Frankenstein, Mary Shelley

Frankenstein is one of those classic literary works that I can deeply respect and appreciate, yet cannot bring myself to love. Thematically, Mary Shelley’s novel is brilliant. The application of the Prometheus myth (in which the god Prometheus gives fire to man, thereby defying natural law and the delineation between the mortal and the divine) is fascinating, and it seems every generation finds its own application for it, whether it be the atomic bomb or artificial intelligence. All of these more contemporary applications are pushing on the door that Mary Shelley opened with the story of Dr. Victor Frankenstein, a scientist who assumes the divine power of creation itself, to disastrous ends.

Frankenstein works best as a novel when Shelley is riffing on the dichotomy between God and man, and the essence of human nature. But the actual plot is a bit dull and quite a mess. Other than Frankenstein and the Monster, the characters in this book are useless and their backstories were often boring, meandering, and ultimately pointless (particularly Elizabeth and Safie). The constant globetrotting (particularly by the Monster) was also puzzling and is just one of the many unexplained plot conveniences that raised more questions than answers. How did the Monster get to Scotland? Don’t know. How does the Monster really have such a sophisticated grasp of language? Don’t know. How did Frankenstein create the Monster, or hope to create his female counterpart in a run down shed in the Scottish wilderness? Don’t know. I completely understand that some mysteries are left unsolved and unexplained, particularly in horror, but there comes a point where I struggle to maintain suspension of disbelief.

“If I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear.” This is the most iconic line from Frankenstein. Yet, much to my disappointment, this book inspired neither in me. The horror is minimal, and unlike other classic horror novels such as Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, Shelley leaves almost nothing up to the reader’s imagination. The monster is so over-exposed, rational, and childish that there’s no reason to be scared of it, other than the narrator constantly telling us that we should be.

This review is probably more negative than my overall reaction to this book. I tore through it, so there is no denying that Frankenstein is incredibly readable, and I think Shelley is excellent at creating atmosphere and empathy for the two main characters. However, I just kept hoping my high expectations of this classic would be met, and Frankenstein just never quite got there.