Frankenstein

Frankenstein: The Modern Prometheus Review

Kiran Fane

It was in the newspaper, not but a few days past, that I saw a quote from Mary Shelley. 

"Nothing contributes so much to tranquilize the mind as as steady purpose- a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye.”

As I held one of her books in my hand, I thought of the rarity of such a quotation. Through all the years, her works have flown in, carried aloft on gusts and faint gales of popularity. It seems, now more than ever, she has been begotten by the boisterous throng of modern literature and publishing practices which, by virtue of their clamorous noise, drown out all predecessors. Perhaps then this sighting was mere serendipitous chance or maybe it speaks to the timelessness of Mary's writing that so many readers still ardently adore. And I am glad to count myself among those erudite readers.

The quote above hails from Frankenstein: The Modern Prometheus. Understandable as it is, I daresay objectively, her most popular story. Though I myself offer Frankenstein an effusive stream of well-deserved commendations, I would contend that her later works demand not only the applause of flatterers, but also a more studious exploration. With consideration to the fact that many before me have explored the works finer points in precise detail, I will here remark my thoughts on the general construction of Frankenstein.

Following along with the practices of the brilliant character, Doctor Victor Frankenstein, I am consumed wholly by fascination of the actions which this story recounts. With each new page deep internal contemplations are presented and explored through Mary Shelley's characteristically intellectual prose. Though I confess to feeling, at times, that Frankenstein reads almost too quickly, with sentences striking too boldly at their point by whichever path proved most direct. A criticism born perhaps from my deep admiration for the prose of her later works which sacrifices no artistry in its pursuit of intellect. Even this critique is tempered somewhat by the way in which this directness mirrors the toils of the monster's own toilsome struggles. Had I begun my reading somehow unarmed with an understanding of the premise of the work, then I would not contest that more time spent with the characters prior to the the monster's animation could only serve to enhance the story.

The revelations that follow reveal make plain the reason for Mary Shelley's status as a luminary. I do not believe I need go on at length about her obvious skill as a writer, though I will most certainly do so when next I corner one of my more presently available acquaintances. Here I will instead focus on the sentiment of the work and the impressions left upon me by her words.

As I read I was, in turn, fascinated, absorbed, and ultimately taken down into the darkness alongside the characters. Carried there by Mary Shelley's prose to explore the deepest fathoms of human nature. Like the inexorable march of the radiant sun to a dim night cloaked in clouds, Mary Shelley's works never fail to carry the conscious reader down a path which leads directly to the soul. A fact which lends strongly to her skill at expressing the prominence of life, death, and the running of all between. The events of Frankenstein can not avoid delivering a sharp emotional impact, but there is a meaning to be found within that serves to soften the blow. It is a worthy read, more-so in fact. But still it is a torment when death claims the story's primary role and it is natural in all peoples that we should shy from this pain with all our strength. New life wakens and I am drawn back, again and again, into this story of drama and chaos. 

At the last I am left pondering over the vices and virtues of humanity. For Victor- wrath and charity, for the monster- avarice and hope.