Frankenstein

that was actually quite depressing but I enjoyed it

There something very special about Frankenstein I can't deny that, I really enjoy retailings and the overall plotline however no matter how much I try I still hate Victor Frankenstein with a burning passion. He is whiny, selfish and refuses to clean up the mess he created and that bugs me for no end. He did what he wanted, to create life, to make the monster from body parts and then he just pisses off and whines about it, and causes the poor monster to lash out. There is a book called Monster i Terapi by Mats Strandberg and Jenny Jägerfeld about poplar monster in literature that goes to terapy and I finely feelt closure. But I decided to try to read the original again to see if I could enjoy it more but nope

I have had a weird experience with this book. I was so absolutely sure I've read it multiple times and that I just didn't like it everything I pick it up. But I was confused when I saw I had only read it once back in 2019 and gave it two stars. I have to admit that the story of Frankenstein is one I think about a lot. Since Victor Frankenstein created the monster then rejected his own creation is one that have stuck with me.

On this reread (and only reread) I very much enjoyed the story so much more

Felt like I really could appreciate the story now and I loved the story.

***4.0***

A Gothic chilly read.....

Happy Reading!!

3.5 rounded down (because I can't ever make up my mind). Overall a fun read, especially before Halloween! The story dragged in places and moved a little too quickly through the scenes I was most interested in, but I enjoyed discovering Frankenstein's original story. The plot pulled me forward despite the details falling a little short.

I found this classic tedious to get through.

Te piensas que es una historia sobre un monstruo verde.

Pero es una historia sobre ansiedad, remordimiento, sobre el miedo a algo que es tan imparable como una tormenta. Es una historia muy psicologica.

Quien es el verdadero monstruo?

Learn from me, if not by my precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge, and how much happier that man is who believes his native town to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature will allow.

Without a doubt, one of the easiest 5-star ratings I’ve ever given.

Frankenstein has (almost) everything one could want in a novel: a riveting and fast-paced storyline, an interesting narrative structure, unique and evocative settings, eloquent prose, and timeless, thought-provoking themes.

Truly, the only thing I found lacking was a strong emotional connection to any of the characters, which is usually very important to me—but in this case, I felt like that slight distance actually enhanced the otherworldly, mythic quality of the story. (I was simultaneously reading CS Lewis’s excellent

An Experiment in Criticism and, in his chapter on myths, he argues that one of their key qualities is that “[h]uman sympathy is at a minimum. […] The story of Orpheus makes us sad; but we are sorry for all men rather than vividly sympathetic with him.” That resonates with my experience reading

Frankenstein.)

I went in with few expectations, but those that I did have were completely upended. (Perhaps I was subconsciously expecting something akin to

Dracula, when, in fact,

Frankenstein is far superior on every level.)

First, this is a

cold novel. The edition I have appropriately uses a photograph by Herber Ponting entitled “An Iceberg in Midsummer” as the cover image; in fact, the novel (which, by the way, is technically epistolary) begins and ends in the ice-covered Arctic, and scenes throughout the novel are set on snowy mountain sides, beneath the gaze of the white-capped Swiss Alps, or in other bitterly cold (and generally miserable) climes. There’s rain and fog and fantastic lightning storms, which only serve to heighten the tension. And those settings very much reflect the mood.

Second, sure, I suppose this is

technically science fiction, but it’s really to science fiction what magical realism is to fantasy. Frankenstein uses “science” to create his monster, but there is essentially no description of the process other than some allusions to the body parts he uses and his interest in electricity. And while perhaps some might argue that Shelley explores scientific progress as a theme, she seems much less interested in critiquing science itself and more interested in exploring the consequences of Victor’s use of it. She was certainly tapping into the public’s emerging fascination with the quickly developing sciences, but it seems that this was a means to an end.

Third, I was aware that the monster is given a voice and that the novel as a whole is heavy on theme, but I was pleasantly surprised by the extent to which this is true. Not only is the monster eloquent, but an entire volume (of three) is spent listening to him recount his story, which demands empathy and understanding. And the themes (along with the characters themselves) are incredibly nuanced: the story explores responsibility, knowledge, ambition, loneliness/companionship, secrecy, trust, belonging, identity, fate, human nature, and more. The subtitle (“

or, the modern Prometheus”) was a fairly clear inspiration to Shelley, but there are also many references to Adam and Eve: both lend fascinating undertones to the story’s larger-than-life quality. At the same time, Shelley paints a bleak, but not totally hopeless, portrait of human nature. It’s not heavy-handed, nor is it entirely clear what she’s trying to say. It is, in short, a modern myth.

And finally,

Frankenstein’s enduring legacy in the popular memory is of a horror story, so I probably should not have been surprised at how horrifying and terrifying it truly is. Ann Radcliffe, the eighteenth century author whose popular novels brought the gothic genre to prominence, wrote of the distinction between horror and terror: “Terror and Horror are so far opposite that the first expands the soul, and awakens the faculties to a high degree of life; the other contracts, freezes and nearly annihilates them .... And where lies the differentce between horror and terror, but in the uncertainty and obscurity that accompany the first, respecting the dreading evil?”

Frankenstein has both. There is a sense of tension and dread throughout (especially during an excruciating plot line in which

an innocent woman is imprisoned, wrongly convicted, and executed

), but the most horrifying scenes are both shocking and gruesome.

One last thing: I read and reviewed the 1818 text, but also read up to Chapter III of the 1831 revised version. I was shocked by the differences between the two, largely in terms of tone and writing style—my first (and perhaps incorrect) impression is that it feels very much like Shelley has “written up” the novel in her revisions, adding more flowery (dare I say purple?) language and being a bit heavy-handed with foreshadowing and themes. They seem like they should be discussed as two separate books. I will certainly be reading the 1831 version in its entirety to compare the two.

In short,

Frankenstein succeeds on every level: as entertainment, as prose, as a modern myth. It’s clear why this endures as a masterpiece of gothic fiction.

Some favorite passages:

You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings.

Natural philosophy is the genius that has regulated my fate;

I must not omit to record those events which led, by insensible steps to my after tale of misery: for when I would account to myself for the birth of that passion, which afterwards ruled my destiny, I find it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble and almost forgotten sources; but, swelling as it proceeded, it became the torrent which, in its course, has swept away all my hopes and joys.

My dreams were therefore undisturbed by reality; and I entered with the greatest diligence into the search of the philosopher’s stone and the elixir of life. But the latter obtained my most undivided attention: wealth was an inferior object; but what glory would attend the discovery, if I could banish disease from the human frame, and render man invulnerable to any but a violent death!

I remained, while the storm lasted, watching its progress with curiosity and delight. As I stood at the door, on a sudden I beheld a stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful oak, which stood about twenty yards from our house; and so soon as the dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared, and nothing remained but a blasted stump. When we visited it the next morning, we found the tree shattered in a singular manner. It was not splintered by the shock, but entirely reduced to thin ribbands of wood. I never beheld any thing so utterly destroyed.

“The ancient teachers of this science,” said he, “promised impossibilities, and performed nothing. The modern masters promise very little; they know that metals cannot be transmuted, and that the elixir of life is a chimera. But these philosophers, whose hands seem only made to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pour over the microscope or crucible, have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the recesses of nature, and shew how she works in her hiding places. They ascend into the heavens; they have discovered how the blood circulates, and the nature of the air we breathe. They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows.”

Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle of life proceed? It was a bold question, and one which has ever been considered as a mystery; yet with how many things are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted, if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our inquiries.

Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world. A new species would bless me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so completely as I should deserve their’s. Pursuing these reflections, I thought, that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless matter, I might in process of time (although I now found it impossible) renew life where death had apparently devoted the body to corruption.

and the moon gazed on my midnight labours, while, with unrelaxed and breathless eagerness, I pursued nature to her hiding places.

It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs. […] His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful!—Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion, and straight black lips.

A flash of lightning illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me; its gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect, more hideous than belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the filthy daemon to whom I had given life.

Immense glaciers approached the road; we heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avelânche, and marked the smoke of its passage. Mont Blanc, the supreme and magnificent Mont Blanc, raised itself from the surrounding aiguilles, and its tremendous dome overlooked the valley.

For some time I sat upon the rock that overlooks the sea of ice. A mist covered both that and the surrounding mountains. Presently a breeze dissipated the cloud, and I descended upon the glacier. The surface is very uneven, rising like the waves of a troubled sea, descending low, and interspersed by rifts that sink deep.

“I expected this reception,” said the daemon. “All men hate the wretched; how then must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all living things! Yet you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature, to whom thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by the annihilation of one of us. You purpose to kill me. How dare you sport thus with life?

Oh, Frankenstein, be not equitable to every other, and trample upon me alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy clemency and affection, is most due. Remember, that I am thy creature: I ought to be thy Adam; but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed. Every where I see bliss, from which I alone am irrevocably excluded. I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous.”

“Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind, when it has once seized on it, like a lichen on the rock.

Like Adam, I was created apparently united by no link to any other being in existence; but his state was far different from mine in every other respect. He had come forth from the hands of God a perfect creature, happy and prosperous, guarded by the especial care of his Creator; he was allowed to converse with, and acquire knowledge from beings of a superior nature: but I was wretched, helpless, and alone. Many times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem of my condition; for often, like him, when I viewed the bliss of my protectors, the bitter gall of envy rose within me.

‘Hateful day when I received life!’ I exclaimed in agony. ‘Cursed creator! Why did you form a monster so hideous that even you turned from me in disgust? God in pity made man beautiful and alluring, after his own image; but my form is a filthy type of your’s, more horrid from its very resemblance. Satan had his companions, fellow-devils, to admire and encourage him; but I am solitary and detested.’

I remembered Adam’s supplication to his Creator; but where was mine? he had abandoned me, and, in the bitterness of my heart, I cursed him.

But I am a blasted tree; the bolt has entered my soul; and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit, what I shall soon cease to be—a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity, pitiable to others, and abhorrent to myself.

but the apple was already eaten, and the angel’s arm bared to drive me from all hope.

And now my wanderings began, which are to cease but with life. I have traversed a vast portion of the earth, and have endured all the hardships which travellers, in deserts and barbarous countries, are wont to meet.

Seek happiness in tranquillity, and avoid ambition, even if it be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in science and discoveries.

He sprung from the cabin-window, as he said this, upon the ice-raft which lay close to the vessel. He was soon borne away by the waves, and lost in darkness and distance.

a classic. the birth of modern science fiction

It was stated in the afterword to my edition of this novel that

Frankenstein is one of those novels that everyone has heard about but few have read. And there is probably some truth in that statement, especially considering all the misconceptions that circulate around Frankenstein and the monster he created. The more I wanted to read this book, although I was not convinced that it would be a thing for me and I would like it.

That's why I was surprised how much I liked this book. It surprised me in many ways. First, it surprised me how many difficult themes were touched upon in this book and how complicated and ambiguous portrait was presented in it. This is a really complex story. A kind monster gradually learns from people not only basic social skills, but also hatred and cruelty.

On the one hand, the monster becomes the nemesis of Frankenstein, but on the other hand, he carries out his plans. Frankenstein becomes his companion on a journey through the world. Even if he doesn't do it of his own free will and out of sympathy for the monster, he follows the monster until his death. The creature constantly encourages him to do so and helps him, for example by providing food. In many ways, it is primarily a story about loneliness and the search for companionship at all costs.

This is also the story of Frankenstein's depression that has been portrayed quite well in this book. This is one of the things that surprised me. Much space in the book is devoted to the different stages of Frankenstein's struggle with depression and the different phases of his illness.

It is interesting that the author decided to make the focus point of her horror novel two unhappy, lonely creatures - Frankenstein and the monster he created. And while I don't think this story is a classic horror story, I think the tragedy of these two heroes, forever linked through the act of creation, is very interesting and can be the beginning of a many great and important discussions. In my opinion, this book has stood the test of time quite well, many topics remain relevant. And it was still pretty good entertainment.