Frankenstein: or, The Modern Prometheus. 1818 edition.

By Mary Shelley and Vladimir Verano

Shelley’s mold-breaking and genre-creating Frankenstein hasn’t been out of print since its first  publication in 1818, though the story of science and dark melodrama has been reconfigured and reanimated many times over the years—in shadowy cinematic style in the 1930s; comedic, loveable boob-tube style in the 1960

• Language: English
• Publisher: VertVolta Press
• Release date: May 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781609441289

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

Frankenstein

Frankenstein

Or, the Modern Prometheus

Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

Vertvolta Press

Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheus, Booksellers Preferred Edition © 2019 Vertvolta Press

Frankenstein is the literary creation of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

The text of this edition is based on the 3 volume 1818 edition published in London by Lackington, Hughes, Harding, Mavor, & Jones. The publisher has retained all archaic spellings from the original edition.

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All rights reserved. Aside from established & agreed-upon commerce platforms, no part of this publication’s design may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing of the publisher, except by reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for publication in print and electronic form.

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Introduction: © 2019 Mark Teppo

Interior illustrations: © the respective artists, reproduced with permission.

Cover imagery:

front © Duncan1890 via istockphoto

back: CC, NASA ,Lightning across the sky with Shuttle at launch pad on 08/30/1983,KSC, FL

Book and cover design: Vladimir Verano, Vertvolta Press

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The publisher wishes to thank Mark Teppo, all the bookseller-artists, and Jessica Levey for their work in bringing this project to fruition.

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Published in the United States

by Vertvolta Press

2614 California Ave SW #236, Seattle, WA 98116

Contents

Introduction

Untitled

Preface

Volume 1

Letter I

Letter II

Letter III

Letter IV

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Volume 2

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Volume 3

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

About Mark Teppo

About Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

Other books by Vertvolta Press

Introduction

Listen, I’m going to tell you a story. More than one, perhaps, but that’s okay, because that’s how bookselling works. Booksellers are like hummingbirds and sellers of snake oil remedies—notorious for both our sleight-of-hand and our hyperbole. People get starry-eyed about the first part of our job description, and neglect to pay attention to the latter part.

Anyway, don’t watch my fingers. Listen to my words. Here. Let’s start by talking about that first moment. The one that defines everything that comes after. It’s that moment which perks up our senses, that makes us realize that we are alive. It’s that in illo tempore moment (to steal a phrase from Eliade’s discussion of religion and the sacred, because that is what we are talking about, isn’t it?).

It’s that light you see in a bookseller’s eyes when they say, "Oh, what? You haven’t read that book? Oh, let me get you a copy right now."

We know we can’t have that initial moment again, but we know a vicarious reminder of that instant can be had through you. That is the sacred connection drawn between seller and reader, between dreamer and the one who hasn’t yet dreamed. That connection between possibility and actuality. This is, after all, why we seek to revisit that cosmological moment of creation, again and again.

Bookselling is an indelible part of that circular tradition. It is the beginning of a conversation: Here, read this, and then come back and talk about it. And while some books are nothing more than artfully—and artlessly—disguised polemics, most are meant to leave the reader with questions. They are meant to change your world in some fashion. They mean to rip back the curtain and reveal some of the secret gears of the universe. And it is the role of the booksellers to take your hand and show you the way. To be there when you come back with starry eyes and questions on your lips.

It is said of booksellers that we are writers who haven’t written, or that we are—gasp!—unpublished hacks. And that may be true, but it glosses over the fire in our hearts, that fire that makes us seek out the ratty pulp, the worn leather cover, the torn dust jacket that hints of faded glory. That fire that makes us rush up to complete strangers and thrust a book in their hands. Read this! Read this! We might even chase you down the street, waving that hardback we know you want. We’ll sling it in your car when you’re trying to pull away. We’ll hide it in your sack of groceries.

And now, using modern techniques of ancient practices, we can create editions of books that we love, and we can fill them with pretty pictures. Not all booksellers are hacks, after all, and some have skill with pencil and brush. What better way to present the booksellers’ preferred edition than to do so with illustrations?

So, come closer. I want to share a story with you. One with words and pictures. It’s the story of a man who dared to steal from the gods, and of the curse that was put on him for his daring. It’s a story filled with violence and darkness. It’s a story about what happens after that first breath, all the way up to our last.

It’s a story about monsters, though not all of the monsters are who you think they are . . .

First published anonymously in 1818, Frankenstein (or, The Modern Prometheus, to frame the story more accurately to its true intent) is not only a morality tale and a ghost story, but it’s also the first science fiction novel as well as a bit of subversive revolutionary feminism. It paves the way for Octavia E. Butler’s Kindred, Ursula le Guin’s The Left Hand of Darkness, and N. K. Jemisin’s Broken Earth trilogy. It splits the world open, tries to fix it again, and puts the resultant creation in our hands. Make what you will of this, the author says, But you cannot go back to the way you were.

See? This moment. Where everything is now split into What Was Before and What Will Come Next. And you, at this nexus, caught in that liminal space between ignorance and knowing.

Frankenstein is about knowledge, bought dear, if you will, by knowing the difference between good and ill. When Victor Frankenstein—the world’s first mad scientist, when you get right down to it—decides to create life in the laboratory, he is crossing a line none have dared cross. He is like that fallen star of the morning in John Milton’s epic poem, Paradise Lost, who decides, in a pique of assumed free will, that he will not spend eternity in chains. Lucifer will not be trapped by the narrative assigned to him by God. No, the shackles of villainy are not for him. He sets out to create a new identity for himself. He wants to craft a new narrative, one that will change the world. So, too, is the ineffable goal sought by Victor Frankenstein: the world will not be the same once he has done what he aims to do.

And yet, when he is confronted by his creation, he recoils. He is repulsed by the face he sees. He rejects his child of scientific inquiry. And his creation, in turn, reacts as any child would when it is told that it is unwanted, that it will receive no love from its parents. It rebels. It lashes out. It murders, because it cannot bear the role in which it has been cast, and it knows no other way to find itself. There is no time to prepare a face for the faces it will meet.

In her 1831 introduction to Frankenstein, Mary Shelley rewrites her own history, setting the origin of the novel in a dream that occurred while she was vacationing with the leading Romantic poets of the age, Percy Bysshe Shelley (who was her lover, but not yet her husband) and Lord Byron. It’s quite likely that Samuel Taylor Coleridge was present in spirit (his poem, Kubulai Khan may, in hindsight, be the source of Mary’s dream about how the novel came to her). By this time, Shelley was destitute, derided, and very much in the need for some clever spin to make her narrative more palatable for a generation that wasn’t ready for women to cast aspersions on the societal norms regarding the sexes.

Shelley was educated. She was literate. She wrote a novel about the hubris of seeking knowledge. She created a character with an identity that was utterly malleable—who it would become was entirely in the hands of the other characters in the novel, and in the hands of the readers as well. Though, as time went on, she came to realize that, much like the mad doctor of her novel, she had given life to something she could not control, regardless of her efforts to recontextualize it later.

For many years, Shelley’s efforts to reframe the narrative about her book were successful. We believed the it was all a crazy dream origin story. We believed the story of a star-struck girl, caught up in literary luminaries who shone so brightly around her. We let Shelley recast herself as the accidental author—one who had help from her betters (who were all dead by this time, and on their way to being canonized in the halls of literature, so who could blame her, really?).

In truth, however, Mary Shelley was the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft, who wrote A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, a copy of which was never far away when young Mary was growing up. Shelley imagined something far grander than any of the bright stars who were there that night that Lord Byron proposed they all try their hand at writing a ghost story. Shelley, cast out by her father on account of eloping to Europe with the then-married Percy Bysshe Shelley, wrote a novel filled with arrogance and hubris, callous indifference towards one’s wards, and unchecked ambition.

In short, she wrote a book about the men of her generation, and about what happens when you don’t have strong female characters.

The Mary Shelley of 1818 was a sharp-tongued woman, slightly naïve perhaps, but in possession of a fierce independence and a passion to exert it. That woman wrote a book that challenged everything around her: from the current views of science; to the stifling social norms that viewed women as lesser; to an informed discussion about empathy and compassion (and lack thereof). All issues that we are still wrestling with today.

By 1831, that woman had been ground down by society, and when she returned to that vibrant creation of her youth, she sought to temper its fire. She sought to file off the sharp edges, and remove those points on which her readers had pricked themselves time and again. She wanted to turn the conversation back to the book itself and the ideas it offered, but it is very difficult to regain control of a narrative that is no longer yours (something that Victor learned to his endless regret, during the course of the novel).

It falls upon us, the booksellers and the readers, to revisit Mary Shelley’s creation and see it in the way it was originally intended.

So, yes, this story of monsters and monstrosity. I would say that it is a love story, because they are all, aren’t they, in the end? Though, in this one, there wasn’t enough love, which led to a great deal of suffering. And in that suffering, perhaps we can see something of who we are, who we want to be, and how to choose the better path.

Listen. Look. And let us talk afterward.

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—Mark Teppo

A Good Book

Sumner, WA

October 2018

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 developes; 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 of the enervating effects of the novels of the present day, and to the exhibitions 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.

Volume One

Frankenstein or, the Modern Prometheus. In Three Volumes

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 phaenomena 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 wrapt 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,