Last month, much of the internet (and wider world) was taken over by discussions of the Lindsay Clancy case. Now for the sake of true crime fans, I should state for the record I’m not actually here today to discuss the merits of the case. Rather, I did watch a fascinating video from Readers of the Lost Art titled: Lindsay Clancy, Lady Macbeth, & Sophie Cunningham’s point, largely discussing the role of guilt in tragedy. For me, this raised the interesting conundrum on how fiction presents madness in Macbeth– and beyond! Because, if you read / watch the play, you’ll understand that there’s never a doubt that her madness is a secondary consequence of her guilt. Unless you’re in the throes of insanity yourself, it’s pretty clear that Lady Macbeth and her husband acted immorally in the context of the play. However, the murky role of madness in the literary canon isn’t always so seemingly straightforward.
The subject of culpability has had me in a choke hold for decades. From my independent A Level essay through to my undergrad dissertation, I’ve been intrigued by the nature of evil and the role of madness as a mitigating factor. Dorian Gray’s descent into wickedness is fascinating to me; Doctor Faustus’ anti-hero arc is strangely compelling. And, given the popularity of their stories, I’m not the only one.
Maybe we’re not murderers- yet even with the worst villains there’s something in them that is us. Villains exist in part as cautionary tales, in part as reflections of our own darkest impulses. They hold up a mirror to us and we can’t look away. We want to understand why they fall- because it could so easily be us next. Which is why we are also driven to find the way back to their humanity. We need to know why they acted the way they did. And for a well-constructed narrative, it can’t just be a simple cause and effect. Because we don’t like to view people in simple black and white binaries- we constantly search out the greys.
Considering this, it’s interesting that madness is so often portrayed as happening after the fact. Often, it’s presented as a symbol of guilt. In the case of Raskolnikov from Crime and Punishment, his illness could be regarded as a physical manifestation of his guilt. Where he arguably appears rational before the murders, he is increasingly erratic and irrational after the fact (I mean, he’s not exactly the paragon of good mental health, however the raving is definitely a later development). The punishment for his crimes comes before he is ever found guilty- much like the aforementioned Lady Macbeth.
Nonetheless, there are other representations of madness that complicate the matter. When you read gothic novels like Confessions of a Justified Sinner, it’s unclear what comes first: Robert Wringhim’s madness (/fanaticism) or his crimes. Interestingly, his (potential) hallucinations, though intermittent, are sustained throughout the whole text, not just for 18 minutes to commit crimes (yeah, call me crazy, but as someone who has seen insanity up close and personal at work, I’m not buying it). I mean, with the particular example of Gilmartin, it’s unclear throughout the book whether this is a manifestation of the protagonist’s psyche or the devil himself. And then it’s still more unclear if the main character has freewill or an ironic representation of determinism (as in, he has no freewill, and rather than being destined for heaven as he presumes, his family’s rigid beliefs mean he is destined for hell). Regardless, even in fictional cases, it is hard to prove what constitutes madness and what represents choice. The protagonist in this Scottish novel represents the strongest case for diminished responsibility- mostly because he’s a raving lunatic for most of the novel- and yet I’m still far from certain of whether he’d be deemed criminally insane in a real trial.
To use another gothic example, in Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, we have another case of what comes first, the insanity or the insanely bad choices? Much as you could argue he had split personality (interestingly a concept Stevenson was potentially familiar with considering his knowledge of the William Brodie case) it’s also directly caused by his meddling in scientific experimentation. Nevertheless, this depiction simplifies the role of insanity, making it a more logical product of his decisions. The gothic is frequently equated with the monstrous and the uncanny- but it does not mean we don’t want a ready explanation. Much as insanity is hard to define, we want to believe evil can be easily explained away as insanity. Particularly a mystical kind that comes and goes on a whim. It’s comforting- even if stories too often points to the fact there is no insanity defence. Freewill still exists.
Indeed, this concept of freewill is overpowering in literature. There is a stronger argument for people bearing responsibility for their actions than not. To make matters more complicated, we also see culpability where there is none (like maybe blaming the husband when the wife confessed). Even victims are seen as having agency. For instance, in Never Let Me Go, we spend much of the novel exploring the concept of guilt… despite the fact the main characters are fundamentally the victims of fate. And as readers we lap that up and justify why we blame them- because sometimes it’s harder to be forgiving of the familiar than it is for us to forgive a true monster. If we recognise their faults as our own, we find it easier to hold these characters accountable. And if, like in the show Broadchurch, a character is oblivious to a crime being committed under their nose, they can receive a larger portion of the public ire than the perpetrator themselves. No matter how much we like to excuse, we equally like to accuse- particularly if the mistake is understandable. It’s the incomprehensible we like to chalk up to insanity.
None of this explains the psychology of evil (highly recommend books like Evil for that study). I don’t think I could do that in a thousand years, let alone in one blog post. But it does make some sense of that human need to justify evil actions. We are always searching for excuses. We *need* to make sense of things we don’t understand. We just also need to remember, even if someone tells a good story, we should still know right from wrong. And we should never, ever be swayed by a villain’s speech- no matter how convincing we find it.
Okay- complicated question- but I’d love to hear what you all think! Does agency generally play a stronger role in literary crimes than madness? To what extent is insanity a manifestation of guilt? Let me know your thoughts in the comments! And Happy Halloween!
