Frankenstein, Essay Example

Letters

The most striking quality of the four letters beginning Frankenstein is the unfortunate one of exposition. The device is, in a sense, necessary. Moreover, Mary Shelley is very much crafting her novel in a way fully accepted by the era, when a good deal of license seems to have been made for artificial constructions. For example, Emily Bronte follows a similar pattern in Wuthering Heights, introducing Lockwood as a kind of go-between, who translates the experience to come for the reader. At the same time, there is an inescapable sense of deliberate narration disguised as casual letter-writing. It is unlikely that even in the 18^th century, for instance, a brother would need to writes his sister so biographically: “My education was neglected, yet I was passionately fond of reading” (Shelly vii). This device, however, may be excused, if only because the reader accepts it for what it is.

Almost as forceful in these letters is the spirit of the age, and particularly that of the upper-class English who were passionate about discovery. Robert Walton seems to perceive himself as a man of science, as he has specific objectives in mind, but this is linked to his sense of himself as an adventurer. As the men of the time were truly uncovering realities of geography, there was an excitement to the process they embraced: “I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of my undertaking” (xv). It seems in these letters that the thrill of scientific discovery is synonymous with feelings of destiny, and fulfilling the “greatness” of mankind. To modern eyes, this is a strange, if admirable, approach to investigation.

Chapters 1 – 5

Entering the real story of Frankenstein is entering another world, and by no means only because a “monster” is encountered along the way. These are lives occupying a sphere long since gone, in which elegance and class are fused with determinations to be elevated in spirit and mind. Frankenstein makes it clear at the outset that his family is distinguished, but more revealing is that the father has one guiding force in regard to his children: they must go into the world and carry on his own traditions of dignity, and contribute in an exemplary way. In this world, a man is known by the nobility of character he possesses, and it is evident that Victor esteems his father’s focus on duty: “He relinquished many of his public employments, and devoted himself to the education of his children” (6). In every line, the message is clear: man must aspire to elevate himself always, in character and in mind.

Linked to this is how critical it was that children, and particularly boys, devote themselves to study. In these early chapters, Frankenstein conveys another remarkable aspect of his world; not only was education paramount, but he rejoiced in it as a boy. By his late teens, Frankenstein is fluent in English, German, and Latin, and knows some Greek (16). He describes reading intense works as being enjoyable, as he expresses his shifting and growing interests in other studies. In all of this, and remarkably to a modern sensibility, he is delighted: “No youth could have passed more happily than mine” (9). There is, then, the sense that even a boy is raised to feel deep gratification from intellectual pursuits, which translates to knowledge being loved for itself.

Victor’s father is the cornerstone of the boy’s being, it seems, and something far beyond a “father” in a modern sense. Class certainly has something to do with this; this is a family of means, and the men are obligated to cultivate their minds and their interests. This father’s relationship to his son, however, is not only extremely formal, it is that of a real mentor. It seems that, in the era and in this class, the chief responsibility of the father was to mold the son in a way befitting a true, educated gentleman. Consequently, the boy’s eagerness over Agrippa does not please the father as evidence of intellectual passion; rather, it upsets him as an expression of poor taste (12). Again, then, learning is reinforced as the highest pursuit.

At the age of thirteen, the hero’s life changes when the discovery of Agrippa fills him with a burning need to learn more: “A new light seemed to dawn upon my mind” (11). “I ardently desired the acquisition of knowledge” (22). What is interesting here is how the boy also views the natural sciences differently. These took on an almost pornographic association for him because they were removed from established study, and were revolutionary ideas, also dismissed by his father. In this age and in this young man, natural science was supernatural: “The wonderful effects of steam….excited my astonishment” (14). It seems the boy was early ready to view science as a key to unlocking the great mysteries of life.

This trajectory, based on passion and a relentless intellectual curiosity, develops into mania in Frankenstein. This is presented in a dual way, as his fever to uncover life’s mysteries is always expressed as nothing more than a need to learn. Nonetheless, and if Frankenstein is any example, so high a degree of fascination leads to dangerous obsession. He describes his long nights in graveyards: “I saw how the worm inherited the wonders of the eye and brain” (32). The scientific interest, merged with the passion, seems to be overtaken by it. Reinforcing the mania is the narrator’s own refusal to admit to it: “Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman” (33). This burning thirst to know, however, blurs the line.

Chapters 6-10

It seems that the death of William brings to Frankenstein the momentous impact of what he has done, in creating life. This aspect is heavily foreshadowed, and rendered both mystical and Biblical. William was an innocent angel struck down, and this reality renders the creature’s actual existence a real and terrifying thing beyond Frankenstein’s wildest plan. Before this, his worlds were neatly arranged and his scientific experimentation was completely removed from his family base; now the result has not only taken on a “life of its own”, it is ripping apart Frankenstein’s life: “He was the murderer! I could not doubt it” (77). It takes the violent death of his own brother to make Frankenstein comprehend the enormity of what he has done.

The trial of Justine reveals an important element running throughout all of the novel; namely, that even man’s most extreme actions are nothing compared to the ultimate judgment of God. As the protracted story of the trial goes on, this serves as a metaphor for Victor’s own actions. Justine is, of course, innocent of William’s death, yet she confesses in order to achieve an absolution she knows is a lie. This is the weight of faith under which all, Frankenstein included, exist, and Justine’s tragedy allows Elizabeth to indirectly comment on Victor’s work: “This, I fear, is an evil too deep and poignant to admit of consolation” (96). No matter how he responds, it is understood that Frankenstein will face a final authority.

It is not the literal need to serve the community that drives Frankenstein on in his pursuit of his creation. Instead, it is simply the basics of his earliest training asserting themselves. He wants to grieve and retreat into himself, as he debates what course he should take. His father’s advice is pragmatic: “Excessive sorrow prevents…even the discharge of daily usefulness, with which no man is fit for society” (101). It saddens Frankenstein, but it also triggers in him the essence of his character, trained to redress wrongs and help the outside world. As grotesque as the circumstances are, there is still no other road he can take.

It is in the lengthy exchanges between Frankenstein and the creature that an array of conflicts explodes. Victor’s feelings are plain: “My abhorrence of this fiend cannot be conceived” (104).

Still, there is a sense that this is generated by something other than William’s murder. More exactly, and almost in a parental way, Frankenstein is truly horrified because, as the creator, he essentially destroyed his brother. The creature, nearly in Freudian ways, turns this ambiguity against him: “You purpose to kill me. How dare you sport thus with life?” (115). The question is staggering because the creature is plainly letting Frankenstein know that he himself truly is the responsible agent in the crimes of the “demon”, much as a parent is responsible for what a child does.

Ultimately, however, it is difficult to assess the depth of Frankenstein’s responsibility simply because he and his creation are very much one. This is the extended and most powerful element of the story, in that the revenge Frankenstein so desperately seeks cannot be achieved. In a sense, it may be argued, no revenge can ever be satisfactory because, as with Frankenstein, we are always in some way complicit in the crime that enrages us. Frankenstein knows this, and the frustration is immense: “You have left me no power to consider whether I am just to you or not” (118). The creature has left him no power because he is the result of the willing exercise of that power, as we all, to some extent, are agents in every action concerning us. In the case of Frankenstein, this inherent duality of action and reaction is simply taken to it greatest extreme.

Works Cited

Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein: or, The Modern Prometheus. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2000. Print.