You know that scratchy eyed, dough headed, morning thickness that
comes with a low-grade hangover? The hangover that doesn't end up
with puking, but makes it difficult to crawl out of bed to grab
that bottle of Advil that'll help you start your day? That's how I
feel after rereading Dracula.
I read this book one other time -- 31 years ago when I was eight --
and I loved it. It made me mad for all things supernatural or
occult. I thrilled over everything from spontaneous human
combustion and devil's punch bowls to ghost sightings and
werewolves. I tracked down every old movie containing anything
scary: Frankenstein Monsters, Creatures from the Black Lagoon,
Atomic Ants, Zombies, Mummies, anything with Bela Legosi or Boris
Karloff or Christopher Lee or Claude Rains, anything that could
give me the creeps.
I esteemed Dracula above all others as the greatest of horror
novels, but I never revisited Dracula. There were too many other
books to read (particularly Vampire books), and if I needed to
satisfy my craving for the Count it was always much easier to throw
in a film adaptation of Stoker's Vampyre than to commit to reading.
So my old copy of Dracula just moved from house to house and shelf
to shelf, and though I always intended to read it again, I never
got around to it until now. What the hell was I thinking? I wasn't,
apparently.
Three decades of untainted youthful love built Dracula into a work
of art that it never was and couldn't be. I was prepared for that,
though. I picked it up with a willingness to cut Stoker massive
amounts of slack for my own distorted memories and to just enjoy
the fun of something that gave birth to one of my earliest
obsessions. I am a fool.
I didn't get any enjoyment out of rereading Dracula. It has been
diminished for me. Probably forever. Stoker was a sexist pig, and
it can't simply be chalked up to his place in time. Henry James was
writing back then; Oscar Wilde was writing back then, and while the
two of them may not be what we would consider feminist, they are
certainly not steeped in the painfully chauvinistic Victorianism of
Stoker; couple that with Stoker's odd mix of pseudo-science and
religiosity, and Dracula is difficult to endure. But that's not the
worst of it.
You know those annoying sit-coms where the situation, week after
week, is based on a misunderstanding? You know those weepy
television dramas where the conflict is based on a lack of
communication? I know you do. We all know them, and while we may
remember giggling at Jack Tripper's antics or snuffling over the
Salinger family's tragic woes, when we sit down to watch them now
they just don't do it for us. We want to shake the characters and
scream at them to just talk to one another. We want to smack the
protagonist who says, "Trust me," instead of using ten words to
explain what needs to be done. And this is what [book:Dracula] is
from beginning to end. It is a string of misunderstandings,
miscommunications and a crazy old Dutchman telling everyone to
trust him rather than explaining what's going on.
I want to burn this book. But it's old and worn, and I imagine my
kids will get some joy from it in the years to come. I wish I'd
never read this again. I would rather have loved this blindly until
the day I died rather than know that it sucks and has always
sucked. I need some Bela Legosi to sandpaper my memories of this
novel. Going to rent it now.