Limnophilia: Lakeside Tales of Monsters and Poets and a Little Blue Mind Theory

 

Frankenstein's Monster (Boris Karloff) plays with Little Maria (Marilyn Harris) 

Irish poet and playwright Síomón Solomon at Quilca Lake (Co. Cavan) 

I.
 

Quilca Lake is a body of freshwater located on the outskirts of Mullagh, a small town in County Cavan, Ireland. The Anglo-Irish author Jonathan Swift once stayed nearby at the home of his actor pal Thomas Sheridan, where he wrote parts of Gulliver's Travels (1726). 

 

I know this not because I have ever been to Ireland - or particularly want to go to Ireland - but because my friend, the poet and playwright Síomón Solomon, lives about eight miles down the road in the historical town of Kells, County Meath, and he recently sent me a photograph of himself standing on the edge of the lake. 

 

I like the photo: not because I care very much for lakes - as a non-swimming thalassophobe [1] I do my best to stay away from deep expanses of water - but because it reminds me of a scene in one of my favourite films - Frankenstein (dir. James Whale, 1931), about which I'll say more shortly. 

 

First, however, I'd like to say something about the psychological pull exerted by lakes and other bodies of water for people who, like my friend, identify as limnophiles [2].       

 

 

II.    

 

Popularised by marine biologist Wallace J. Nichols, the concept of blue mind theory describes how aquatic environments positively alter brain chemistry and reduce stress. 

 

In other words, research seems to indicate that if you sit by a lake, for example, and quietly reflect upon the water, the brain enters a calm and mildly meditative state and the body releases lots of feel-good hormones.

 

This might not be the case with the sea, however, as oceans can feel vast, loud, and overwhelming (sometimes triggering anxiety). A lake feels much more reassuring and offers sensory softness; the gentle lapping of small ripples on the shore provides rhythmic auditory input that calms, unlike the crashing of waves.

 

Whether we need a marine biologist whose work mostly involves the study of turtles to tell us this, I'm not sure. Anyone who has ever been fishing at their local pond or river has probably come to the conclusion that bodies of water not only provide soft fascination but improve mental wellbeing.

 

In addition, there may be an evolutionary reason for this: early humans who settled near fresh water had a much higher chance of survival, so our preference for such might not just be because being near, in, on, or under water can make us happier.  

  

 

III.

 

Leaving the world of popular psychology behind, let us return now to Frankenstein and the controversial scene by the lake involving the Creature and Little Maria - an iconic (if tragic) encounter ... [3]

 

Those who recall the scene will admire the way in which director James Whale uses the lakeside setting to create a false sense of pastoral innocence before the horror unfolds. The Creature and Maria - who is strangely unafraid of her new monstrous friend - play a gentle game of tossing flowers into the water and watching them float, much to the delight of both.

 

Unfortunately, when the Creature runs out of flowers, he picks up the child and throws her into the lake, in the expectation that she will float too. Only she doesn't. And neither does she swim to safety. She sinks like a stone beneath the surface of the water and drowns, leaving a confused and visibly distressed monster to depart the scene. 

 

 

IV. 

   

Within the fictional universe of the movie, the lake in which Maria drowns is supposed to be located close to a village in the Bavarian Alps. Actually, it was filmed at Malibou Lake, located in the Santa Monica Mountains in California.

 

Interestingly, the young actress playing seven-year-old Maria, Marilyn Harris, was in part selected for the role because she was a strong swimmer for her age.

 

Unsurprisingly, the footage of Maria being thrown into the water was deemed too shocking by censorship boards in 1931 and the scene was cut in most theatre prints of the film. It was not fully restored until the 1980s.

 

The strange thing is, when I look at the black-and-white photo of Síomón Solomon by Quilca Lake, I can't help thinking of the scene in Frankenstein with Little Maria in all its horror and cinematic beauty (though this is not to suggest for one moment that he has drowned a child in the waters, or even tossed daisies on the surface). 

  

 

Simonstein and Little Maria by the Lake 

(SA/2026)

 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Thalassophobia - from the Ancient Greek θάλασσα [thálassa] 'sea' and φόβος [phóbos] 'fear' - is an intense fear of deep bodies of water, including lakes. Though related, thalassophobia should not be confused with aquaphobia, which is classified as the fear of water itself in its essential wetness and of drowning. 

 

[2] A person who loves lakes is called a limnophile and their deep affinity for lakes, ponds, and/or other freshwater bodies is known as limnophilia. Etymologically, we again go back to the Greeks for these terms - limnē (λίμνη) is Greek for lake. 

      It might be noted that whilst limnophilia implies a strong emotional attachment to (or fondness for) bodies of standing water, any erotic component seems to be lacking; those who get their kicks from sexual activity in or under water are termed aquaphiles within the kink community.  

 

[3] This scene from Frankenstein (1931) can be watched on YouTube: click here. 

 

 

On the Monstrous Creation of the Fourth Simon: A Short Story Written in the Manner of Mary Shelley

Simonstein (SA/2026)

 

It was an unholy and tempestuous winter's night when I, Victor Frankenstein, completed my most singular transgression against the natural order ...

      For months, I had been gathering the disparate remains of three men named Simon [1] in order to create a singular, supreme intellect whom I would name Solomon [2]. 

    The torso and lungs I took from Simon Armitage, ensuring the Creature would breathe with pleasing rhythm and its heart beat with the metrical precision of a poet. To this, I grafted the hyper-attuned nerves of Simon Reynolds, that Solomon might perceive the vibrations of the modern world with the vital energy of a thousand subcultures. Finally, I encased these within the shining skull of Simon Critchley, layering the grey matter of the philosopher over the soul of the poet, providing the capacity for tragic pessimism and existential depth. 

      By the glimmer of a nearly extinguished candle, I applied the spark of life; a bolt of blue lightning captured from the screaming heavens. The composite frame shuddered and the eyes - squinting, yet filled with a terrible, multifaceted intelligence - threw open and Solomon spoke: 'Those who know not evil, know not of anything good.'

      I recoiled in horror. I had sought to create the ultimate post-Romantic intelligence, but I had instead birthed a chimera of restless critique and malevolent verse. 

      Solomon rose from the copper-plated operating table, his movements jerky like those of a monstrous marionette. He did not seek my blessing; only a pen with which to write. As he departed across the fog-choked moorlands, I realised I had not merely animated a corpse - I had unleashed a critic from whom no aspect of cultural life was safe. 

      Locals say that on certain nights, one can hear a voice on the wind, deconstructing the aesthetics of the Abyss in perfect, terrifying meter. 

   

Notes

 

[1] Simon Armitage is the current UK Poet Laureate, known for his accessible verse often rooted in everday life; Simon Critchley is the British-born Hans Jonas Professor of Philosophy at the New School for Social Research (New York); Simon Reynolds is a music critic known for his chronicling of glam, post-punk, rave, and pop culture's endless recycling of its own history. 

      For my post on the Three Simons, click here.     

 

[2] Síomón Solomon - of whom this is an affectionate fictional portrayal - is a Dublin-based writer and independent scholar who, arguably, embodies elements of the above figures, whilst giving his own unique post-Romantic take on things informed by the schizopoetics of Hölderlin. 

      His 2021 publication, Hölderlin's Poltergeists: A Drama for Voices, was a translation and ingenius remix of an audio drama by Stephan Hermlin which has been much discussed on Torpedo the Ark; as has his disturbing debut play, The Atonement of Lesley Ann (2020), a theatrical ghost-cum-love story based on actual events. 

      Whilst he may lack the public profile of the Three Simons and his work may not have the same broad appeal, for me, he is very much their peer and not just a contemporary who happens to share the same prénom.    

      For posts written on (or inspired by) Síomón Solomon's Hölderlin's Poltergeists, click here. And for posts written on The Atonement of Lesley Ann, click here.