I just finished Frankenstein for the second time in my life today. It is equal parts frustrating and compelling. It frustrates me because, as a piece of fiction, as writing-art, it is lacking. Verbose and Romantic (not the Drew Barrymore kind; closer to the 'slit-my-wrists-I'm-emo' kind), its eponymous protagonist, Victor Frankenstein, is a whiner, a louse, a self-absorbed sissy. He's really hard to like, so I don't even bother trying. By the end of the novel, I'm so tired of hearing him groan and moan about how miserable he is, about how he's tried so hard to kill what he's created, about how horrible his life is...I just want the creature to show up and take him out. Put me out of his misery.
It compels me, however and more importantly, because the questions that it raises are persistent, profound, and perplexing. I had my students (with whom I am reading the novel) write down questions as they read that could lead to a discussion. I knew that there would be times when the students couldn't come up with something (although we never really had too much of an issue with that), so I would write down questions in the margins as I went along. Generally, I won't mark up a book. It's almost anathema to me. But, for the sake of the class, I did it this time.
Almost every page has a question on it. "Why would the monster feel this way?" "What is hope?" "Why is his visage what makes him fearful?" Questions like these popped up again and again throughout the text. Frankenstein may be a whiner, but his story is riveting.
Perhaps the most distressing part of the whole experience came from the recognition that the intended, Victorian- and Romantic-era reader would have fully and expressly empathized with Frankenstein, agreeing with the creator's abhorrence for his hideous creation. They would have been like Captain Walton, saddened that Frankenstein died, that a paragon of the species could have degenerated so grievously. Yet modern (and post-modern) readers look at the monster as the most intriguing part of the story. It seems most contemporary readers hold Frankenstein in disdain, while lamenting that such a marvelous creation would be spurned for (of all things) how ugly he is.
Brigham, my fellow teacher, believes it has something to do with the monster's eyes. In the fifth chapter, when the monster is actually created, quite a bit of emphasis is put on describing the water eyes. According to Brigham, it is that one aspect of the creature that convinces Frankenstein that what he has done is a monstrosity, deserving only abandonment, scorn, derision, contumely, and wretchedness (to use some of the verbiage of the book); indeed, this could be seen as tantamount to pre-Civil War philosophy toward African-Americans--what they looked like equals how they should be considered, with those who appear fair treated fairly while those who appear hideous receive hideous treatment. And perhaps, going along with the previous point of sympathizing with Victor, we see how the world's perception of the Other has changed in these ironically considered Enlightened times.
Interesting stuff. I look forward to what my class got out of the novel, an experience that commences tomorrow.
It compels me, however and more importantly, because the questions that it raises are persistent, profound, and perplexing. I had my students (with whom I am reading the novel) write down questions as they read that could lead to a discussion. I knew that there would be times when the students couldn't come up with something (although we never really had too much of an issue with that), so I would write down questions in the margins as I went along. Generally, I won't mark up a book. It's almost anathema to me. But, for the sake of the class, I did it this time.
Almost every page has a question on it. "Why would the monster feel this way?" "What is hope?" "Why is his visage what makes him fearful?" Questions like these popped up again and again throughout the text. Frankenstein may be a whiner, but his story is riveting.
Perhaps the most distressing part of the whole experience came from the recognition that the intended, Victorian- and Romantic-era reader would have fully and expressly empathized with Frankenstein, agreeing with the creator's abhorrence for his hideous creation. They would have been like Captain Walton, saddened that Frankenstein died, that a paragon of the species could have degenerated so grievously. Yet modern (and post-modern) readers look at the monster as the most intriguing part of the story. It seems most contemporary readers hold Frankenstein in disdain, while lamenting that such a marvelous creation would be spurned for (of all things) how ugly he is.
Brigham, my fellow teacher, believes it has something to do with the monster's eyes. In the fifth chapter, when the monster is actually created, quite a bit of emphasis is put on describing the water eyes. According to Brigham, it is that one aspect of the creature that convinces Frankenstein that what he has done is a monstrosity, deserving only abandonment, scorn, derision, contumely, and wretchedness (to use some of the verbiage of the book); indeed, this could be seen as tantamount to pre-Civil War philosophy toward African-Americans--what they looked like equals how they should be considered, with those who appear fair treated fairly while those who appear hideous receive hideous treatment. And perhaps, going along with the previous point of sympathizing with Victor, we see how the world's perception of the Other has changed in these ironically considered Enlightened times.
Interesting stuff. I look forward to what my class got out of the novel, an experience that commences tomorrow.
Comments