I’m not a huge reader of the classics, but I’m working at stretching myself in that direction. Given some recommendations online (yes, I catch the fringe of Booktok sometimes) and the approach of Halloween, Frankenstein seemed like a good idea.
It’s hard to be in our western culture and not have some preconceived notions of what this book is about. I mean, the monster with the bolts on his neck is so ubiquitous, it almost feels redundant right? Except when you get into the material itself so many of my ideas about what’s foundational to the story just plain weren’t there.
Lumbering monster indiscriminately wrecking havoc? Nope. The monster in this book is thoughtful, well-spoken, and his crimes carefully targeted. (He is hideous, though, far gorier from what I can gather than our modern depiction).
Okay, then, the mad scientist shouting “It’s alive!” as lightning crashes? Strike two. Although you can see the outlines of our stereotypical mad scientist in Victor Frankenstein as Mary Shelley crafted him, we spend surprisingly little time with him in his lab, and if anything his madness is more of the depressed emo “woe is me” sort of madness than anything.
At least there’s the angry villagers with the pitchforks, right? Nah. We get a recounted scene from the monster (remember, he’s perhaps the most eloquent character in the book) of them driving him away throwing rocks. Nary a torch or pitchfork to be seen.
In the end, the book contained far more about remorse and loneliness – both from the doctor and from his creation – than anything else. It has many of the hallmarks of 19th century writing that honestly aren’t my favorite – a slow start with letters between what end up being secondary framing characters, a lot of travelogues that don’t build much of the place in my mind, long rambling soliloquies from tormented characters. But I’m glad I read it, I can see why it has made some of the cultural mark it has, but it was fascinating to see the gap between today’s perception of what this book is and the text itself.