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Proquest Dissertations MATILDA DYCK; or, THE MONK: A CANADIAN GOTHIC (A Novel) by Catherine Greenwood BA with Distinction, University of Victoria, 1999 A Thesis Submitted in Partial Fulfilment of the Requirements for the Degree of Masters of Arts in the Graduate Academic Unit of English Supervisors: Mark Jarman, MFA, English Mary Rimmer, PhD, English Internal Examiner: Diana Austin, DPhil, English External Examiner: Sean Kennedy, PhD, History, UNB This thesis is accepted by the Dean of Graduate Studies THE UNIVERSITY OF NEW BRUNSWICK August, 2007 © Catherine Greenwood, 2007 Library and Archives Bibliotheque et 1*1 Canada Archives Canada Published Heritage Direction du Branch Patrimoine de Pedition 395 Wellington Street 395, rue Wellington OttawaONK1A0N4 OttawaONK1A0N4 Canada Canada Your file Votre reference ISBN: 978-0-494-56540-7 Our file Notre reference ISBN: 978-0-494-56540-7 NOTICE: AVIS: The author has granted a non­ L'auteur a accorde une licence non exclusive exclusive license allowing Library and permettant a la Bibliotheque et Archives Archives Canada to reproduce, Canada de reproduire, publier, archiver, publish, archive, preserve, conserve, sauvegarder, conserver, transmettre au public communicate to the public by par telecommunication ou par Nnternet, prefer, telecommunication or on the Internet, distribuer et vendre des theses partout dans le loan, distribute and sell theses monde, a des fins commerciales ou autres, sur worldwide, for commercial or non­ support microforme, papier, electronique et/ou commercial purposes, in microform, autres formats. paper, electronic and/or any other formats. The author retains copyright L'auteur conserve la propriete du droit d'auteur ownership and moral rights in this et des droits moraux qui protege cette these. Ni thesis. Neither the thesis nor la these ni des extraits substantiels de celle-ci substantial extracts from it may be ne doivent etre imprimes ou autrement printed or otherwise reproduced reproduits sans son autorisation. without the author's permission. In compliance with the Canadian Conformement a la loi canadienne sur la Privacy Act some supporting forms protection de la vie privee, quelques may have been removed from this formulaires secondaires ont ete enleves de thesis. cette these. While these forms may be included Bien que ces formulaires aient inclus dans in the document page count, their la pagination, il n'y aura aucun contenu removal does not represent any loss manquant. of content from the thesis. I+I Canada ABSTRACT Matilda Dyck; or, The Monk: A Canadian Gothic, is a contemporary version of Matthew Lewis's 18th century horror novel, The Monk: A Romance, and integrates corresponding plot elements of abduction, rape and murder found in media accounts of a recent crime story. The title character, a monstrous amalgam of Lewis's demonic transvestite Matilda and infamous Canadian serial killer Karla Homolka, retreats to a rural monastery after serving a prison sentence. Despite Matilda Dyck's attempt to construct a new identity by undergoing gender reassignment and becoming Brother Karl, s/he fails to escape her/himself and re-enacts similar crimes. The text recycles traditional Gothic motifs: dungeons are replaced by a drug tunnel used for smuggling marijuana across the border; the supernatural is supplanted by technology; and the transsexual figure fulfils the cross- dresser's role as signifier of disrupted categories, a repository for displaced anxieties that facilitates the genre's cathartic function. u ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Many thanks to my co-supervisors Mary Rimmer and Mark Jarman for their generous and helpful criticisms and editing suggestions, and to my examiners Diana Austin and Sean Kennedy. I'm grateful also to all of my other professors at UNB for coursework that in unexpected ways informed this thesis, and to the university and SSHRC for financial assistance which allowed me time to work on the project. The idea for this novel originated during time spent at St. Peter's Abbey in Saskatchewan: I'm indebted to the late Brother Randy Senecal for his concept of the Genesis metal sculptures, and to the writing group Chickweed for wild humour and a collective Gothic imagination. Many friends and family members have offered much appreciated encouragement and support, and I must especially mention Rebecca Fredrickson and Anne Greenwood - thank you both for believing in me. Finally, much love to my husband Steve Noyes for his patience and support throughout what proved to be a rather long and challenging writing process. in "Terror at Casa Loma, I'd call it, I would get in the evils of the Family Compact, the martyrdom of Louis Riel, the horrors of colonialism, both English and American, the struggle of the workers, the Winnipeg General Strike..." Margaret Atwood, Lady Oracle "If I make you laugh, for I cannot flatter myself that I shall make you cry, I shall be content." Horace Walpole IV TABLE OF CONTENTS ABSTRACT ii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS iii EPIGRAPH iv TABLE OF CONTENTS v PROLOGUE 1 BOOK 1 24 BOOK II 72 BOOK III 192 AFTERWORD 276 ENDNOTES 292 BIBLIOGRAPHY 294 CURRICULUM VITAE v PROLOGUE The Lord himself- with your permission - seems to me to have been masquerading pretty freely at the time when he took on flesh and dwelt among us. Seven Gothic Tales 2 Mat Peters waited on the wooden chair Mrs. Blaine had set out for him in the small post office annexed to her house trailer, shifting against the bars of its spindled back as he stared out the window at the street. The hard-sided orange suitcase propped protectively between his knees wasn't big enough to hold much more than a change of clothes and a toothbrush. With maybe a bible for ballast, mused Mrs. Blaine. His hairstyle, the straw- coloured bangs flopped over his brow as if his mother had cut it around a bowl, and the snub nose above his full lips, reminded her of the adolescent heartthrobs her daughter Libby had once mooned over in teen magazines - what were those things called, Tiger Beatl - thirty-odd years ago. The same sullen poutiness, the white space between his irises and lower eyelids evoking withdrawn discontent. Or smugness, depending on whether the corners of his pinkish mouth were pointed down or up. In his beige pullover, blue pinstriped shirt, and pleated grey pants he had the style of a Fuller Brush salesman, although he appeared a bit on the youthful side, too delicate perhaps, to be properly called a man. "Brother Anthony should be here any minute now. Abbot Paul said he left a good while ago," she said, leaning her elbows for comfort on the counter-top postal-code directory and peering over her bifocals. The yellowing plastic lenses were so outdated she could no longer see properly with them, but as she liked to tell Mrs. White, her eyes were fine and that new woman doctor in the valley didn't know her nether-end from a fresh dug post-hole. "You'll hear him coming before you see him, anyhow. The man doesn't have a driving license so he gets down the mountain on the Green Machine." 3 "The Green Machine?" Mat Peters turned reluctantly. Mrs. Blaine's wiry grey head wobbled on a wizened neck, her slight quivering nod steady as that of those little flocked dogs that ride in rear windows of family cars. She was bundled in a brown plaid housecoat that must have belonged to the late husband she'd mentioned several times since Mat's arrival. It was still early. When the bus had dropped Mat on the highway beside Bridesville, the sun was just rising over the jagged silver tips of the mountain ranges far to the east. As he'd walked the length of the town only one dog, a stained tattered bandage on its rear leg, had run out from a dark yard to bark at him, limping and wagging. There were no lamps on the single street, just porch lights left burning in a few of the nicer houses, the post office run by Mrs. Blaine, and Siemen's General Store, and several fluorescent standing lamps flickering around the perimeter of a small boarded- up school. A single gas pump rusted amid bunches of dead brown grasses like a standing stone erected by a lost civilization, its original purpose and meaning forgotten. Mat Peters had hesitated, knuckles folded lightly against the aluminium door, before knocking at such an hour. But he'd been told to wait at the post office and there was clearly no such thing here as a cafe, or even a public restroom. The street was icy, and he was shivering so hard his teeth rattled. Mrs. Blaine, bleary-eyed, had offered him a coffee, indicating through the door adjoining her kitchen an old-fashioned percolator sitting on her harvest gold stove, and he'd said no, no thank you, it's too much trouble. He'd suddenly felt wistful for the city he'd just left, where he'd become accustomed to sipping a latte late each morning in a coffee bar near the clinic, watching as tumour-ridden pigeons pecked crumbs in the courtyard and frowning people strode to work in expensive black suits. 4 The windows rattled suddenly and Mat's chair vibrated against the linoleum as another large semi-truck hurtled along the highway behind the houses on Mrs. Blaine's side of the street. The whine of brakes died away and was replaced by lawnmower-like roaring that grew louder as it neared. "Here he comes. You're in for a bumpy ride, I'm afraid," said Mrs. Blaine, with a cryptic little laugh. A deep green all-terrain vehicle putted to an abrupt halt in front of the post office and a small middle-aged Asian man with a face like a worried Buddha hopped out and clumped anxiously through the door.
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