Frankenstein

By Mary Shelley and David Mann

He's big, bad, and ugly, and he really wants a wifeFrankenstein's monster is on the rampage: terrorizing the locals, unleashing murderous hell . . . and reading novels in his spare time. Can his petrified creator stop this reign of horror before his girlfriend gets the chop?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pulp The Classics
• Release date: Apr 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781843443865

Mary Shelley

Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin was born in 1797, the daughter of two of the leading radical writers of the age. Her mother died just days after her birth and she was educated at home by her father and encouraged in literary pursuits. She eloped with and subsequently married the Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, but their life together was full of hardship. The couple were ruined by disapproving parents and Mary lost three of her four children. Although its subject matter was extremely dark, her first novel Frankenstein (1818) was an instant sensation. Subsequent works such as Mathilda (1819), Valperga (1823) and The Last Man (1826) were less successful but are now finally receiving the critical acclaim that they deserve.

Book preview

Prometheus

INTRODUCTION

The Publishers of the Standard Novels, in selecting Frankenstein for one of their series, expressed a wish that I should furnish them with some account of the origin of the story. I am the more willing to comply because I shall thus give a general answer to the question, so very frequently asked me – ‘How I, when a young girl, came to think of, and to dilate upon, so very hideous an idea?’ It is true that I am very averse to bringing myself forward in print; but as my account will only appear as an appendage to a former production, and as it will be confined to such topics as have connection with my authorship alone, I can scarcely accuse myself of a personal intrusion.

It is not singular that, as the daughter of two persons of distinguished literary celebrity, I should very early in life have thought of writing. As a child I scribbled; and my favourite pastime, during the hours given me for recreation, was to ‘write stories’. Still I had a dearer pleasure than this, which was the formation of castles in the air – the indulging in waking dreams – the following up trains of thought, which had for their subject the formation of a succession of imaginary incidents. My dreams were at once more fantastic and agreeable than my writings. In the latter I was a close imitator – rather doing as others had done, than putting down the suggestions of my own mind. What I wrote was intended at least for one other eye – my childhood’s companion and friend; but my dreams were all my own; I accounted for them to nobody; they were my refuge when annoyed – my dearest pleasure when free.

I lived principally in the country as a girl, and passed a considerable time in Scotland. I made occasional visits to the more picturesque parts; but my habitual residence was on the blank and dreary northern shores of the Tay, near Dundee. Blank and dreary on retrospection I call them; they were not so to me then. They were the eyrie of freedom, and the pleasant region where unheeded I could commune with the creatures of my fancy. I wrote then – but in a most commonplace style. It was beneath the trees of the grounds belonging to our house, or on the bleak sides of the woodless mountains near, that my true compositions, the airy flights of my imagination, were born and fostered. I did not make myself the heroine of my tales. Life appeared to me too commonplace an affair as regarded myself. I could not figure to myself that romantic woes or wonderful events would ever be my lot; but I was not confined to my own identity, and I could people the hours with creations far more interesting to me at that age, than my own sensations.

After this my life became busier, and reality stood in place of fiction. My husband, however, was, from the first, very anxious that I should prove myself worthy of my parentage, and enrol myself on the page of fame. He was for ever inciting me to obtain literary reputation, which even on my own part I cared for then, though since I have become infinitely indifferent to it. At this time he desired that I should write, not so much with the idea that I could produce anything worthy of notice, but that he might himself judge how far I possessed the promise of better things hereafter. Still I did nothing. Travelling, and the cares of a family, occupied my time; and study, in the way of reading, or improving my ideas in communication with his far more cultivated mind, was all of literary employment that engaged my attention.

In the summer of 1816, we visited Switzerland, and became the neighbours of Lord Byron. At first we spent our pleasant hours on the lake, or wandering on its shores; and Lord Byron, who was writing the third canto of Childe Harold, was the only one among us who put his thoughts upon paper. These, as he brought them successively to us, clothed in all the light and harmony of poetry, seemed to stamp as divine the glories of heaven and earth, whose influences we partook with him.

But it proved a wet, ungenial summer, and incessant rain often confined us for days to the house. Some volumes of ghost stories, translated from the German into French, fell into our hands. There was the history of the inconstant lover, who, when he thought to clasp the bride to whom he had pledged his vows, found himself in the arms of the pale ghost of her whom he had deserted. There was the tale of the sinful founder of his race, whose miserable doom it was to bestow the kiss of death on all the younger sons of his fated house, just when they reached the age of promise. His gigantic, shadowy form, clothed like the ghost in Hamlet, in complete armour, but with the beaver up, was seen at midnight, by the moon’s fitful beams, to advance slowly along the gloomy avenue. The shape was lost beneath the shadow of the castle walls; but soon a gate swung back, a step was heard, the door of the chamber opened, and he advanced to the couch of the blooming youths, cradled in healthy sleep. Eternal sorrow sat upon his face as he bent down and kissed the forehead of the boys, who from that hour withered like flowers snapt upon the stalk. I have not seen these stories since then; but their incidents are as fresh in my mind as if I had read them yesterday.

‘We will each write a ghost story,’ said Lord Byron; and his proposition was acceded to. There were four of us. The noble author began a tale, a fragment of which he printed at the end of his poem of Mazeppa. Shelley, more apt to embody ideas and sentiments in the radiance of brilliant imagery, and in the music of the most melodious verse that adorns our language, than to invent the machinery of a story, commenced one founded on the experiences of his early life. Poor Polidori had some terrible idea about a skull-headed lady, who was so punished for peeping through a keyhole – what to see I forget – something very shocking and wrong of course; but when she was reduced to a worse condition than the renowned Tom of Coventry, he did not know what to do with her, and was obliged to despatch her to the tomb of the Capulets, the only place for which she was fitted. The illustrious poets also, annoyed by the platitude of prose, speedily relinquished their uncongenial task.

I busied myself to think of a story – a story to rival those which had excited us to this task. One which would speak to the mysterious fears of our nature, and awaken thrilling horror – one to make the reader dread to look round, to curdle the blood, and quicken the beatings of the heart. If I did not accomplish these things, my ghost story would be unworthy of its name. I thought and pondered – vainly. I felt that blank incapability of invention which is the greatest misery of authorship, when dull Nothing replies to our anxious invocations. Have you thought of a story? I was asked each morning, and each morning I was forced to reply with a mortifying negative.

Everything must have a beginning, to speak in Sanchean phrase; and that beginning must be linked to something that went before. The Hindus give the world an elephant to support it, but they make the elephant stand upon a tortoise. Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of void, but out of chaos; the materials must, in the first place, be afforded: it can give form to dark, shapeless substances, but cannot bring into being the substance itself. In all matters of discovery and invention, even of those that appertain to the imagination, we are continually reminded of the story of Columbus and his egg. Invention consists in the capacity of seizing on the capabilities of a subject, and in the power of moulding and fashioning ideas suggested to it.

Many and long were the conversations between Lord Byron and Shelley, to which I was a devout but nearly silent listener. During one of these, various philosophical doctrines were discussed, and among others the nature of the principle of life, and whether there was any probability of its ever being discovered and communicated. They talked of the experiments of Dr Darwin (I speak not of what the Doctor really did, or said that he did, but, as more to my purpose, of what was then spoken of as having been done by him), who preserved a piece of vermicelli in a glass case, till by some extraordinary means it began to move with voluntary motion. Not thus, after all, would life be given. Perhaps a corpse would be re-animated; galvanism had given token of such things: perhaps the component parts of a creature might be manufactured, brought together, and endued with vital warmth.

Night waned upon this talk, and even the witching hour had gone by, before we retired to rest. When I placed my head on my pillow, I did not sleep, nor could I be said to think. My imagination, unbidden, possessed and guided me, gifting the successive images that arose in my mind with a vividness far beyond the usual bounds of reverie. I saw – with shut eyes, but acute mental vision – I saw the pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together. I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out, and then, on the working of some powerful engine, show signs of life, and stir with an uneasy, half vital motion. Frightful must it be; for supremely frightful would be the effect of any human endeavour to mock the stupendous mechanism of the Creator of the world. His success would terrify the artist; he would rush away from his odious handiwork, horror-stricken. He would hope that, left to itself, the slight spark of life which he had communicated would fade; that this thing, which had received such imperfect animation, would subside into dead matter; and he might sleep in the belief that the silence of the grave would quench for ever the transient existence of the hideous corpse which he had looked upon as the cradle of life. He sleeps; but he is awakened; he opens his eyes; behold the horrid thing stands at his bedside, opening his curtains, and looking on him with yellow, watery, but speculative eyes.

I opened mine in terror. The idea so possessed my mind that a thrill of fear ran through me, and I wished to exchange the ghastly image of my fancy for the realities around. I see them still; the very room, the dark parquet, the closed shutters, with the moonlight struggling through, and the sense I had that the glassy lake and white high Alps were beyond. I could not so easily get rid of my hideous phantom; still it haunted me. I must try to think of something else. I recurred to my ghost story – my tiresome unlucky ghost story! O! If I could only contrive one which would frighten my reader as I myself had been frightened that night!

Swift as light and as cheering was the idea that broke in upon me. ‘I have found it! What terrified me will terrify others; and I need only describe the spectre which had haunted my midnight pillow.’ On the morrow I announced that I had thought of a story. I began that day with the words, It was on a dreary night of November, making only a transcript of the grim terrors of my waking dream.

At first I thought but of a few pages – of a short tale; but Shelley urged me to develop the idea at greater length. I certainly did not owe the suggestion of one incident, nor scarcely of one train of feeling, to my husband, and yet but for his incitement, it would never have taken the form in which it was presented to the world. From this declaration I must except the preface. As far as I can recollect, it was entirely written by him.

And now, once again, I bid my hideous progeny go forth and prosper. I have an affection for it, for it was the offspring of happy days, when death and grief were but words, which found no true echo in my heart. Its several pages speak of many a walk, many a drive, and many a conversation, when I was not alone; and my companion was one who, in this world, I shall never see more. But this is for myself; my readers have nothing to do with these associations.

I will add but one word as to the alterations I have made. They are principally those of style. I have changed no portion of the story, nor introduced any new ideas or circumstances. I have mended the language where it was so bald as to interfere with the interest of the narrative; and these changes occur almost exclusively in the beginning of the first volume. Throughout they are entirely confined to such parts as are mere adjuncts to the story, leaving the core and substance of it untouched.

MWS

London, October 15, 1831

PREFACE

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

The event on which this fiction is founded has been supposed, by Dr Darwin, and some of the physiological writers of Germany, as not of impossible occurrence. I shall not be supposed as according the remotest degree of serious faith to such an imagination; yet, in assuming it as the basis of a work of fancy, I have not considered myself as merely weaving a series of supernatural terrors. The event on which the interest of the story depends is exempt from the disadvantages of a mere tale of spectres or enchantment. It was recommended by the novelty of the situations which it develops; and, however impossible as a physical fact, affords a point of view to the imagination for the delineating of human passions more comprehensive and commanding than any which the ordinary relations of existing events can yield.

I have thus endeavoured to preserve the truth of the elementary principles of human nature, while I have not scrupled to innovate upon their combinations. The Iliad, the tragic poetry of Greece – Shakespeare, in the Tempest, and Midsummer Night’s Dream – and most especially Milton, in Paradise Lost, conform to this rule; and the most humble novelist, who seeks to confer or receive amusement from his labours, may, without presumption, apply to prose fiction a licence, or rather a rule, from the adoption of which so many exquisite combinations of human feeling have resulted in the highest specimens of poetry.

The circumstance on which my story rests was suggested in casual conversation. It was commenced partly as a source of amusement, and partly as an expedient for exercising any untried resources of mind. Other motives were mingled with these, as the work proceeded. I am by no means indifferent to the manner in which whatever moral tendencies exist in the sentiments or characters it contains shall affect the reader; yet my chief concern in this respect has been limited to the avoiding the enervating effects of the novels of the present day, and to the exhibition of the amiableness of domestic affection, and the excellence of universal virtue. The opinions which naturally spring from the character and situation of the hero are by no means to be conceived as existing always in my own conviction; nor is any inference justly to be drawn from the following pages as prejudicing any philosophical doctrine of whatever kind.

It is a subject also of additional interest to the author that this story was begun in the majestic region where the scene is principally laid, and in society which cannot cease to be regretted. I passed the summer of 1816 in the environs of Geneva. The season was cold and rainy, and in the evenings we crowded around a blazing wood fire, and occasionally amused ourselves with some German stories of ghosts, which happened to fall into our hands. These tales excited in us a playful desire of imitation. Two other friends (a tale from the pen of one of whom would be far more acceptable to the public than anything I can ever hope to produce) and myself agreed to write each a story, founded on some supernatural occurrence.

The weather, however, suddenly became serene; and my two friends left me on a journey among the Alps, and lost, in the magnificent scenes which they present, all memory of their ghostly visions. The following tale is the only one which has been completed.

PBS

Marlow, September, 1817

FRANKENSTEIN

or

The Modern Prometheus

Did I request thee, from my clay

To mould Me man? Did I solicit thee

From darkness to promote me?

Paradise Lost, X 743-5

LETTER I

To Mrs Saville, England

St Petersburgh, Dec 11th, 17—

You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday; and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare, and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking.

I am already far north of London; and as I walk in the streets of Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which braces my nerves, and fills me with delight. Do you understand this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes. Inspirited by this wind of promise, my day dreams become more fervent and vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of frost and desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight. There, Margaret, the sun is for ever visible; its broad disk just skirting the horizon, and diffusing a perpetual splendour. There – for with your leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigators – there snow and frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe. Its productions and features may be without example, as the phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes. What may not be expected in a country of eternal light? I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle; and may regulate a thousand celestial observations, that require only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man. These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death, and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native river. But, supposing all these conjectures to be false, you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all mankind to the last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole to those countries, to reach which at present so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine.

These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my letter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven; for nothing contributes so much to tranquillise the mind as a steady purpose – a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. This expedition has been the favourite dream of my early years. I have read with ardour the accounts of the various voyages which have been made in the prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the seas which surround the pole. You may remember that a history of all the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the whole of our good uncle Thomas’s library. My education was neglected, yet I was passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my study day and night, and my familiarity with them increased that regret which I had felt, as a child, on learning that my father’s dying injunction had forbidden my uncle to allow me to embark in a seafaring life.

These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets whose effusions entranced my soul, and lifted it to heaven. I also became a poet, and for one year lived in a Paradise of my own creation; I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the temple where the names of Homer and Shakespeare are consecrated. You are well acquainted with my failure, and how heavily I bore the disappointment. But just at that time I inherited the fortune of my cousin, and my thoughts were turned into the channel of their earlier bent.

Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking. I can, even now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself to this great enterprise. I commenced by inuring my body to hardship. I accompanied the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea; I voluntarily endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep; I often worked harder than the common sailors during the day, and devoted my nights to the study of mathematics, the theory of medicine, and those branches of physical science from which a naval adventurer might derive the greatest practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself as an under-mate in a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I must own I felt a little proud when my captain offered me the second dignity in the vessel, and entreated me to remain with the greatest earnestness; so valuable did he consider my services.

And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish some great purpose? My life might have been passed in ease and luxury; but I preferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed in my path. Oh, that some encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative! My courage and my resolution is firm; but my hopes fluctuate, and my spirits are often depressed. I am about to proceed on a long and difficult voyage, the emergencies of which will demand all my fortitude: I am required not only to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my own, when theirs are failing.

This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia. They fly quickly over the snow in their sledges; the motion is pleasant, and, in my opinion, far more agreeable than that of an English stagecoach. The cold is not excessive, if you are wrapped in furs – a dress which I have already adopted; for there is a great difference between walking the deck and remaining seated motionless for hours, when no exercise prevents the blood from actually freezing in your veins. I have no ambition to lose my life on the post road between St Petersburgh and Archangel.

I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight

Reviews for Frankenstein

[moniquesnyman-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A classic isn't a called a classic because it's a run-of-the-mill type of book. It's a groundbreaking novel/movie/song that inspires people and stays with you forever, and it's likely that it won't be topped in one, two or sometimes three generations. A classic is a classic because it's unique, and Mary Shelley's Frankenstein is definitely a classic. The prose is beautiful, the story is gripping and the book itself is absolutely breathtaking. As far as horror is concerned, this is one of those must-have classics that you can revisit every couple of years.

But we all know the story about Frankenstein and the monster he creates out of body parts. We all know who Igor is and what happens in the end, I mean, if you haven't read the book then you've probably watched one of the movies, right? So, instead of going on and on about the plot we all know about, I'm going to talk about the beautiful book. Seriously, this is one super pretty book. It's in Penguin Books' horror series, recently brought out for horror fans that includes five other fantastic titles (American Supernatural Tales was one of them). This is one pretty edition for one creepy tale ... in other words, you'll freaking love it if you have a thing for horror books. Also, I'm pretty sure it'll be a collectors edition in the not-so-distant future.

If that doesn't appeal to you, and you need a little something extra, rest assured that I can sweeten the pot for those folks on the edge. Guillermo Del Toro is the series' editor and there's a nice little introduction by him. Yes, he's not all movies all the time, sometimes this horror director makes time for books too!

So, yes it's pretty, yes it's a great edition and yes, the editing is great. As far as I'm concerned you can donate your other editions of Frankenstein to the less fortunate, because this one just looks so much better on a bookshelf.

[aseikonia · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is the second or third time I've read this and it's just as marvelous as before. A tale within a tale within a tale by a literary mastermind at the height of her genius.

[cindywho-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This is another one I'd just never gotten around to reading. The story is far from what popular culture has made of it (I confess I was most familiar with the Young Frankenstein version) The monster is much more vocal and interesting. Victor is kind of a weenie and it's all a bit overwrought. I listened to the audiobook from the classic tales podcast and the narrator was pretty good, obviously enjoying all the "begone!s" and "wretchs"

[dalepeters_1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Disappointing, especially for such a highly regarded "classic". 5% action, 95% describing how everyone *feels* about what just happened.

[reading_fox · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Seminal fantasy work, one of the early defining books of fantasy genre. Shame it isn't more readable though I suspect that's just my more modern tastes.

[ladycalamity · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Amazing book. It's so much more than I thought it would be. Very interesting!

[kellyholmes-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A chilling tale! I read this in high school, which was a while ago, but even thinking about it now gives me the creeps.

[maddi-815887 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

It's a wonderful, intense and superbly written novel.Don't be afraid to read it even if you don't like the genre.

[maryh10000 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Considered by many to be the first science fiction novel.

[ladypembroke · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I have thought, but this being a classic piece of literature, I'm not going to write them down for posterity. That never served me well in lit classes, and I don't foresee it going well on the internet.

[mdabril · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Frankenstein is one of my all-time favorite books, but it's important to understand why people like my enjoy it. If you haven't read the book, it may not be what you think.I love Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. To be clear, she is not the best author ever. Some aspects of her writing are a little juvenile and at times ever downright boring. Even though she herself was a woman, her female characters tend to be somewhat shallow and idealistic. Nevertheless, Shelley has a unique and gifted mind that is almost even prophetic in character. Her novel "The Last Man," for example, is one of the first to imagine the extinction of the human race, which is now a real possibility and an important area of thought. Similarly, Frankenstein is not altogether novel, since it builds heavily on earlier Romantic language, concepts, and images especially from Goethe and Mary's husband Percy Shelley. Nevertheless, she outdoes them by imagining in a prophetic way what the technological creation of new life could mean for the human person.With this in mind, let's be clear that Frankenstein is NOT a scary book, NOT about some dim-witted or pathetic monster, and NOT a source of cheap chills and thrills. It is first and foremost about the scientist who creates the monster. He does so out of a genius that unites both modern science and premodern thinking. Specifically how he makes the monster is beside the point; Shelley is secretive on this matter so that we do not get lost. It is not evident, for example, that he makes it from corpses; he uses corpses for study, but he seems to fashion the monster directly.The principle point of the book, therefore, is the emotion of Frankenstein as he comes to terms with his own creation. That which he fashioned to be beautiful, wonderful, superior to humanity turns out in fact to be hideous, ugly, and terrifying. The monster is superior to his maker in intelligence and power but not morality, and this forces Frankenstein to face his own unworthiness as a creator.Thus while Frankenstein the book is born out of Romantic ideas about the genius, the excellence of humanity, and the transcendence of the Promethean man--the one who dares to challenge the gods by taking upon himself the act of creation--it also profoundly serves as a counterpoint to the same Romantic spirit. This new Prometheus turns out to be a mere, weak man, who cannot quite come to terms with what he has created. Thus like her book "The Last Man," Shelley poses a vital question: Is humanity really still the gem of creation, or will the transcending force of nature ultimately leave us behind in the dust from whence we came?Frankenstein is thus a book that every reader of English should engage at some time. It would help, however, to have some familiarity with Romanticism (see an encyclopedia) and to spend some time reading some poems by other Romantic writers such as Percy Shelley. A brief look into Mary Wollstonecraft's Shelley biography might help as well, since I would argue that she is deeply shaped by the continual tragedies of her life, including the loss of her mother at an early age and a complex relationship with her father.

[deusxmachina-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I love this book so much more than any of the movie adaptations I've ever seen (actually, for anyone seeking horror and thrill in a story, this may be a huge disappointment), but in comparison to other novels of that genre and time period it's far from being flawless.I love the ideas in this story - the idea that one has to take responsibility for their creations, the idea that a being can be as gentle and good as a lamb, it will inevitably become a monster if it experiences nothing but rejection, the idea that just because something is scientifically possible doesn't mean that it should be done. Despite all the Romantic dressing up in this novel that makes it very clearly a product of its age, these premises are still modern and relevant.My gripe is with the characters. I'm aware that this is probably the 21st century reader in me, but - gods almighty, that Victor is a pathetic, self-absorbed piece of selfpity, full of "woe is me", much more fixated on his own emotions and tragic history than on the danger he has released carelessly on the world and without much reflection about his own role in this disaster. All his relationships seem shallow and superficial, and the only woman with a meaningful role in the story gets classically fridged to give him the final push.One day I'll have to read an adaptation from the wretch's point of view. His actions, reactions and justifications seem so much more interesting than Victor's.

[jalenv_2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

My sympathies are with the monster. Victor von Frankenstein was a responsibility-avoiding, self-absorbed jerk!

[jonfaith · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

As an eight year old child, I found myself in love with horror films. It was a Scholastic Press survey of horror cinema for children which appeared to crystallize this fascination. It was terrible time for a kid. We had moved twice in four years and my mom had left. My dad was traveling for work and a series of housekeepers and sitters were keeping the home fires burning. It is no surprise that I was reading all the time and staying up too late watching inappropriate films on television. That said, I was never drawn to Frankenstein.

The father of some neighborhood friends used to proclaim the superiority of all the Universal films, especially to the hyper-gore films of the late 70s. I could agree with Bela Lugosi or Claude Rains (as the Invisible Man) but I wasn't moved by Lon Cheney Jr's Wolf Man or the lump of clay which was Frankenstein's monster. It remains elusive to distinguish.

It was with muted hopes that I finally read Frankenstein this past week. I was pleasantly surprised by the rigid plot which slowly shifts, allowing the Madness of the Fallen to Reap Vengeance on the Creator (and vice versa). Sure, it is laden with symbols and encoded thoughts on Reason, Science and Class. Frankenstein remains an engaging novel by a teenager, one doomed by fate. It is prescient and foreboding. Highly recommended.

[faith_murri · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful.
I have to admit, I was somewhat weary of this book. Despite its short page count, it is very wordy and has long, large paragraphs, and that made the prospect of reading this rather daunting. However, I swallowed my pride and did it, and was greatly rewarded.

I do know that for the sympathy of one living being, I would make peace with all. I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.
Frankenstein and his creature are both so interesting and complex; they're also both so pitiful. So much of their anguish and sorrow could have been avoided if not for human pride. They are both agents of horror and destruction in both action and inaction, and that made for a really interesting story.

Besides that, it's extremely quotable.

Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.
I was amazed at how Hollywood has continuously gotten the story wrong, so much so that this book felt entirely unique and the twists were effective. I don't know whether I should scorn or love Hollywood for their utter failure to accurately adapt this book into a faithful film. On one hand, this book deserves a great movie. On the other, the plot integrity of a very old book was maintained. The television show Penny Dreadful had a Frankenstein story line that was remarkably close to the source material considering, and the few big changes it made were justified in the larger story.

I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous.
The themes in this were amazing! I love complex characters and dark, ambiguous morality in my literature. To be completely honest, I sympathized with Frankenstein way more than the monster, which I hadn't thought I would going into it. I loved both characters though.

Overall, it's a great book with an awesome story, and everyone should read it.

[drardavis · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Despite its 19th century style and vocabulary this story still horrifies, partly because the gruesome details are left to the imagination. Victor Frankenstein does not reveal how he reanimates the creature. Stephen King would have spent several bloody chapters arranging the guts and brains and eyeballs. The motion picture image of the creature is only supported by Shelley’s description of the watery yellow eyes and the straight black lips. The pearly white teeth, lustrous flowing black hair, limbs in proportion, and beautiful features give a more godlike aspect to the monster. The violence is barely described. A dead body with finger prints on its throat. An execution. Some screams and sticks and stones to drive the creature out of a cottage. Even the death of Victor’s fiancee is but a muffled scream in a distant bedroom and a body on the bed. The true horror is symbolic, mythical, ethical, and metaphysical. Mary Shelley describes the consequences of hubris in prose while her husband gives a similar image poetically in Ozymandias. “Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.”

[solitaryfossil · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Why did I wait so long to read this? An excellent novel and highly recommended. Wonderful.

[robnw · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I found this worth reading, not great, but worth reading given that it's such a well known story. I was very much surprised to find how different the actual story is from the typical telling one hears of while growing up.

[bruneau_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Thanks to a string of Hollywood’s idiotic executives focused on cheap thrills, decades of bonehead movies have used Frankenstein in their title, but have kept nothing of the original story. As a result, readers that grab this title seeking a horror story (gory or not) stand to be disappointed. Mary Shelley’s story, which must be read in full appreciation of the style and sensibilities of the 19th century, is actually the sad story of a creature rejected by its creator. Love and love denied, revenge and forgiveness, rejection and acceptance, right and wrong – and how human judgment is tainted by appearances. In a century where image is all and beauty is mistaken for intelligence, Frankenstein’s story is all too contemporary.

[coralsiren · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I thought I knew quite a bit about this story, but it wasn't really what I expected after all (which was a pleasant surprise). Overall, I thought the book was okay, but it was hard to keep moving forward at times. Also, sometimes it seems like main events are barely even mentioned, while descriptions of 'less important' things and details go on forever.Glad I read it once, but probably won't re-read.

[imshi_1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I really didn't like this one. Maybe it's because of all the hype about it - surely after that anything would be a letdown. The reason I didn't like it was this: I felt that the themes of the novel were very interesting (knowledge, humanity, etc.) but I felt the execution was poor. Some key events in the novel depended on far too convenient plot devices (The monster needs to learn about humankind and morality! Oh, look, there's a random suitcase of philosophy texts lying in the woods! How convenient!) and because of that for me the plausibility of it suffered. And I KNOW it's meant to be a fantastic as opposed to realistic story, but I feel that with really, really good writing an author can make readers believe in things that are fantastic and implausible - and the writing in this book definitely didn't do that. Giving it two stars only because it's remained popular this long, so I suppose there must be something going for it.

[blazingice0608 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Great classic horror novel. Although it gets pretty deep, it could be read multiple times and analyzed from a psychological, socialogical, and literature aspect. I didnt care too much for the ending, and i felt like there were some parts that just bored me. However the good parts it had were REALLY good, plus i love books that have depth and can be analyzed and what not.

[aconnx3 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Classics tend to disappoint me, and this one certainly wasn't any different. This required reading was forced upon me the summer before tenth grade. Frankenstein's complaints continue throughout the drawn out book making it monotonous and seemingly endless. Honestly, one star is being generous. Do you know how difficult it is to read about depression and death while tanning on a beach? Practically impossible. Please, don't bother with this book unless you enjoy sorrow and take pleasure in redundant tendencies.

[ucla148 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

“Frankenstein” is a book that is extremely hard to follow and is a boring read. Victor Frankenstein’s creation is supposed to be horrifying, but what is really horrifying is this book. Victor is an overdramatic man that seems to fall ill every time a problem comes along. This book constantly left me depressed and bored out of my mind. The plot is all over the place and makes the monster seem like a convicted killer rather than a classic villain. The only people I recommend this book to are unhappy, stiff people that do not enjoy fun. I gave the book a half of a star because Mary Shelly went through the effort to write it.

[paperdust · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

This is the dullest most miserable classic I've ever read. I was bored out of my wits but determined to finish it. 90% of the book is devoted to the wonders of the snowy alpines. Then when it comes to the juicy parts, eg1: Victor changes his mind about creating a female companion for the Monster and destroys her - Shelley dedicates one paragraph on this important turn of events! Eg2: Victor was acquitted on charges of causing the death of Clerval - I was really looking forward to a long drawn out court scene and arguments leading to Victor's acquittal but no - Shelley wraps it up in one paragraph. All suspense, dashed.There are many tragic but likeable characters in classical literature but Victor Frankinstein comes across as an extremely sad and hapless figure, who spends the whole novel crying, indulging in self-pity, reflecting morosely on his 'evil' creation, and his thoughts volley recklessly from horror to empathy for the creature. The tale about the comings and goings of the de Lacey family was melodramatic at best. Victor's failure to warn his family about the Monster's murderous streak and that their lives were in danger, was selfish and negligent. And as for the Monster - I can hardly sympathize with anyone who has murdered a child and innocent women and men, regardless of how badly he was treated because of his ugly face. It's like saying all criminals on Death Row today were born innocent, so let's be lenient on them too. You just have to take responsibilty for your own criminal actions.I tried to find a reason to like this book, sparknotes quote: "The pursuit of knowledge is at the heart of Frankenstein, as Victor attempts to surge beyond accepted human limits and access the secret of life." If this is really the heart of Frankenstein then I'm sorry but it totally bypassed me. Perhaps it's because Shelley spent only 2 pages (somewhere in Chapters 4 and 5) on describing the night the Monster attained the spark of life.I was more interested in Shelley's biography, written in the Introduction by herself and Karen Karbiener. Ideas for her story germinates from discussions with other literary and philosophical intellectuals, of which Shelley was often in the company of, (her parents were reknowned radical literary figures during the Romanticism era). Their discussions included Columbus, Darwin and Galvani, the latter developed "the idea that an 'electric fluid' ran through the veins and animated animals". Powerful images of human engineering gone disastrously wrong haunted Shelley one night and she decided to use what she had envisioned as the basis for her story. Shelley had a lot of burden to shoulder in her young life: there were numerous deaths in her family: her mother (died giving birth to her), her stepsister, husband, close friends, several of her own children did not survive infancy. "Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of void, but out of chaos". Shelley must've suffered tremendous grief - did she ever recover from bereavement? Did she "feel like a fiend....desperately craves the attention and affection of the remaining parent; and ultimately ..responsible for the death of the one who gave it life." Was Shelley "conscious of how much of herself and her experience she was using to create Frankenstein?"5* for the movie. Sorry, 1 for the novel. 10+ for women's lib.

[melydia_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Forget all the Frankenstein stereotypes you know. Forget Igor, grave robbing, neck bolts, electricity, and mobs of angry villagers carrying torches. Victor Frankenstein is a student of natural philosophy (what science was evidently called back then) who plays with chemicals in order to create life from dead tissue. The monster, which remains nameless throughout the story, so frightens Victor that he runs away and tries to forget about it. The monster, initially gentle but driven to cruelty by the repeated condemnation by mankind, vows to ruin Victor's life in return for creating his misery. It's an interesting story, one that touches less obviously on the ethics of scientific experimentation, but says quite a lot about the unfortunate importance of beauty in society. Victor is more naive and pitiful than evil or mad. Definitely one worth reading, but don't go in expecting anything like those famous old movies.

[slysionnach_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Whatever you're expecting, this probably isn't it.And I don't say this in a bad way. My only experience with Frankenstein prior to this had been one false-start reading it (I was young), and the movies based on the novel. Though I have to say "based on" as loosely as possible.Mary Shelley's novel is a story about a man who has created life, though it is hideous and disfigured. This life, always known as "the fiend" or "the demon/daemon," laments his existence, cursing the monster who had created him. Unlike the grunting tones of the green-skinned creature you see every Halloween, this Creature develops as a modern Adam, twisted by the egotistical intentions of his maker.There are murders in the novel, but who is the real murderer is up to debate. Frankenstein, realizing what he's done, has his own opinions. Not so much a horror novel but instead an almost philosophical debate as to the progression of modern science (in the Introduction or Preface, I honestly can't recall which at the moment, Shelley speaks about the science that lead her to imagine this story). It really is a must read.

[stefany_6 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Written in the early 19th century, Frankenstein is a novel that is fairly easy to read and find entertainment value in even by today's standards. The rich language and Shelley's authorial style create an environment that allows the reader to totally submerse themselves into Victor's world. The story itself is presented as a story within a story within a story (an sometimes even a level or two deeper than that) as a ship captain named Walton writes letters to his sister in England about his voyage across the top of the world and the strange tale of the man (Victor Frankenstein) that he encounters there. It is Victor's story that occupies most of the novel, and though most modern readers are aware of the Hollywood version of the famous Frankenstein monster, those unfamiliar with the actual novel version are in for a great surprise in the way that the creature is depicted in the novel. Hollywood has taken so many liberties with this tale and the depictions of the characters that reading the original is almost like opening one's mind to entirely new material. Shelley presents us with an incredibly thought provoking and fleshed out tale requiring the reader to put some serious thought into the morality of intense scientific research in the area of the creation of life.With this novel, Shelley opened the door to the later development of the Science Fiction genre. In a move that is almost pure genius, Shelley avoids the need for the reader to have to suspend belief in the scientific method used to create another living being from dead tissue by allowing Victor to keep his methods undisclosed for fear that another scientist will follow his direction and make the same mistakes that he did in creating his monster.All in all a very good novel!

[cecilturtle · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

For anyone who only knows Frankenstein through pop culture, I highly recommend a peek at the original. Roles are reversed as the scientist appears selfish and irresponsible while the monster is a victim of circumstance with a willingness to integrate into human society! The theological, philosophical and social themes are very well brought to light especially by one so young as 18 year-old Shelley. There are many aspects that will make the modern reader roll her eyes (much suspended disbelief) but as an example of scientific ethics at the dawn of modern science, this is definitely a worthwhile read.

[samuelw_56895 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

The tale of Victor Frankenstein may be nearly two hundred years old, but as science continues to advance, its material only becomes more relevant. As a biblical and philosophical thought experiment, the essence of this novel makes for fascinating reading. What better way to experience it than to return to the original text? If only the writing lived up to the material . . .Shelley opens in epistolary format; a sure-fire way to begin a plot-driven novel on the back foot. The letters from Walton to his sister require a not-inconsiderable measure of padding to maintain their authenticity, which nonetheless remains punctured by unrealistic exposition of obvious information. Readers should be able to plough through to the start of the real story without too much trouble, and will be relieved to find the plot moving along more quickly – until the idyllic perfection of Frankenstein’s childhood begins to wear irritatingly thin. The writing style, while always eloquent, is incredibly overblown, and careers without rest from nauseating utopia to risible melodrama.It is in the dialogue of the creature itself that the novel reveals its strongest writing; not only thought provoking, but deliciously quotable as well. When the book switches to the creature’s point of view, we dare to hope that his more tempered narration may do his fascinating and emotive tale justice – and for a while, it does. Before long, however, Shelley’s melodramatic routine is re-established: one paragraph of substance is followed by three paragraphs of Victor’s feelings about it, and perhaps a description or two of the weather, which, infuriatingly, commands enough attention to be considered a minor character. Since there are only so many ways one can feel morose or woebegone or depressed, we find ourselves treading the same ground over and over, while the parts of the story that might make for the most interesting narrative meat – the creature’s construction, the saving of a drowning girl, Victor and Elizabeth’s wedding – are reduced to a few lines each. The realism, though thin in places, manages to stay intact, until Victor, out of the blue, decides to take a nap in his sailboat four miles off the Scottish coast at three in the morning when the breeze is rising, and winds up in Ireland.Why has this story been adapted so endlessly? Because if you unwrap the essence of Frankenstein and throw away the prose, you are left with something truly special. In its original form, however, this story is bearable at best. Read at your own peril.