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.