Modern Library Classics, $23.00, ISBN 978-0-375-75916-6
Horror, 2002 (Reissue)
If you’ve ever wondered where 1970s nunsploitation cinema got its scandalous start, look no further than The Monk: A Romance by Matthew Gregory Lewis.
While the term “nunsploitation” didn’t hit its stride until polyester habits and grainy B-movie reels became a thing, The Monk: A Romance laid down the framework: lurid, taboo-breaking depictions of religious hypocrisy, sexual repression, and the spectacular corruption of spiritual figures. Think of it as the 18th century’s saucy blueprint for cinematic sin, only with more powdered wigs and Gothic arches.
The man behind the madness, Matthew Gregory Lewis, was the original wild child of English literature. Allegedly scribbling this whole mess of a masterpiece in just a week before turning 20 (because why not?), Lewis immediately catapulted himself into infamy. His reputation as “Monk” Lewis stuck with him for life. Although he later regretted his youthful exuberance, even editing out some of the saucier bits in later editions, alas, his half-hearted repentance didn’t erase the public’s enduring appetite for his tale of monks behaving badly.
The Monk: A Romance boasts two parallel narratives. The first is a wholesome love story between Raymond and Agnes, or as wholesome as you can get with cruel nuns, public lynching, and literal torture lurking in the wings. The second story, the real star of the show, charts the meteoric moral collapse of Ambrosio, the titular monk. Starting as a devout paragon of virtue, Ambrosio takes a hard left turn into depravity. By “hard left turn”, we mean seducing nuns, dabbling in a bit of rape and incest, and signing a very problematic timeshare contract with Satan.
And yet, Ambrosio is no lone sinner—he has Matilda, his personal devil in disguise, egging him on every step of the way. Between them, they turn piety into a dark comedy of errors, complete with blood oaths and dungeon antics. Meanwhile, Raymond and Agnes serve as a counterpoint—slightly less salacious but still knee-deep in Gothic misfortune, proving that no one escapes The Monk: A Romance unscathed, innocent or otherwise.
By modern standards, this novel might read as a bit quaint, but in its day, it was a full-blown “Oh my!” sensation. This wasn’t just your garden-variety Gothic melodrama—this was everything and the kitchen sink: premarital sex (with nuns!), rape, incest, cavorting with witches, and a grand Satanic finale that probably made the Devil himself blush. Add in the context of a religious backdrop, and it’s no wonder people in 1796 were scandalized enough to fan themselves into fits.
Critics called it an “outrage to decency”, with Lewis even being accused of undermining morality itself. In short, The Monk: A Romance was the ultimate naughty indulgence—a guilty pleasure that left you half-shocked, half-delighted, and fully entertained.
Yet, despite its reputation as a scandalous romp, it isn’t just salacious—it’s surprisingly well-crafted. The evocative descriptions, brisk pacing, and memorable characters elevate it beyond mere sensationalism. Ambrosio is a gloriously depraved antihero, and Matilda’s turn as the ultimate femme fatale is chilling and deliciously over-the-top. For something allegedly dashed off in a week, the novel’s structure is impressively robust.
And like all great naughty tales, Matthew Gregory Lewis ties it up with a neat little moral: don’t be naughty like these people, or you’ll suffer a fate worse than death. Cue the finger-wagging, but let’s not kid ourselves—the cautionary ending is there purely to assuage readers’ guilt after 300 pages of sinful glee.
Sure, the shock value of The Monk: A Romance has dulled with time. Modern readers might find its reputation as the ultimate literary scandal a little quaint. Still, it’s a hoot to read, if only to remind ourselves that people have always loved a good lurid tale wrapped in a veneer of “morality”. Whether you’re here for the proto-nunsploitation vibes, the Gothic drama, or the sheer audacity of it all, this novel is proof that enjoying a bit of naughtiness is a timeless human tradition.
Grab your rosary beads (you’ll need them), and dive in—it’s wicked fun.
