Frankenstein (Mary Shelley)

A $4 purchase at a used book store when I was looking for something, anything to peak my interest. Sometimes the interregnum betweeen books is like a wandering, searching of the soul. A desparate desire for the imagination to connect with the printed word. Being a classic, and being that I had never read it, I acquised to it's draw. It took me three days to finish.

I must honestly say I was surprised. I had heard the story that Mary Shelley, her husband, and Lord Byron all challenged one another one dreary evening to compose the scariest ghost story they could. Out of this contest was born Frankenstein, but not the one I had expected. The Adam's Family had effectively indoctrinated me to accept the pictures of the mad scientist in his lab trying to electrically charge the electrodes in the side of his square-headed monster's neck. Shelley's book is much more organic.

It grapples with the psychology more than the monster. She paints a picture of madness to be sure, but not the Hollywood type that shocks one's hair to stand sraight up. Her's is the kind that emaciates the health on an individual. Her Victor, which in reality is the only Victor Frankenstein, is a man the reader has a hard time embracing in spite of his horrible misfortunes. The reason...he is to blame for them all. A greater sympathy is felt toward his monster, unamed and shunned by it's creator and every other human. However, the atrocious acts committed by this creature leaves little room for pity. In short it is a tale that engages the reader while at the same time gving her nothing to hold onto. While the depravity of their natures are accesible, it is difficult to relate to the main characters in the depravity of their experiences. This story is more of a tragedy than a horror. In fairness, to the minds of 19th century readers as yet unpolluted and desensitzed by the screen, it was surely a masterpiece of psychological disturbance. It will even leave 21st century robots with plenty to think about.

One thought provoking scene is "the prayer." The creautre relates his existence to his maker, Frankenstein, at the end of which he requests a bride. Though repulsed by his invention, the doctor consents but later renegs setting the stage for the final act. Here Shelley dives to the depths of the human desire for accpetance and paints an existence where one's Creator is hostile toward him without regard to his appeals for love.

The book is written as a narrative and is extremely descriptive. All in all a great read, though not one I expect to return to in my lifetime. If you enjoy chasing the roots of cultural phenomena, this Bud's for you. If you want to keep believing in your halloween costume, stay far, far away.