Frankenstein 1818 (Illustrated)

By Mary Shelley

“It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld my man completed ..."

In the summer of 1816, a young, well-educated woman from England traveled with her lover to the Swiss Alps. Unseasonable rain kept them trapped inside their lodgings, where they entertained themselves by reading ghost stories. At the urging of renowned poet Lord Byron, a friend and neighbor, they set their own pens to paper, competing to see who could write the best ghost story. The young woman, Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, took the prize, with her tale of eccentric scientist Victor Frankenstein, who creates a grotesque creature in an unorthodox scientific experiment. Frankenstein became a bestseller and a Gothic classic that still resonates with readers almost two centuries later…

This is the original, 1818 text. In 1831, the more traditionally first 'popular' edition in one volume appeared.This version of the story was heavily revised by Mary Shelley who was under pressure to make the story more conservative, and included a new, longer preface by her, presenting a somewhat embellished version of the genesis of the story. This edition tends to be the one most widely read now but many scholars prefer the 1818 text, arguing that it preserves the spirit of Shelley's original publication.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Enhanced Media Publishing
• Release date: Nov 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365503092

Mary Shelley

Mary Shelley (1797-1851) was an English novelist. Born the daughter of William Godwin, a novelist and anarchist philosopher, and Mary Wollstonecraft, a political philosopher and pioneering feminist, Shelley was raised and educated by Godwin following the death of Wollstonecraft shortly after her birth. In 1814, she began her relationship with Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, whom she would later marry following the death of his first wife, Harriet. In 1816, the Shelleys, joined by Mary’s stepsister Claire Clairmont, physician and writer John William Polidori, and poet Lord Byron, vacationed at the Villa Diodati near Geneva, Switzerland. They spent the unusually rainy summer writing and sharing stories and poems, and the event is now seen as a landmark moment in Romanticism. During their stay, Shelley composed her novel Frankenstein (1818), Byron continued his work on Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage (1812-1818), and Polidori wrote “The Vampyre” (1819), now recognized as the first modern vampire story to be published in English. In 1818, the Shelleys traveled to Italy, where their two young children died and Mary gave birth to Percy Florence Shelley, the only one of her children to survive into adulthood. Following Percy Bysshe Shelley’s drowning death in 1822, Mary returned to England to raise her son and establish herself as a professional writer. Over the next several decades, she wrote the historical novel Valperga (1923), the dystopian novel The Last Man (1826), and numerous other works of fiction and nonfiction. Recognized as one of the core figures of English Romanticism, Shelley is remembered as a woman whose tragic life and determined individualism enabled her to produce essential works of literature which continue to inform, shape, and inspire the horror and science fiction genres to this day.

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PREFACE

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 any thing 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.

[Marlow, September, 1817.]

Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay

To mould me man? Did I solicit thee

From darkness to promote me?

Paradise Lost

VOLUME I

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 tranquillize 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 sea-faring 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 their's 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 stage-coach. 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 or three weeks; and my intention is to hire a ship there, which can easily be done by paying the insurance for the owner, and to engage as many sailors as I think necessary among those who are accustomed to the whale-fishing. I do not intend to sail until the month of June: and when shall I return? Ah, dear sister, how can I answer this question? If I succeed, many, many months, perhaps years, will pass before you and I may meet. If I fail, you will see me again soon, or never.

Farewell, my dear, excellent Margaret. Heaven shower down blessings on you, and save me, that I may again and again testify my gratitude for all your love and kindness.

Your affectionate brother,

R. WALTON.

LETTER II

To Mrs. SAVILLE, England.

Archangel, 28th March, 17—.

How slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow! yet a second step is taken towards my enterprise. I have hired a vessel, and am occupied in collecting my sailors; those whom I have already engaged appear to be men on whom I can depend, and are certainly possessed of dauntless courage.

But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy; and the absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil. I have no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success, there will be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed by disappointment, no one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection. I shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true; but that is a poor medium for the communication of feeling. I desire the company of a man who could sympathize with me; whose eyes would reply to mine. You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend. I have no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a cultivated as well as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own, to approve or amend my plans. How would such a friend repair the faults of your poor brother! I am too ardent in execution, and too impatient of difficulties. But it is a still greater evil to me that I am self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a common, and read nothing but our uncle Thomas's books of voyages. At that age I became acquainted with the celebrated poets of our own country; but it was only when it had ceased to be in my power to derive its most important benefits from such a conviction, that I perceived the necessity of becoming acquainted with more languages than that of my native country. Now I am twenty-eight, and am in reality more illiterate than many school-boys of fifteen. It is true that I have thought more, and that my day dreams are more extended and magnificent; but they want (as the painters call it) keeping; and I greatly need a friend who would have sense enough not to despise me as romantic, and affection enough for me to endeavour to regulate my mind.

Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find no friend on the wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel, among merchants and seamen. Yet some feelings, unallied to the dross of human nature, beat even in these rugged bosoms. My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful courage and enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory. He is an Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional prejudices, unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the noblest endowments of humanity. I first became acquainted with him on board a whale vessel: finding that he was unemployed in this city, I easily engaged him to assist in my enterprise.

The master is a person of an excellent disposition, and is remarkable in the ship for his gentleness, and the mildness of his discipline. He is, indeed, of so amiable a nature, that he will not hunt (a favourite, and almost the only amusement here), because he cannot endure to spill blood. He is, moreover, heroically generous. Some years ago he loved a young Russian lady, of moderate fortune; and having amassed a considerable sum in prize-money, the father of the girl consented to the match. He saw his mistress once before the destined ceremony; but she was bathed in tears, and, throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to spare her, confessing at the same time that she loved another, but that he was poor, and that her father would never consent to the union. My generous friend reassured the suppliant, and on being informed of the name of her lover instantly abandoned his pursuit. He had already bought a farm with his money, on which he had designed to pass the remainder of his life; but he bestowed the whole on his rival, together with the remains of his prize-money to purchase stock, and then himself solicited the young woman's father to consent to her marriage with her lover. But the old man decidedly refused, thinking himself bound in honour to my friend; who, when he found the father inexorable, quitted his country, nor returned until he heard that his former mistress was married according to her inclinations. What a noble fellow! you will exclaim. He is so; but then he has passed all his life on board a vessel, and has scarcely an idea beyond the rope and the shroud.

But do not suppose that, because I complain a little, or because I can conceive a consolation for my toils which I may never know, that I am wavering in my resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate; and my voyage is only now delayed until the weather shall permit my embarkation. The winter has been dreadfully severe; but the spring promises well, and it is considered as a remarkably early season; so that, perhaps, I may sail sooner than I expected. I shall do nothing rashly; you know me sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness whenever the safety of others is committed to my care.

I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of my undertaking. It is impossible to communicate to you a conception of the trembling sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful, with which I am preparing to depart. I am going to unexplored regions, to the land of mist and snow; but I shall kill no albatross, therefore do not be alarmed for my safety.

Shall I meet you again, after having traversed immense seas, and returned by the most southern cape of Africa or America? I dare not expect such success, yet I cannot bear to look on the reverse of the picture. Continue to write to me by every opportunity; I may receive your letters (though the chance is very doubtful) on some occasions when I need them most to support my spirits. I love you very tenderly. Remember me with affection, should you never hear from me again.

Your affectionate brother,

ROBERT WALTON.

LETTER III

To Mrs. SAVILLE, England.

July 7th, 17—.

MY DEAR SISTER,

I WRITE a few lines in haste, to say that I am safe, and well advanced on my voyage. This letter will reach England by a merchant-man now on its homeward voyage from Archangel; more fortunate than I, who may not see my native land, perhaps, for many years. I am, however, in good spirits: my men are bold, and apparently firm of purpose; nor do the floating sheets of ice that continually pass us, indicating the dangers of the region towards which we are advancing, appear to dismay them. We have already reached a very high latitude; but it is the height of summer, and although not so warm as in England, the southern gales, which blow us speedily towards those shores which I so ardently desire to attain, breathe a degree of renovating warmth which I had not expected.

No incidents have hitherto befallen us that would make a figure in a letter. One or two stiff gales, and the breaking of a mast, are accidents which experienced navigators scarcely remember to record; and I shall be well content, if nothing worse happen to us during our voyage.

Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured, that for my own sake, as well as your's, I will not rashly encounter danger. I will be cool, persevering, and prudent.

Remember me to all my English friends.

Most affectionately yours,

R.W.

LETTER IV

To Mrs. SAVILLE, England.

August 5th, 17—.

So strange an accident has happened to us, that I cannot forbear recording it, although it is very probable that you will see me before these papers can come into your possession.

Last Monday (July 31st), we were nearly surrounded by ice, which closed in the ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her the sea room in which she floated. Our situation was somewhat dangerous, especially as we were compassed round by a very thick fog. We accordingly lay to, hoping that some change would take place in the atmosphere and weather.

About two o'clock the mist cleared away, and we beheld, stretched out in every direction, vast and irregular plains of ice, which seemed to have no end. Some of my comrades groaned, and my own mind began to grow watchful with anxious thoughts, when a strange sight suddenly attracted our attention, and diverted our solicitude from our own situation. We perceived a low carriage, fixed on a sledge and drawn by dogs, pass on towards the north, at the distance of half a mile: a being which had the shape of a man, but apparently of gigantic stature, sat in the sledge, and guided the dogs. We watched the rapid progress of the traveller with our telescopes, until he was lost among the distant inequalities of the ice.

This appearance excited our unqualified wonder. We were, as we believed, many hundred miles from any land; but this apparition seemed to denote that it was not, in reality, so distant as we had supposed. Shut in, however, by ice, it was impossible to follow his track, which we had observed with the greatest attention.

About two hours after this occurrence, we heard the ground sea; and before night the ice broke, and freed our ship. We, however, lay to until the morning, fearing to encounter in the dark those large loose masses which float about after the breaking up of the ice. I profited of this time to rest for a few hours.

In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon the deck, and found all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel, apparently talking to some one in the sea. It was, in fact, a sledge, like that we had seen before, which had drifted towards us in the night, on a large fragment of ice. Only one dog remained alive; but there was a human being within it, whom the sailors were persuading to enter the vessel. He was not, as the other traveller seemed to be, a savage inhabitant of some undiscovered island, but an European. When I appeared on deck, the master said, Here is our captain, and he will not allow you to perish on the open sea.

On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English, although with a foreign accent. Before I come on board your vessel, said he, will you have the kindness to inform me whither you are bound?

You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question addressed to me from a man on the brink of destruction, and to whom I should have supposed that my vessel would have been

Reviews for Frankenstein 1818 (Illustrated)

[mcelhra · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Frankenstein might be one of the most analyzed and reviewed books of all time. Whole books have been written about this book and its author Mary Shelley. I’m not a literary scholar so my review is going to be short and sweet. You can dig as deeply as you want to on your own time!My book club likes to read at least one classic per year and this year’s was Frankenstein. It was our October pick because it seemed the perfect month to review a book about a monster. Interestingly, there are two editions of Frankenstein. It was originally published in 1818. When it came out, people were aghast that an eighteen year old girl could conceive of such horrors and write about them – ladies being delicate flowers and all that. In 1831 a new edition was published that Shelley had revised from the 1818 version to make the book less shocking. Almost all of my book club buddies and I read the 1818 version published by Penguin Classics. Penguin included a short overview of Shelley’s life. She had quite an eventful one and several biographies about her have been written.Frankenstein was a lot different than I thought it would be. The monster wasn’t an inarticulate beast afraid of fire and being chased by villagers with torches. He was actually quite intelligent. Also, a fair amount of the story was about Dr. Frankenstein’s life independent of the monster.There was much to discuss about this book. We talked about Mary Shelley’s life and how it influenced Frankenstein. There were also many ethical issues to talk about, the first being is it okay for man to create life by means other than normal reproduction. Most everyone liked the book and our discussion went well over our one hour meeting time which hasn’t happened in the time that I’ve been a member.As far as classic literature goes, Frankenstein is accessible and easy to understand. I recommend it for anytime of the year but especially if you’re looking for a good Halloween read.

[jwhenderson_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A Fantastic Story.Fantastic, filled with both vivid emotions and exciting action, Mary Shelley's story of the haunted Victor Frankenstein, and his creation who does the haunting, still stirs the soul. Just as Goethe's Faust sought the secrets of arcane knowledge, Victor Frankenstein engages in the secrets of both licit and illicit science to bring a being to life. Once this is accomplished he immediately rues his action and spends the rest of the novel trying through a variety of means to atone for his mistake.The novel is a classic tale of the uncanny which, according to the novelist and critic David Lodge, invariably use "I" narrators, imitating documentary forms of discourse like confessions, letters and depositions to make events more credible. Beginning with letters from Robert Walton, whose own search for the source of the magnetic north pole mirrors Victor Frankenstein's quest, the first book of the novel relates Victor Frankenstein's narrative of his youth and education. It surely was more than coincidental that Victor attended University at Ingolstad which was heralded as the original site of the Faust legends that Goethe adapted for his immensely influential drama. 'Monster' or 'Creature'?The center of the novel continues Victor's story and that of his creation, the monster. At least that is what he calls his creation. While it is monstrous in the sense that it is larger than normal human size it is a creature made of human parts and, we find after some intervening events in Victor's life that the creature has some very human traits like the need for companionship -- one that is not met by his creator. Victor's emotions seem to swing from the the heights of elation to the depths of despair coloring his actions and clouding his reason. I found the monster's narration to be the most persuasive of the two. He pleads with Victor, " Remember, that I am thy creature: I ought to be thy Adam; but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed."(p 66) Victor is unable to satisfy him and the monster who searches for acceptance throughout attempts to exert power over his creator as he tells him, "You are my creator, but I am your master; -obey!"(p 116) His words and actions only serve to speed the descent of Victor.I saw the monster as a classic example of "the other", a precursor to modern images much as those found in Kafka. The action builds effectively through the third book of the novel building suspense and leading to an ending that involves a triangle of relationships between Victor, the creature, and Robert Walton whose narrative in letters bookends the tale. The power of the book, however, remains in the questions it raises; questions that we are dealing with to this day. The Narrative:A man is found while near death by Robert Walton. Walton, an explorer, was on a trip to the Arctic where his ship is stuck and surrounded by ice. As they looked out on the enormous ice field, Walton and his crew saw a gigantic man being pulled by a dogsled. The following day they discovered another, smaller man, desperately ill, adrift on a sheet of ice. Walton writes that he brought the man onto his ship, allowed him to rest, and attempted to nurse him back to health. That man was Victor Frankenstein who goes on to relate the story of how he came to be in this place. While at university, Victor became obsessed with the idea of bringing the dead back to life. He built the Creature out of body parts scavenged from charnel houses and graves. Victor succeeded in bringing the Creature to life, but upon seeing the hideous Creature Victor ran from the lab, abandoning his creation. Alone and abandoned, the Creature spent two years hiding in the forest, aware of his ugliness. He learned to read in this time, and eventually he came to understand that Victor was the cause of his misery. The narrative thus continues with the struggle of the Creature to find his creator and to end his misery. The catalyst for the denouement of the story is Victor's realization of the mistake he made with his original creation. Is this realization enough to save him and others? I will leave it to other readers to answer that question for themselves.

[dzejncrvena · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This year, I plan to read at least fifty (50) classic books in literature.
I picked Frankenstein because I read The Dark Descent of Elizabeth Frankenstein last year, and it was awesome. While reading the original, I realize that Shelley's original version is even better. I will reread it sometime later.

[et.carole · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Glad I read this, although the melodramatic style was a bit much for me.

[pat_d-895110 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is the best edition of Shelley's classic and the only edition that should be taught. You'll see this story as you've never known it before. The reference materials are incomparable.

[debjacks · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Since so many reviews exist, there’s no use in adding yet another. But I would like to share where and why this book seemed to stir me and how unique it is considering the background events. Because theories on the origin of the species and creation were beginning to surface, even preceding Charles Darwin, (though strangely Erasmus Darwin is mentioned in the first line of the Preface), it is easy to understand where the concept for this book arose.I read the entire story without adding a tab or underlining a section, but yet it lingered after I’d finished reading. This version included additional material, which I found refreshing. Particularly the reviews. I’ll start there.On ReviewsMary Shelley was a female writer, something seldom seen when the first edition of Frankenstein was published in 1818. To obtain fair reviews, she released the novel under her husband’s name. Walter Scott writes a rather lengthy review in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine in which he identifies the flaws:(view spoiler)Though valid criticisms, I had to chuckle at the similarities between critics of that day and age and the current one. Suspension of disbelief is always an issue, and certain critics are unwilling to forgive one error in fact or just a little exaggeration in, let’s face it, a “fantastic” story which never pretends to be anything else. Shelley even discusses how Frankenstein started as a dare between her and other writers—P.B. Shelley, Byron, Polidori—to write a ghost story, so she wasn’t exactly in a “serious” frame of mind. We also have to consider what the story is – a romance (not in the current sense of the word, but along the lines of fantasy, legend, and the Romanticism that began in the middle ages and reached its peak in the late 1800s), and also an original horror story. If you can picture the entire stage, the misplaced props fade into the background.Critics of the 19th century were also influenced by the theories of origin and creation I mentioned above, and very resistant in most cases.Scott continues: “ ‘Creator,’ applied to a mere human being, gives us the same sort of shock with the phrase, “the man Almighty,” and others of the same kind, in Mr Southey’s ‘Curse of Kehama.’ All these monstrous conceptions are the consequences of the wild and irregular theories of the age; though we do not at all mean to infer that the authors who give into such freedoms have done so with any bad intentions. This incongruity, however, with our established and most sacred notions, is the chief fault in such fictions...”Shelley was tapping into the prevailing scientific theories of the age and incorporating them into her story, much to the “horror” of certain critics. Well, it is a horror story ;-) Where she fails is in describing the method of creation – how Frankenstein imbued his monster with life. (view spoiler)Did you just groan? I did. Most modern-day speculative fiction writers throw their intellectual weight into explaining esoteric theories in hopes of satisfying the curiosity of readers. But since she had no modern (for the 19th century) knowledge of medicine and science, she couldn’t be expected to explain the concept in any reasonable way. Of course in movies and modern television shows, the “creators” inevitably turn to lightning and electricity as a reanimating device. But I don’t begrudge Shelley the ambiguity. A zap of electricity to the brain does little to explain the restoration of dead tissue and cells.On IronyI do so adore irony, and Shelley excels at delivering. Even in Shelley’s epigraph from Paradise Lost, she twists Adam’s protest against God:"Did I request thee, Maker, from my clayTo mould me man? Did I solicit theeFrom darkness to promote me?"Adam eventually concedes that God is just, but this novel revolves around this statement and never admits that the monster’s maker was just in his decision to create. In fact it spits in his face. I still have to wonder at cinematic portrayals of the monster, often so different from this novel. He is shown in a sympathetic light in Van Helsing and Penny Dreadful - the most recent ones I can recall. Yet in the novel his decision to kill so swiftly after the cottagers reject him, particularly an innocent child, elicits revulsion instead of sympathy. Is Shelley contrasting not only the monster’s appearance to Adam and Eve in Paradise Lost, but his behavior? Is everything about the monster ugly, or was he merely made that way by circumstances and social rejection?The story is relevant in our time. We continue to make monsters. We have to wonder is rejection strong enough to induce mass murder, to drive young people to Isis and other cults? I recently read an interview with the mother of one of the Columbine shooting perpetrators. Her son didn’t sound like a monster, but he seemed susceptible to the persuasive voice of one. Can a single voice change a person’s perception of the world? How much more so, then, would many voices, especially if that person is already feeling excluded and wounded? Shelley’s novel is social commentary that is relevant throughout the ages. The irony is, we still haven’t learned how to stop making monsters.On the Richness of the LanguageI found, for the most part, the journey was as satisfying as the conclusion. Of course, language was richer in earlier ages. Today we pride ourselves on quick communication, and genre books are always lighter on language. Many people may argue our literary novels are just as deliciously dressed.But . . . the story is never neglected in these older novels for the glory of a few choice words.For instance . . .“The ascent is precipitous, but the path is cut into continual and short windings, which enable you to surmount the perpendicularity of the mountain. It is a scene terrifically desolate. In a thousand spots the traces of the winter avalanche may be perceived, where trees lie broken and strewed on the ground; some entirely destroyed, others bent, leaning upon the jutting rocks of the mountain, or transversely upon other trees.”The description is rich, the sentences dense, but the words are not strange or startling. They don’t eject you from the novel, savoring the spice but forgetting about the soup. And they don’t have you pondering what the author is actually trying to say. The scene is so beautifully rendered you can visualize and experience the mountain, the climb. But at the same time, it suggests Frankenstein’s spiritual decline.Mary Shelley employs letters to describe the events (as did Bram Stoker nearly a century later). The letter technique lends a personal aspect to the story as if the character is bending over and whispering in his best friend’s ear. It adds another dimension that gives the tale more depth.Another aspect of 19th century literature is the tendency to quote or allude to classical literature or other literary works. Since I haven’t read all these works, I can hardly comment on their usage. But they sometimes prompt me to seek out these older plays, poems or novels, to see if they impress me as much as they did the writer in his or her time period. It is this layering of literature and mythology that continues to intrigue me.There is great joy in language, even to illustrate a tragedy.

[john257hopper · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This year is the 200th anniversary of the occasion when Mary Shelley, her husband Percy, Byron and John Polydori spent a bleak summer evening on the shores of Lake Geneva, challenging each other to tell horror stories. Mary Shelley's nightmare became the novel that was eventually published two years later in 1818. This edition is that original version; whereas the edition most commonly read these days, and which I have read before, is the revised 1831 version produced when Mary had experienced several family tragedies that led to a more fatalistic outlook. This original version is raw and powerful, stark in its portrayal of misery and despair and depiction of the deaths the monster causes; yet, despite the monster's crimes, one can sympathise with it when it observes the family of Felix and Agatha, and desperately wants to be accepted into the warmth of human society, but instead is spurned in horror and disgust. This is drama and despair at its peak; yet, at the same time, the novel's contrasting descriptions of the beautiful scenery of the Alps are moving and sublime. Brilliant writing throughout.

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

I read the original text from 1818. I had not read this before, but of course I thought I knew the story. I was actually quite a bit surprised about it. For one I did not know that it actually took place largely in Switzerland!

The story of how Victor Frankenstein and how he created the (unnamed) monster and what happened afterwards is told from various perspectives. Captain Walton introduces the man he met while on an Arctic expedition in his letters to his sister. He gives voice to Victor Frankenstein, who first relates the backstory that led to his studies in Ingoldstadt and the creation of the monster and his return to the family home in Geneva, where tragedy has struck. On his wanderings he encounters the monster who asks to be heard in turn and tells what it had experienced since entering the world. They strike a bargain, but Frankenstein reneges, which leads to further tragedy and a chase for revenge that leads to the Arctic, where they all meet up.

I liked the way the story was structured and also liked the text. I appreciated less the drastic mood swings from one extreme to the other. It was way over the top, but quite typical for the period.

I read this in anticipation of a theater visit and having the text fresh in my mind certainly heightened my appreciation of the great job done in bringing the story to life on stage.

[jljaina · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

An interesting tale filled drawn out in the elegant prose of the era in which it is written. Full of depth and emotions one does not often see in today's literature. Yet there are a few things that kept this from being as fulfilling as the potential it held.

Starting off are some letters that at first confused me. I thought I knew the story of Frankenstein but I had no clue who this captain was. Luckily the pieces are soon drawn together. Yet while I am trying to figure out who is who my mind is rapidly working to change gears from common, current verbiage to the poetic, old English style in which this story is form. While utterly beautiful, it did take awhile to be able to fully appreciate it.

The next thing that has me thrown off is how easily the "Wretched Monster" learns. And how he knew about Frankenstein and his homeland when is states that Frankenstein immediately bails on his creation one it is alive. It must not have been as quick as described....

And the monster-he is amazing and filled with emotion. Overwhelmingly so. He seems to feel things more strongly than man. Be it love, loneliness... or hated! His tale is both wonderful and yet heart-wrenching at the same time.

I wish the book covered more of how the monster came to be. And as for Frankenstein, he sure was sick often in this book. Sheesh! I neither liked nor disliked his character.

This is very, VERY different from the movies I have seen. I almost wonder if ANY of the scriptwriters have ever actually read the book. Why have none of them correctly portrayed the story?! It would be so much better! Maybe one of these days, someone will get it right...

Final rating: 3.5 on enjoyment, 4.5 stars on writing!

[thewalkinggirl · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Loved the beginning, it was creepy and fun in a Lovecraftian sort of way. The middle, when we learn more about Frankenstein and his creature, was kind of interesting in a humanist/existentialist sort of way, but by the end... I don't know. I usually like "slow descent into madness" stories but I'm not sure that the author recognized that her title character was mad, and the combined lack of awareness and anything resembling a sense of humor is kind of deadly to me.I'm glad I finished it but I'm not sure if I'm glad I read it. (It is nice to have it off Mount TBR though!)

[renz0808 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I have seen the numerous reproductions of the Frankenstein theme and I felt like I was rather familiar with the plot. Recently, I realized that I am a bit ashamed that I have yet to read this book for myself since along with Dracula it is considered such a classic horror story. I was so surprised as I started reading this book to find that all of the things I had thought about the story were actually wrong. This book is not so much about horror as it is about the basic human emotion for love and acceptance that we continually search for, and while the movies touch on this theme a bit the book is mostly about this thought. In a sense it is not so much horrifying as it is sad and disturbing, but the brilliance of the story is that it really makes you step back and look at yourself and what it means to be human. A Swiss medical student, Victor Frankenstein, discovers the secret of life and decides to build a man from various corpuses. He becomes horrified by what he creates and runs away from what he considers a monster. The creature suffers from a fair amount of confusion and neglect and begins to see himself as a terrifying monster. He is incredible smart and is able to teach himself language and means of communication through watching a poor family. He discovers the truth about his identity and begins to seek revenge on his creator. Through a series of tragic events Victor Frankenstein chases his creation around the world meaning to rid humanity from it.

[slarsoncollins · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Wow. What a book. Just goes to show things aren't always black and white, but that there are many shades of gray in between. The story centers around Victor Frankenstein, a brilliant scientist, who creates life in his laboratory. Driven by an insatiable desire to bring back the spark of life, he is disgusted and repulsed by his final creation and casts the creature out. This hideous being, denied even the smallest show of kindness or love, pleads with his creator for a symbol of compassion. Again denied, the monster turns against his maker and a life and death struggle ensues. When I turned the final page (or clicked onto the final page), I was left wondering: Who is the real monster?

[rabbitrun_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Victor Frankenstein discovers the secret of creating life and fashions an eight-foot monster, only to bring danger and destruction to the lives of those he loves after the creature is rejected by society.

[borg6mx5 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A good, not great novel. Definitely worth a read, especially if you are only familiar with the films.

[stormrose · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

10/20. Ooo, halfway through the goal! Yay! (although this is a class book, so it doesn't really count...but whatever). I absolutely loved this book. Loved, loved, loved, loved. The fact that Mary Shelley wrote it when she was eighteen is stunning to me. It's got gothic, science fiction, philosophy, realism, travel narrative and bildungsroman all built into one. It's also one of the most morally challenging and ambiguous science fiction texts I have read. And yes, I do consider "Frankenstein" the foundational text of science fiction. You have to read it very carefully to pick up all the nuances, but it's absolutely worth it. Highly recommended.

[meditationesmartini · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I'm gonna give you two ways in which this book is laughable bullshit, and then counter with two ways in which it's a stunning triumph.Bullshit 1: Stylistics. I know this was ground out over a summer by a girl who hadn't really written anything before and etc., etc., but there are a lot of rough freakin' passages in this story. I'm not going to quote the one I'd intended to. This is a bit of a half-assed review. I think she smoothed most of them out in the 1831 text anyway.Bullshit 2: On a related note, plot mechanics. Really, dude? You just couldn't take the time to make sure your monster didn't escape? You just ran away and assumed everything would be fine? You couldn't bring yourself to tell the truth, just so you could feel bad when they executed that poor girl? Even with the singular psychology and crazy madness of old Franko, that's pushing it a bit far. But the most ludicrous thing is that it never even occurred to him that "I will be with you on your wedding night" might possibly imply some threat to Elizabeth, as opposed to Victor the golden boy - like, I know it's a convention of the Gothic, but come on, are you writing a parable or are you writing psychological realism?Triumph 1: The central myth is so hard hitting. Like, that's why we've had a hundred Frankensteins since, although the "Adam" version has it all over the bolts-in-neck Karloff guy. Incidentally, am I crazy in remembering this as totally different from last time? Like, the ice, yes, the wedding night, yes, but I thought there was a lot more emphasis on the initial creation (castle, slab, roof opening, lightning, etc.) and the bride. Maybe I just read a movie novelization as a kid and mistook it for the real thing.Triumph 2: the psychological sketch of Frankenstein. He's not "misunderstood genius," that cliche - he's understood genius. He's supportive, brilliant, loving family, golden boy, always fulfilling everyone's high expectations, it's not about duty it's about the stifling quality of love for the egomaniac who still knows how to love. How hard did his going away to Ingolstadt remind me of me running away to Austria and then deciding that wasn't far enough from friends and family and it was gonna have to be Kazakhstan next? How creeping and sick is the realization that realism aside, this paragon basically, symbolically, strangled his own wife so he could feel bad about it and be tragic? How shivery is it when the monster is so much like him, in loves hates rage and misanthropy and the total inability to wrap himself up in humanity? I mean, in a general sense "the monster IS Frankenstein" is a filmic metonymy and an overall cliche, but when you look at it close, really: how much difference is there between Frankenstein creating his monster and Jekyll creating Hyde? Everything is permitted when you put on your mask of sutures and dead flesh. Kill them: then you can miss them, and carry on your important work in their name.

[jacqib_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I cried. Despite having been written nearly two hundred years ago this was not difficult to read. It bore little relation to the old black and white horror films I have seen. It was a very moving tale and the passage where the 'monster' experiences snow for the first time was one of the best passages I have ever read.