“Frankenstein” -another look.

“Frankenstein” was written by the daughter of Uhr-feminist Mary Wollstonecraft (hold that thought). What was Wollstonecraft's main point in “In Vindication of the Rights of Woman” (1791) again? That women should be granted a proper education (which would render them more respectable in the eyes of men). Wollstonecraft died less than a month after giving birth to Mary Shelley (hold that thought as well). By the time the book came out, Mary Shelley was about 19 and had already lost a child at birth (she would have been 17 or something!!) and had become a mother.

So how does “Frankenstein”'s story proceed? Well, the first half of the book pretty much consists almost entirely of an unending demonstration of personal knowledge by its author as Shelley proceeds to show us that she has read up on biology, physics, history, poetry, literature, botanics, and their likes dead hard yeah. (Note to Mary: nobody likes a show-off.)

The actual bit about -y'know- creating a living creature, huh? takes about... one page, two at the most and -lo!- the monster takes his bow for the next fifth of the book, allowing Shelley to turn her attention back onto on her ill-at-ease in society education crazy student (gee, I wonder why...)

Two thirds into the book, Shelley then remembers that she was supposed to write a story and -lo!- the creature reappears to wreck havoc on his creator's family life. Said creator, when given a chance to show clemency towards his lonely creature, shoots himself in the foot big time and more tragic events ensue to conclude -or does it???- on the North Pole.

A few remarks.

The book is narrated, like many of its time, by an extra-diegetic character who recounts the story, as told to him, by letter (cf. “Wuthering Heights” or “Dr Jekyll 'n Mister Hyde” -kind of).

There is definitely something going on about not giving birth here: first of all the creature is not born out of a woman; then Victor's future bride is adopted into the Frankenstein family; the marriage is not consumed; the narrator is childless, and so on and so forth.

You would have to be as thick as Donald Tr*mp not to get the parallel between Walton (the narrator) and Victor Frankenstein -yawwwn. Not to mention the less than subtle references to “Moby Dick”or “Paradise Lost”.

All in all, I would argue that the book is brimming with barely disguised personal hang-ups (regarding education, family structure, the victimisation of women...). 

In short, another one worth reading for yourself: you will discover an entirely different text than the one you would imagine if you were to base your appreciation of it on its seriously sexed up cinematographic adaptations.