Frankenstein

 

"...we are unfashioned creatures, but half made up, if one wiser, better, dearer than ourselves--such a friend ought to be--do not lend his aid to perfectionate our weak and faulty natures" (16).

Monsters. Ghosts. Aliens. Witches. Dragons.

What goes thump in your night?

Nothing haunts quite like a Victorian ghost story. There is a sophistication and subliminal quality inherent in the British horror genre. Dracula, Mr. Hyde, the Invisible Man...and, of course, Frankenstein. The American monsters are brash, bold, and seemingly indiscriminate in their destruction: chainsaw-wielding cretons and swamp-dwelling clowns rampage through the streets and wreak havoc on the unsuspecting residents of Small Town, USA. Even a girl dripping with the blood of an innocent pig quite literally upends an entire community with her wrath. But across the pond, British writers have been the ruling class in Gothic literature. Their specters are born of universal internal conflict, fears that one can feel but not quite see in their entirety, the true "bumps in the night" that reveal themselves to be none other than actualized versions of the demons terrorizing society. From where do these stoic beasts originate, if not in the minds and hearts of the people themselves? Don't worry, they seem to say. Your worst nightmares are true.

Mary Shelley is probably one of the most mercurial and fascinating writers of her time. Her life was a constant reflection of the darkly ironic and twisted sensibilities of the genre in which she has conjured nearly immortal fame. Losing her virginity on her mother's grave? Check. Murder rumors surrounding the death of her lover's wife? Check. Carrying around your dead husband's calcified heart? Check. She stated that her inspiration for Frankenstein was a lucid dream in which she saw a maddened scientist kneeling by a re-animated corpse.

Right. Check and check.

But really, who else could have written such an enduring myth? Only a teenage girl, albeit one with incredible talent and intelligence, could have dreamt up a story about a crazed and self-righteous chemist becoming involved in the re-assembling of the deceased for the purpose of alchemical experiments. Only Shelley could have herself constructed a book that artfully cobbles together critiques of scientific abuses, male ego, unfounded prejudice, and revenge, all while essentially pioneering the idea of crossing horror with science fiction, an as yet unplumbed genre. Frankenstein unearths the monster within, and perhaps the most terrifying fact it teaches is that one cannot separate oneself from that internal fiend.

1. "Those were the last moments of my life during which I enjoyed the feeling of happiness" (177).

The drama. Victor Frankenstein is sort of like Jack Black's character in the re-imagined Jumanji--a teenage girl trapped in the body of a grown man. He is moody and obsessive, isolates himself from family and friends for long periods of time, romanticizes the fictional, blames others for the problems of his own creation...and we love him for it. The wonderful thing about the novel is that it creates a world in which his surroundings match the dramatizations of his soul. Every event happens exactly how it must in order to create a sense of mourning over the tragic destruction of nearly perfect beauty. Victor succeeds in re-animating a corpse which longs only to please its creator, but their relationship is forever destroyed by Victor's fear, selfishness, and warped savior complex. Each character, man and beast, loses his beloved at the unmerciful hand of the other. The monster lingers in the shadows of a stormy night, lures Victor to blustery mountaintops for a keen warning, and then escapes into the Tundra on a dogsled, of all things. Frankenstein captures the imagination by embodying the dramatic underpinnings that have enabled the longevity of gothic horror.

2. "Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have proved yourself unworthy of my condescension. Remember that I have power; you believe yourself miserable, but I can make you so wretched that the light of day will be hateful to you. You are my creator, but I am your master--obey!" (153).

Subverted expectation and social commentary. One cannot have a conversation about Frankenstein without discussing the innate critiques of society present in the writing. The true monster is, of course, Victor Frankenstein himself, not the creature who has (ironically) taken his name in modern day. Victor feverishly constructs his own worst nightmare and then proceeds to deny it of any human rights: food, shelter, clothing, and community. The brilliance of these British horror novels is that the physical manifestation of fear is, while fairly terrifying in its own right, only a front for the real villain. Greed, lust for power, abuse of authority, selfishness, pride, unfettered conquest, you name it. This quality makes it impossible for readers to lie peacefully in bed at night, comforting themselves with the thought that "it was all made up." Is the true monster something on the inside, something all around, something subversive, something impossible to destroy with a physical weapon of war? Are we doomed to forever fight that which is part of humanity? In that case, we might wish for an animal more easily slain. Haunting, isn't it?

3. "These wonderful narrations inspired me with strange feelings. Was man, indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous, and magnificent, yet so vicious and base? He appeared at one time a mere scion of the evil principle, and at another as all that can be conceived as noble and godlike" (107).

Literary quality. For me, Frankenstein walks the line between containing gorgeous, marginally archaic language and still being reasonably readable. There are classics that I like, but I would not read again. They are certainly worth the trouble the first time around, but I can't exactly sink into the stories and lose myself in them. Frankenstein is a re-reader. It's one to which I return, because the experience is not tainted by having to trip over lengthy prose and indiscernible syntax.

I am a step away from adding this novel to my British Literature course. Read it for yourself and unironically enjoy one of the classics. 

The Bell Jar

 

"I wondered why I couldn't go the whole way doing what I should any more. This made me sad and tired. Then I wondered why I couldn't go the whole way doing what I shouldn't...and this made me even sadder and more tired" (18).

Having read much of Sylvia Plath's poetry, this year felt like the right moment to finally interact with her one and only novel, The Bell Jar. There is a part of me that wishes I had read it as a teenager, or at the very least in my early 20s, in order to compare my current thoughts to the response I might have had as a younger woman. When a book infiltrates one's dreams, its impact is evident. The few nights that I read a few chapters before bed and the taste of them lingered in feverish nightmares. I was relieved when I finally reached the end. It is difficult to slog through the inner workings of an emotional breakdown and navigate the twisted thoughts of a person caught in the throes of mental illness. Few authors have undertaken such a risky and unnerving task, and Plath's tragic legacy only add to the solemnity that descended upon me during my journey through the book.

There is some literature that can be liked or disliked, others that can only be accepted and respected for what they are, in spite of our emotional responses to them. I believe this text to be one of the second category. Can anyone truly like interacting with the brokenness of internal struggle and sickness? Perhaps we see ourselves in the characters, or maybe others with whom we have interacted. A lucky few may have had little to no contact with any psychological disorders, and these readers could entirely miss the accuracy in Plath's presentation of disordered thinking. Whatever our response to her work, no one can debate that she knew quite intimately the subject matter on which she chose to write. Such skill came at the highest cost, and her honesty haunts each new generation of readers.

1. "They hung the raw, red screen of their tiny vessels in front of my face like a wound" (82).

Literary artistry. Plath has mastered that form of figurative language that I consider as walking the line between inevitability and surprise. The descriptions cut to the truth of human experience--they feel so true that it almost shocks the reader into contemplating why they hadn't thought of it that before. Simultaneously, the comparisons are fresh. They don't remind one of any other text. Artists are always influenced by other artists, but Plath manages to bury her influences so deeply that each passage shines with the crystal clarity of originality. I think at once, Ah, of course, that is the feeling! and, Well, I have never thought of that before.

2. "...babies doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious world" (153).

Accurate portrayal of mental illness...positives. The accuracy in Esther's decent into madness and depression, and her struggle to dig out of the darkness and back to a functioning life, is unmistakable. Especially for a woman of the mid-twentieth century--wherein women who displayed excessive emotion in any direction would be considered unstable and hysterical--recording the experience of mental and emotional disintegration is important. Many who have had similar struggles may feel seen and understood, and those who have not may take time to understand that which is outside of their realm of experience.

3. "I felt myself melting into the shadows like the negative of a person I'd never seen before in my life" (6).

Accurate portrayal of mental illness...negatives. The problem with delving into a broken mind is that madness can be catching. I have already mentioned that this book was not an easy read for me, as the nightmarish cast of Esther's plunge into self-flagellation and harm began to manipulate my own way of thinking. A consistent aspect of mental illness is the selfishness that encapsulates the person who is suffocated by their own internal contortion. The internal becomes all-encompassing, even as external forces are blamed as the causal factors for one's agony. Esther views her life as a failure, but she ultimately believes herself to be a victim of the choices that others have made. Her boss, her friends, her parents, her lovers, her counselors and doctors...they have all compromised her in some way, forced her into the shape of a monster that will ultimately destroy every good aspect of her life. While this characteristic may be important to identify, it is imperative that a person does not dwell on such duplicitous thinking for long. We are all prone to selfishness and faulty introspection anyway, and such constant reminders cannot be healthy.

Tread with care if you choose to undertake this read. It is an important work but may not be appropriate for every mind.

And Then There Were None

"It is perfectly clear. Mr. Owen is one of us..." (150).

This novel is the first Agatha Christie that I read. It also happens to be one of her most famous works, adapted time and again into movies, plays, and other mysteries that owe their existence to Christie's influences. What makes the simple recipe of her cliffhangers so addictive? As she wrote, she had not even deciphered the enigmas for herself. Her process was one of writing without thought for how the book would end--she let the mystery run away with itself, as it were. Christie is quoted as saying that she would often change her decision on who the murderer was in the midst of drafting her stories. The simple, stock characters, all with something seemingly sinister to hide, sever the idea of absolution from the ending. Everyone is guilty! The question becomes, who is guilty of this crime? Murders are being committed in increasingly mind-boggling ways, and there is a psychological underpinning that invokes a certain terror as the reader contemplates the meaning of true culpability. However frustrating the process may sound to me, her recipe for a satisfying mystery seems to be working...

I read an article a few months ago about some tourists visiting her home and becoming stranded there during a storm that blocked the only road to her isolated residence. How they felt about being stuck, miles from any civilization, was not recorded in the report--but I couldn't help thinking, This is exactly what she would have wanted. The really interesting aspect of such a real-life occurrence is the simultaneous oddity and predictability of it all. Of course, one of the most famous mystery novel writers of all time would live in a foreboding mansion on the other side of a harrowing, single road. But an unsuspecting group of mystery novel fans being told they are victims of a sudden storm and will be inhabiting this home for an unforeseeable number of hours? A plot twist of astronomically ironic proportions.

1. "Outside the rain poured down and the wind howled in great shuddering gusts against the windowpanes" (167).

The foreshadowing. Agatha Christie's pacing is impeccable. Her revelations of each murder and subsequent descriptions of the guests descending into madness alongside each other extend just long enough to drive the reader to his or her own form of insanity. She manages to reveal the next clue at exactly the right moment, either before or after the reader (or the characters) expect it. I finished this book in two days; the chapters are neither too long nor too short. Christie has defined the perfect framework for a satisfying riddle. 

2. "Mr. Justice Wargrave was sitting in his high-backed chair at the end of the room. Two candles burned on either side of him. But what shocked and startled the onlookers was the fact that he sat there robed in scarlet with a judge's wig upon his head" (222).

The theatricality. There is something to be said about the camp and hyperbole of the mystery genre. The best mysteries are the ones that embrace such drama and use it to their advantage. Imaginations are captured by the enduring commotion of the inscrutable, the strange, and the quizzically outlandish. Christie's descriptions provoke an image: she triggers emotion through the atmosphere of the scene. The balance between subtlety and sensation is where a successful mystery lies.

3. "...writing my confession, enclosing it in a bottle, sealing the latter, and casting it into the waves" (285).

A mystery too subtle? One possible critique is the extremely detailed back story given to explain the motivation for such seemingly passionate bloodlust. It is possible that a serial killer, à la Dexter, kills for psychotic reasoning that is a combination between commonly accepted morals and the need for personal vindication in some form. And Then There Were None is not the story of such a murderer. The architect of this nightmarish scenario may turn out to inhabit that realm, but the book itself does not endeavor to explore such a conscience. Christie focuses on the reactions of the victims as they try to decipher a scheme that is not rooted in common sense. The ending may feel unsatisfying when many of the clues to the identity of the enemy are unknowable outside of the context of his or her personal background.

The Screwtape Letters

 

"...you must keep him praying to it--to the thing that he has made, not to the Person who has made him" (25).

C.S. Lewis is a name that echoes continually through the labyrinthine annals that constitute the 20th century literary canon. He was a man who wrote for children, for adults, for Christians, and for those less inclined to trust in an omnipotent spiritual figure. The Screwtape Letters perhaps straddles the gaps amongst all of these groups, as it whimsically presents the sinister intentions of two demons plotting for the destruction of an average chap navigating war-torn Britain. The demons function both literally (as Satan's fallen counterparts of ancient times) and figuratively (toying with the emotions, thoughts, and desires of a man's most hidden psychological landscape). The intrepid letters are either cynical satire or a hopeful fight against the subversive manipulative powers that inhabit the domain beyond what we can see. Whatever a reader's response to the novel, its creative conception is undoubtedly the work of a writer deeply in touch with his own personal failings, and to a greater extent, the troubles and temptations that plague each of us. The reader approaches the text hoping to easily point the finger of condemnation at others, but instead, he or she finds the inner workings of their own soul--the personal foul play that human beings are ever attempting to veil and forget. 

1. "...fix his attention inward that he no longer looks beyond himself to see our Enemy or his own neighbors" (35).

Humbling reality. My mother-in-law recently read TSL, and she was horrified by it. Her response could possibly have something to do with reading the text in a language to which she is not native, but I tend to think that perhaps her sensitivity to the spiritual matters may be of a greater influence. Sometimes I catch myself nodding along to the profane wanderings of a demon's mind; the mind finds familiar ground when not actively guarding itself against the book's meditations on the theories of practical temptation. The content itself is rather benign, lacking the sensational elements of great evil, terrifying gore, or even easily identifiable hypocrisy. When "the Patient's" mother is passing undue judgement, it is easy to decide that she is the villain and can reasonably be treated with disdain. But isn't that the point that Lewis is attempting to prove? The work of the devil is to corrupt us, not necessarily to outrageous crimes of passion, but in the less obvious, everyday missteps.

I am much more concerned with a lack of horror when it comes to the personal commentary that I refuse to see. I suffer through many days entrenched in my own victimhood, hypnotized by the perceived cruelties and inconveniences that plague my interactions with those around me. But in reality? I am the one who grits my teeth at the sour taste in my mouth created by my subtle animosity for those around me. The architecture of my mind has convinced me that others have created the problems that, truthfully, can only come from within.

2. "He must have some real reason for creating them and taking so much trouble about them" (112).

The contrast. Hope is found in the truth that pours through the mind like fresh streams of cool water. One of my personal copies of TSL is inscribed with every Scripture that jumped out to me from between the lines of Satanic manipulation. As Jesus in the desert proposed verse after verse to combat the lies of the devil, so have I used this same weapon in my fight against the temptations that strike me where it hurts the most. Satan is clever, and my corruptible humanity is susceptible to the mere suggestion of selfishness. But at the end of the book, when "the Patient" transcends the reach of his demon's grasp, I see the goal of all this striving: freedom from the world's cloying grasp and eternity in the presence of the Savior.

3. "This animal, this thing begotten in a bed, could look on Him. What is blinding, suffocating fire t you, is now cool light to him, is clarity itself, and wears the form of a Man" (186-87).

Heavenly hope. I would be remiss if I did not quote this portion of text. Reading the intellectually challenging moral war of TSL can be just as exhausting as actually living it. However, encountering a description of heaven's arms opening wide to receive the weary Christian is even more poignant when considered from the viewpoint of he who can never again approach that celestial gateway. All of TSL is striking in its literal portrayal of the "devil's advocate," but considering this final triumph from the perspective of a demon's ultimate defeat feeds some desire of the soul. There is a sense of justice fulfilled, safety and serenity absolutely achieved, and humble meditation on the rescue from a flaming plummet into unrestrained damnation.

4. "There are two equal and opposite errors...One is to disbelieve in their existence. The other is to believe, and to feel an excessive and unhealthy interest in them" (xlvii).

Preoccupation. C.S. Lewis says it here, right at the beginning of his text, that such preoccupation with the unknowable evils of the spiritual realm can only result in spiritual sickness. Not acknowledging it at all, however, will result in a similarly negative repercussion. The author himself stated that he would not be writing a sequel to the book, as his time inhabiting the hypothetical mind of a demon had left him bereft in a strange weakness of body and spirit. There is no way, at least on this side of heaven, to know how close these imaginative letters come to the reality of what we face each day on earth. If the after-effects of reading TSL are any indication, I would say that he was supernaturally inspired to write that which is needed for us to soberly self-evaluate our willing participation in our own allurement from the path of righteous living. I agree that after spending annual time in this book, I am glad to leave it behind until the next year. The work of self-evaluation through the lens of other-worldly influences is good, but there is a reason why we are solidly grounded in the physical world.