The 19th Century bequeathed us four immediately recognizable, vibrant & enduring fictional icons: Shelley's Frankenstein; Stoker's Dracula; Melville's Moby Dick (& Ahab); and Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes. Each of them has, I fear, suffered a horrible fate: they are so familiar to us, in their many modern incarnations & imitations, that too few people return to the original texts. This may be particularly true of Frankenstein, whose portrayals have been so frivolous and distorted. In fact, in addition to being written in luxuriant gothic prose, the original novel is one of the most profound meditations on Man and his purpose and relation to God that has exists in our literature.
Victor Frankenstein is a young man of Geneva who is fascinated by the sciences and the secrets of life and death:
My temper was sometimes violent, and my passions vehement; but by some law in my temperature they were turned not towards childish pursuits but to an eager desire to learn, and not to learn all things indiscriminately. I confess that neither the structure of languages, nor the code of governments, nor the politics of various states possessed attractions for me. It was the secrets of heaven and earth that I desired to learn; and whether it was the outward substance of things or the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of man that occupied me, still my inquiries were directed to the metaphysical, or in its highest sense, the physical secrets of the world.
While at University in Ingolstadt, his life course is set when he hears a professor lecture on modern chemistry:
'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 pore over the microscope or crucible, have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the recesses of nature and show 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 heavens, mimic the earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows.'
Such were the professor's words--rather let me say such were the words of the fate--enounced to destroy me.
Victor goes on to discover, through the study of chemistry, the secret of bringing dead flesh to life. Inevitably he tests his discovery and of viewing his creation cries:
How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavored to form? 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.
And so, repelled by the mere appearance, the inevitable imperfection, of his work, Frankenstein rejects the creature utterly. However, unlike the mute stupid monster of the movies, Shelley's monster is articulate and sensitive and longs for companionship, but all of humankind reacts to him with horror. And so he demands that Frankenstein build him a mate. When Frankenstein refuses to provide him with a companion, the creature resolves to destroy those who Frankenstein loves.
Finally, Frankenstein determines that he must destroy the creature and pursues him into the frozen wastes of the North.
It all makes for a rousing adventure, but there is much more here. Frankenstein, through his work, has attempted to become a god, but his creation is a horrible disappointment & so, is banished from him. Meanwhile, his flawed creation, filled with ineffable longing and confusion, wanders in exile seeking the meaning of his existence. And what is the impulse that he settles upon, but another act of creation; a mate must be created for him. The Biblical parallels are obvious, but they work on us subtly as we read the novel. In the end, the uncontrollable urge to create, to imitate God, stands revealed as Man's driving force. And the inevitable disappointment of the creator in his creation, is revealed as the serpent in the garden.
If you've never read this book, read it now. If you've read it before, read it again.
GRADE: A+
