Book Review: Frankenstein

 

© 1818 by Mary Shelley

 

I originally read Frankenstein as a sophomore in high school, nearly forty years ago (!).I think it was the first book I read in the bath tub. Don’t know why that sticks out in my head, but it does. There is a more important theme when I think of that first read, however. Two, actually. First, a probable fact that every high school student realizes fifty or sixty pages in: the monster * in the source material, Mary Shelley’s wonderful novel, is NOT Boris Karloff. Not the big lumbering lug with the flat top head.

No, the creature – never given a name by Dr. Victor Frankenstein in the book – is remarkably intelligent and articulate. It even observes a family in the woods and learns to read, putting away a trio of works that would defeat any millennial college graduate: Paradise Lost, Plutarch’s Lives, and The Sorrows of Werther. I found the revelation that the monster is an autodidact extremely intriguing.

The other is the creature’s complete soulless antagonistic campaign of vengeance against the young, egotistical doctor. The creature is the first emo monster (and perhaps that’s a product of the time it was written, more later on that). Because Victor, as the “Creator,” as the “Father,” immediately disowns his creation, the monster turns against him. Couple that with the fact that Victor refuses to create a mate for this abomination, said abomination eventually murders several of the doctor’s extended family over the course of two or three years. The two track each other cat-and-mouse style all the way to the North Pole, where the novel begins and the story is told in flashback.

Now, don’t get me wrong. There are some deep themes here. Pardon my snarkiness (“emo”), but the book does give plenty of material to reflect upon. The immediate thought that came to me during this reread half a lifetime later is: What if God, the Creator, disowned us, man, the creature? Now, I realize that God would not – could not – be God if He took such a stance, but what if we were created by a lesser god? Could such a thing be possible? If it was, what would mankind do as a race? What would each of us do as individuals?

(I don’t know about you, but I don’t think such an existential crisis would rise to such a passionate detour towards the all-out embracing of evil. I’m more of a “living well is the best revenge,” so perhaps I’d read the rest of the Great Books of Western Civilization that the monster failed to do, and live my life accordingly. Or at least I’d like to think so. But it’s a thought experiment, and we all think more highly of ourselves in our thoughts than we are in reality.)

Rather than delve into the book “high school essay-style,” here’s a few random ideas that floated through my brain as I read the novel:

- It was a fast read. Much faster than I remembered way back when. The novel clocks in at 284 pages, and I was able to polish it off in a week without neglecting my other obligations. I recall it being somewhat of a drudge back in the early ’80s.

- SPOILERS! As far as the ending goes, I did not recall exactly what happened. I did not remember Victor dying aboard the ice-bound ship in the Arctic, nor the monster stooping over the corpse after stealing onto the vessel, nor his fleeing into the snowy wastes. I always thought the two fell into the water, hands on each other’s necks, and sunk down into the deeps.

- But that was how the movie ends! I think. No, not the classic 1930s Boris Karloff film. The remakes in the 90s, the ones more faithful to the original source material. I remember one on TV and one theatrical release (with DeNiro, I believe, as the monster), both in the mid ’90s. I seem to recall enjoying the TV version better, and I think that’s how that version ended – with the two antagonists sinking into the depths in a perpetual embrace of hatred and vengeance.

- This observation struck me: everyone, especially the men, are so histrionic! No stoic Man-with-no-name Clint Eastwoods in Mary Shelley’s Europe of the 1810s. Men weeping in their best friend’s arms over their best friend’s deaths. Men exclaiming vows at the drop of a hat, calling down the battalions from heaven to right perceived wrongs. No manly control of emotions. I suppose that’s why it’s called the Romantic Age.

Well, in my reserved, taciturn way I enjoyed the re-read, probably better than the first time through. I perhaps expected a little more in terms of philosophic debate, but what is served up is some quite interesting food for thought.

Grade: B+

 

* = Please, please, please, don’t make the rookie mistake of calling the monster “Frankenstein.” It is never named in the novel. Frankenstein is the man who creates the monster, Dr. Victor Frankenstein.