from the archive
About a year ago, Cody Ko posted a video reading a redditor’s confession about secretly pretending to be a goblin in the privacy of their own home—and enjoying it. In their own words, acting like a goblin usually goes something like this: “Generally I’ll carry around a sack and creep around in a sort of crouch-walking position making goblin noises, then I’ll walk around my house and pick up various different ‘trinkets’ and put them in my bag while saying stuff like ‘I’ll be having that’ and laughing maniacally in my goblin voice (‘trinkets’ can include anything from shit I find on the ground to cutlery or other utensils).” Sure, pretending to be something you’re not has its own widely understood joys, but what has intrigued me about this confession is the specific attention to the figure of the goblin.
There’s nothing noble or refined about a goblin. They’re mischievous, grotesque, and strange. Yet, there’s been a recent rise in popular culture about goblins and what they represent for us, with the popularity of the phrase “goblin mode” coming to mind, in particular. When I search “goblin” in the Google Ngram Viewer, look how sharp of a rise occurs after an all-time low for goblins in the English language just before 2000. Perhaps by looking to past peaks in public goblin interest (around 1820-1850), we might understand our current fascination with these unkempt creatures.
The early 1800’s introduced goblins through new fairytale imaginings in fiction and poetry. Take, for example, the 1809 The Goblin Groom, a collection of fantastical poems. They’re also found throughout the writing of Sir Walter Scott and John Milton, typically as mischievous or magical side characters who are neither inherently good or bad, but instead, operate on another plane entirely by virtue of their weirdness.
But my favorite imagining of goblins comes from the poet Christina Rossetti, who published the inimitable poem “Goblin Market” in her collection Goblin Market and other Poems in 1862. Let’s read a bit of it together. But first, a quick background. The poem follows two sisters who are tempted to buy the fruit of goblin salesman at the eponymous goblin market. Instead of paying for the fruit with money, one sister pays with a lock of hair:
But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:
“Good folk, I have no coin;
To take were to purloin:
I have no copper in my purse,
I have no silver either,
And all my gold is on the furze
That shakes in windy weather
Above the rusty heather.”
“You have much gold upon your head,”
They answer’d all together:
“Buy from us with a golden curl.”
She clipp’d a precious golden lock,
She dropp’d a tear more rare than pearl,
Then suck’d their fruit globes fair or red:
Sweeter than honey from the rock,
Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
Clearer than water flow’d that juice;
She never tasted such before,
How should it cloy with length of use?
She suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore;
She suck’d until her lips were sore;
Then flung the emptied rinds away
But gather’d up one kernel stone,
And knew not was it night or day
As she turn’d home alone.
Spoiler alert: the poem ends with some incestuous vibes (ok maybe it’s stronger than that🫣) between the sisters—it’s an absolutely wild poem. But, besides the uncomfortable sibling relationship going on, at the core of it is an acknowledgement that goblins signify a letting down of cultural norms, of rules, of law, of any boundaries or structures that form the foundation of life. Arguably, goblins show how such structures are a facade, of sorts, because they can so easily crumble in the face of goblins or golbin-like forces, for better or for worse. And perhaps this is why, since the turn of the century, we have remained fixated on goblins—because they represent an escape from rules and regulations, because they symbolize a possible way of living beyond normality. Goblins are a celebration of the weird, the uncanny, the strange, and the uncomfortable. Or maybe we love them so much because, like Jack Donaghy, we come from a long line of goblins.
In the final line of the final stanza of J.R.R. Tolkein’s poem “Goblin Feet” (pictured above) he writes that the death of goblin dancing is a sorrow. I think I’d have to agree. Long live the greasy little goblins ☾
what i’m reading and watching this week
Elena Knows
I Who Have Never Known Men
Sometimes I Think About Dying
Killing Eve