] imprisonment, my dear, one simply must mention “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” (1997-2003). In S06E17 “Normal Again”, one of the show’s most controversial episodes, titular vampire Slayer and main character Buffy is made to believe that the past six years of her life as the Slayer have all been vivid hallucinations on her part, and she has instead been confined to a mental hospital for that time. During the episode, her doctors and mother plea with her to let go of her “fantasies” and return to the “real” world. In the end, Buffy chooses her friends, her eyes glazing over as she resigns completely to the “dream” world. Within the canon of the show, it is intentionally kept open which of the two worlds is the “real” one; whether Buffy is indeed the Slayer, or if she is somewhere in confinement, dreaming up the fantastic escapades of the show. The episode certainly holds up as one of the most frightening ones in the entirety of the series’ eight year run-time, playing right on the fear of one’s own mind.

How can one trust their own sanity, if the madman cannot tell the sane from the insane?

II.V Taking to the Waters

“Who the hell takes the waters in the 21st century anyway?”

• from “a Cure for Wellness” (2016)

Hydrotherapy, as we have seen, was employed in real-life as a treatment for madness. As moral treatment was on the decline, treatments focused on the body rose in popularity, even crossing the Atlantic. From cold plunges for the lower classes, to spa towns for the wealthy, “taking to the waters” was recommended for a vast array of illnesses, both physical and mental. In fact, the healing waters of Bath, not far removed from London, were renowned for their supposed restorative properties. The Romans established the town as a spa, and the city kept up this longstanding hydrotherapy tradition, becoming a very fashionable tourist destination for the Victorians. The “water cures” popular at the time involved rapid successions of cold and hot water, and “Turkish baths” which involved massages and steam rooms, followed by a cold shower. Bath is also where the aptly named “Bath chairs” originated; portable standing baths on wheels that allowed a patient to be partially submerged, while being carted around either by a person, or a small horse. They’re a little bit comical, a little bit silly, but the best things always are, my dear.

Incidentally, there is also a personal connection of mine to the healing waters— my hometown of Maastricht, the Netherlands, was both founded by the Romans, and had their very own healing baths (de “Thermen”), the ruins of which are situated not far from my former home. Nowadays, there is unfortunately not much to be seen of the bathhouse, as there are only stone markings on the ground mapping out where the walls would have been, a few metres below what is now ground level. But it’s potent enough for one to imagine a different time.

Hydrotherapy speaks to the imagination: lunacy is linguistically related to the Latin for “moonstruck”. The moon, pulling the tides in and out— why couldn’t it pull the water within us? Why couldn't water be the cure to the human condition? After all, the human body is famously claimed to be roughly 80% water8. The 2016 Gothic horror film “a Cure for Wellness”, also plays with this concept of hydrotherapy, with its very own mad-doctor, extracting the essence of life through a curious form of hydrotherapy involving… eels. Seriously. The film features all manner of treatment, from the aforementioned continuous bath, to sensory deprivation tanks, to the Turkish bath. Historically accurate at the very least. But perhaps not as far-fetched as one would imagine (sans eels, that is). The paper “Hydrotherapy in State Mental Hospitals in the Mid-Twentieth Century” by Rebecca Bouterie Harmon (2009) suggests that the cultural fascination with hydrotherapy is, perhaps, cyclical. If so, are we due for a return to the healing waters? Only time will tell…

II.VI Operating Theatres and the Fairer Sex

“I am glad my case is not serious! But these nervous troubles are dreadfully depressing. John does not know how much I really suffer. He knows there is no reason to suffer, and that satisfies him.”

• by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, from “the Yellow Wallpaper” (1892)

A quick note on spectacle: the notion of the medical as private has not always been so thoroughly ingrained in society. The middle and upper classes largely dealt with illness and madness in the family within the house, sometimes outsourcing the latter to private madhouses. It was largely the poor who were publicly institutionalised, or institutionalised at all. For the upper classes “‘every bed-room [was] a possible sick-room.’ Likewise, every woman was a possible nurse. Both the sickroom and the nurse were flexible concepts. […] When illness appeared, the wife or mother transformed herself, and so did the bedroom, for illness was a home-based episode. Until the end of the century hospitals were where the poor went. For the middle classes, illness was something that happened at home.” (by Judith Flanders, from “Inside the Victorian Home”, 2003, p340)

But as the medical field gained importance, and men started taking over what was once considered a woman’s concern (and earning money for it!), sick-care was lifted out of the confines of the home. And though the asylum rapidly shifted through contexts- from prison, to private bourgeois retreat, to a system disproportionately treating the working or lower classes- it certainly carried a much more public dimension than the humble house sickroom. Shelley and Byron visited an asylum in 1725, as if taking a simple sightseeing trip. Courtrooms holding “Inquisitions in Lunacy” were public, attended en masse, and heavily sensationalised by the daily press. The spectacle of madness was popular in opera and in the penny dreadfuls the Victorians guiltily adored, not to mention eagerly devoured and re-digested through the literature of the Gothic. Even treatment as intense as surgery was a semi-public affair, with operating theatres open to spectating surgical students.

One such operating theatre is still available to view right here in London, near London Bridge station, as a museum. The old operating theatre used to be a part of St. Thomas’ hospital, and is the oldest surviving operating theatre in Europe, originating from 1822, pre-dating anaesthesia and open to an audience of up to 200 (male) spectators. Even more fascinating, my dear, is the fact that it was used exclusively for the treatment of female patients.

“Before the arrival of anaesthetics all operations had to be quick, which limited surgeons to only a few procedures […]. These operations were carried out as a last resort to save a patient’s life […]. The mortality rate in Old St Thomas’ was 30%, so with such good odds, many consented to the procedures. The three main causes of death were shock, blood loss, and infection. The introduction of anaesthetics in 1846 was a major breakthrough in the history of medicine. However, because it allowed surgeons to perform deeper surgery that could take longer, it increased the chance of the patient contracting an infection. Before the 1860s, there was no understanding about how germs spread, so as a result surgeons did not make an effort to keep themselves, their instruments, or the operating theatre clean.”

• from the official guidebook to the Old Operating Theatre Museum

Women and femininity have had their own extensive history with illness, as previously discussed in letter 15. The English Malady was thought to be “more conspicuous and violent in the Female Sex” because they possessed “a more volatile, dissipable, and weak Constitution of the Spirits, and a more soft, tender, and delicate Texture of the Nerves” (Scull, p164). We have already seen that the female patients of St. Luke’s almost outnumbered the men 2:1, and there is writing from the eighteenth century lamenting the men “sending their Wives to Mad-Houses at every Whim or Dislike” (Scull, p139). Depending on the region, men had the right to detain their wives in asylums under their divine authority as husband9 until quite late into the eighteenth century.

Nowadays the asylum, or even the mental health crisis as a symbol, might bring up a majority of female connections, from “Girl, Interrupted” (1999) to Sylvia Plath, from “Sucker Punch” (2016) to “American Horror Story: Asylum” (2012-2013), and from “Jane Eyre” (1847) to “the Yellow Wallpaper” (1892). The “madwoman in the attic” trope is plentiful. Even in media more commonly associated with men, like superhero comics, the women carry stronger connections to the asylum: it is Harley Quinn who is most often connected to Arkham Asylum, the former employee, rather than the Joker, who was an actual patient. The madman is associated with violence against the other, but the madwoman is associated with self-harm, excessive sexual libido, or plain melancholy (see Archive Source 2): stereotypically feminine traits magnified to make the madwoman into the ultimate victim, the ultimate seducer and threat to male power, the ultimate fragile figurine in need of [male] protection.

To be unstable is the feminine birthright, it seems. At least, if you believe art and literature largely influenced by men. This display of female “fragility” in the madwoman was meant to reinforce the “superiority” of men, who, by patriarchy’s design, are supposed to be the “rational”, “stronger” sex. But it only paints a picture of feminine endurance, of a capability to overcome all the stacked odds that come with life as a woman. Historically, women have had the industry of lunacy weaponised against them, time and time again. The madness of society manifest inside the woman must be overcome in one way or another; it must not be allowed to be used against us, to silence us, to shut us up. The story of the modern madwoman is one of recognising her own power: “You have all the weapons you need. Now fight.” (from “Sucker Punch”, 2016) & “Make your survival mean something, or we’re all doomed” (from “Alice: Madness Returns”, 2011).

“Have you ever confused a dream with life? Or stolen something when you have the cash? Have you ever been blue? Or thought your train moving while sitting still? Maybe I was just crazy. Maybe it was the '60s. Or maybe I was just a girl... interrupted.”

• from “Girl, interrupted” (1999)

II.VII Beastly Experiments

“We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood.”

• from “Bloodborne” (2016)

To the bourgeois rationality of Victorian England, madness was often equal to beastliness. The most “pure” of the senses, reason, being absent meant that the common lunatic was separated from mankind. Historically, what constitutes a difference between man and beast has been heavily debated: motivated partly by philosophy, partly by fear. Because if the difference, however small, lays only in a reliance on reason, a social contract of civilisation, nature vs nurture, then the brink of beast-hood is always within sight. And little could be more frightening to us civilised creatures.

Allow me to introduce you to “Bloodborne” (2015), my dear. You didn’t think I would journey through lunacy and neglect to mention my favourite video game of all time, did you? That would be, for lack of a better word, madness.

“Bloodborne” takes place in the Gothic city of Yharnam, and slightly beyond. I’ll give you a taste of its elegiac and shadowy lore, with a bit of help from “Bloodborne: the Official Guide” (re-released in 2025). After the shadowy college of Byrgenwerth encounter eldritch gods (“Great Ones”) beyond their understanding, they begin to experiment with enigmatic blood ministrations of “old blood” as a cure-all, founding what is known as the Healing Church. But opinions are soon divided on the implications of the Great Ones. Master Willem, old head of Byrgenwerth, was distrusting of the Healing Church’ liberal circulation of blood, warning its founder Laurence to “fear the old blood”.

And he was not mistaken in that notion. Purported as a miraculous cure, people soon flocked to Yharnam to take part in its legendary blood ministrations. But as an epidemic dubbed the “ashen blood” ravaged the citizens of Yharnam, a beastly scourge ignited that turned them ravenous, feral, and transformed them into literal beasts— a gnarly side-effect of the Church’ rampant blood ministrations. And so, a man called Gehrman broke from the Church to found a society of “hunters”, who made a profession out of systemically eliminating the scourge. They partake in a twisted communion, imbibing the intoxicating blood of their victims to heal themselves, often ending up blood-drunk or beastly themselves. And that is where the interactive part of the game comes in, my dear. The player has come to Yharnam to seek their own cure, and signs on to become a hunter, embarking on a journey that will lay bare the sins of the Church, Byrgenwerth, the Hunters, and the many other factions involved.

And these sins, by the way, are plentiful. In the early days of the church (most likely before Willem left) their Research Hall patients would imbibe water within their heads, until they swelled up with brain fluid: an attempt to create internal eyes, as Master Willem theorised would help them ascend to godhood in the image of the Great Ones. But that is not all. In their quest to cultivate “worthy” blood, the Church also groomed nuns for their experiments, hoping to turn them to “Blood Saints” whose extremely potent healing blood would lend legitimacy to their teachings of man’s ascendance through blood. We meet Adeline, one of these Blood Saints, on our venture into the nightmarish Research Hall, strapped to a chair and with the signature horrific enlarged head of its patients, begging for brain fluid: “The sticky sound whispers to me. So very close, right into my ear.”

The game’s narrative successfully brandishes together a medley of horrors, from Lovecraftian cosmic horror, to the very real institutionalised violence often perpetuated by those in power through medical channels. I have brought it up as a respectful amalgamation of several of the themes we have discussed already: hydrotherapy, institutionalised violence against women, and theories of blood purity. The Victorians’ rickety reasoning as to the significant working class overrepresentation within asylums soon led them down a path rambling wildly about “degenerates”, instigating violence against the disabled, and eventually, eugenics.

The fiction of “Bloodborne” is deeply rooted in real-life accounts; a cycle of reference between history and fiction which, to me at least, enriches each other. Its connections run all the way from Lovecraft, to William Ernest Henley’s hospital poetry as seen at the very start of this letter. “Bloodborne” treats this history with the utmost respect and empathy; horror and shock are vehicles for empathy and awareness. It reiterates what all the history before it has already made evident; dehumanising each other is the gateway to tragedy.

II.IX Final Notes

“Mental illness haunts us, frightens us, and fascinates us. Its depredations are a source of immense suffering and often embody threats, both symbolic and practical, to the very fabric of social order. Ironically, the stigma that surrounds those who exhibit a loss of reason has often extended to those who have claimed expertise in its identification and treatment.”

• from Archive Source 3

The reality of madness is that we simply are not as distanced from its clutches as we’d like to believe. We kid ourselves into building an imaginary shield of Ration and Sanity, for the purposes of snobbery, but to what end? As if everybody who has strayed off of the path simply didn't protect themselves well enough, wasn’t moral enough, wasn’t sensible enough. Regurgitating Victorian sentiment. But the truth is that we are not the masters of our mind, not by far. Lovecraft understood this in his writing, in the trenches of his cosmic horror: there will always be things so beyond our comprehension that the very idea of them could drive us mad. So if medical horror is body horror, then asylum horror is sanity horror. Fear of the mind, the wrinkles and workings of the brain largely impenetrable to us.

The power of the asylum as place of horror lies in the fear of the Other (the mad), the fear of False Imprisonment, the fear of the Other Within Us. In the cultural imagination it is a grey place of imprisonment and abuse, horrors laid bare. Meant to evoke cleanliness, it can instead evoke coldness. Its associated interior certainly doesn’t help, with its easily disinfected surfaces and medical look: “anything that is bound up with the body and its immediate extensions has for generations been the domain of white, a surgical, virginal colour which distances the body from the dangers of intimacy and tends to neutralise the drives.” (by Jean Baudrillard, from “the System of Objects”, 1996, p33)

The kind of visibility we have permitted the asylum has not been very generous; and what’s to stop this sensationalist, gruesome angle? We are creatures of morbid curiosity, after all. I promise you Shelley and Byron would not pay a visit to an ordinary hospital, and the Gothic does not write of doctors, except when they abuse their power. But the horror is, also, in many ways, akin to empathy (see Archive Source 2). There is an argument to be made that the spectacle of asylum horror is concerned largely with the patients, with us-as-patients, and not with the doctors that mistreat them. The line between voyeurism and empathy is thin, yes, but it is there nonetheless, and history continually dances on it. Sometimes we land on the better side of it.

“Like the asylum, where truth is frequently cemented into a forced silence of delusion, the excessive and elusive mode of the Gothic is haunted by its irrepressible fetish of live burial and entrapment. Gothic departs from the medical gaze to encourage readers’ empathy with marginalised asylum populations.”

• from Archive Source 1

Very little historical firsthand accounts of asylums survive, as Andrew Scull (2016) points out. History is written by the victors, or in the case of the asylum, is written by practitioners in impersonal terms and scattered across databases and archives. Only in the 1900s do we start to see more complete patient files, neatly bundling observations, personal letters, and medical information together. Shame and stigma are what make abuse flourish. Secrecy perpetuates itself within this spiral, abuse begets abuse. In our modern day mental health revolution, we should be actively extending visibility to the psychiatric ward and its patients, taking care to lean onto the side of empathy.

For every ten poorly handled depictions of mental health care, there are a handful more sensitive in their depiction of the subject matter. Some agree with the nuance of “Girl, Interrupted” (1999) in relation to lived experience, some appreciate the horror like “Bloodborne” (2016) which continues to evoke a strong empathetic response. Artist Anna Marie Tendler recently published her memoir “Men Have Called Her Crazy” (2024), focusing largely on her voluntary stay at an in-patient mental health facility. During her intake evaluation she does a Rorschach test, the results leaving her emotional as she is finally met with evidence of her struggle. Validated for the first time as she is in her experience, she begins to cry: “At this point tears begin to fall from my eyes, not because I am sad or angry, but because I have never had these dueling aspects of my personality mirrored back to me in such a matter-of-fact way. I have, at so many times in my life, felt unknowable, but here I am having me explained to me as it feels to be me. One three-hour test and I finally have objective words to demystify a tumultuous and ambivalent life experience.” Her doctor ends the session on an empathetic note, telling her outright how much he feels the weight of her suffering.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice quiet and quivering with emotion. “I really appreciate this.” “Yes,” he says, “I believe you really do.”

III. a New Look

“All the lilies bloomed and blossomed”

• by Hole, from their song “Petals” (1998)

The White Lily Society has a new look— a new logo all you eagle-eyed readers and / or social stalkers might have noticed already. Regardless, I wanted to give this new feature a bit of a spotlight, no matter how brief or succinct (though God knows I am allergic to brevity). The new logo was illustrated by the phenomenal and consists of- you guessed it- white lilies and an equally gorgeous matching wordmark. Ornate, delicate, and dreamy, the new logo is inspired by vintage woodcuts, while the thorny lettering is meant to echo our beloved “Sleeping Beauty” story. Julia is one of my favourite illustrators, with her beautiful vintage style and deep understanding of whimsy, so it’s been an absolute honour to commission her for this logo and have it turn out beyond my (already sky-high) expectations!

It’s the start of a new era for the White Lily Society, just in time for our second Substack anniversary on August 1st ☆

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* On the List *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

Exhibitions, Events, and Talks. It’s a surprisingly calm month for events! Turns out the summer heat (and the probable vacationing) gets to everybody’s head, not just mine. First of all, “Abstract Erotic: Louise Bourgeois, Eva Hesse, Alice Adams” is still on at the Cortauld until September 14th, so take advantage of the opportunity to see this magnificent collection of sculptures all about sexuality, and the body. Similarly, Louise Bourgeois’ masterpiece "Maman" is available to see for free at Tate Modern until August 25th. The 9-metre spider is a work simultaneously imposing and awe-inducing.

Tennis fans can rejoice, as the Championships at Wimbledon are on until July 13th— don’t forget to take advantage of the free livestreams in the official app!

For all my showgirls, the Western themed “Diamonds & Dust” burlesque show is available to see until the end of September, but if you want to catch a glimpse of the incomparable Dita von Teese, you’ll want to book a date from today until July 13th, 14th-17th of August, or the 18th-21st of September. A glamorous night such as this is unthinkable without the queen of burlesque, no?

Finally, if you happen to be around the Rochester, UK area on the 24th, a dear friend of mine- Hallee Wells- is organising a night of poetry and live music sure to be incandescent! Hallee’s poetry is beautifully fragile and visceral, and her selection of accompanying guests is sure to match the vibe. Certainly not a bad way to pass a deep summer night.

Film, Music, and TV. Unfortunately, if you are not of the opinion that summer is the best season, pickings are slim within the BFI’s current menu. There is only one singular screening of interest to note here, the final showing of the controversial erotic film “the Piano Teacher” (2001), on July 10th. But worry not, as Deeper Into Movies has a few heavy hitters on their line-up to make up for the lack of thematically apt screenings, starting with David Cronenberg’s 1996 showing “Crash” on the 12th of July at Farr’s Dalston— psychosexual, sticky, and hypnotising. Approved by yours truly. Or for the lovers of the strange and unusual, there is Guillermo Del Toro’s “Pan’s Labyrinth” (2006) on the 19th, also at Farr’s Dalston. Tickets for both start at £5.

In the Stars. Happy birthday to all the Cancers and Leos out there (depending on when you read this newsletter during July, that is). There is a full moon on July 10th, dubbed the “Buck Moon” for the time when male deer start to regrow their antlers. Perhaps a good time symbolically to step into your own rebirth. Finally, Mars and the moon are set to be in conjunction on the 29th, when you can hopefully catch a glimpse of Mars’ vivid red glow. The red planet is commonly associated with action, desire, and active energy, so create some space on that celestially striking Tuesday and analyse how Mars fits into your chart; what have you been languishing on, and what needs your attention? The best plans are forged in fire, and the summer heat definitely fulfils that criterion.

Obsessive Tendencies: What I’ve Loved Lately

1. ASOS, COLLUSION tie front top with collar in “white”, [Delicate and airy for the warmer weather], £29.99

2. MAC, eyeshadow in “Wedge”, [A beautiful smoky-eye shade, famously used on Kristen Stewart in the first “Twilight” film!], £16

3. Urban Outfitters, Kimchi Blue “Lennon” Linen Top in “Black”, [Somebody take this top away from me, its had an iron grip on me for two summers now…], £39

4. Heretic Parfum, “Nosferatu” perfume, [A very odd but pleasant scent, leaning vegetal, green, and wet— like cucumber water, dripstone in dungeons, or fresh rain], £112 for a full bottle— samples available from Heretic or from Scentbird for a limited time

5. Victoria’s Secret, “Very Sexy” Black Thong Rose Lace Knickers, [Black lace 4ever and ever], £18

6. HMV, “Twilight” Soundtrack on “Mercury” Marbled Vinyl, [For my sanity, I need my imagination to take me colder places during the heat], £39.99

“Pleasure only starts once the worm has got into the fruit, to become delightful happiness must be tainted with poison.”

• by Georges Bataille

And on that final note, the thirteenth hour has come to a close. The waters of madness fall and rise, pushed and pulled by the sun and the moon in equal measure. One can always pray for rain, and I do. Feverishly, I do. And in the meantime, my heart rests with all the incredibly brave, strong women I encountered in my research. The ones who didn't quite get their due just yet. Like Nellie Bly, the eighteenth century reporter who went undercover in a madhouse for ten days, and whose report made major headway in American asylum reform. Or Elizabeth Packard, who campaigned for the rights of both the mentally ill and married women after forcibly having to defend her sanity at trial. All the files I read in my research, of women diagnosed with hysteria over common symptoms. A lack of concentration, insomnia, nervousness. Standards which I fear could make a lunatic out of any of us.

Remember that the summer is bound to end soon: it cannot carry on forever.

Affirmations for the end of summer (Repeat after me)

1. My temperatures are of a normal, non-boiling temperament

2. I will not fall ill to the sun’s persistent campaign of torment

3. It is completely normal to feel sun-drunk and moon-drenched

Until my next letter,

With love (and violence),

x Sabrina Angelina, the White Lily Society

Currently reading: “Madness in Civilization: a Cultural History of Insanity from the Bible to Freud, from the Madhouse to Modern Medicine” by Andrew Scull // Most recent read: “Sonnets from the Portuguese” by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

White Lily Society links // Sabrina Angelina links

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📼 Song of the (past) month: “Wishbone” - Julia Wolf