Frankenstein by Mary Shelley (Book Review)

Frankenstein (1818) by Mary Shelley is one of the most thrilling, haunting, and poignant books I have ever read.

Forget spending money on the latest Ban Drown, Kephen Sting, or Pames Jatterson (at least for now) if you haven’t read Frankenstein. The most heart-pumping, heart-wrenching, soul-destroying, life-affirming work of beauty is available to read completely free right now. That’s if you choose the ebook version. If you go for paperback, it’s a few bucks and a complete bargain.

**If you only read one classic novel this year, make it Frankenstein.**

If you need some convincing, I’ll give you five reasons why you should read Frankenstein, then we’ll get into this review and look at some of the book’s most compelling themes and quotes.

5 reasons you should read Frankenstein:

It’s short. The first edition is about 240 pages. Read just 10 pages a day and you’ll finish the book in less than a month.
It’s a fast read. The pacing, the plot, the tension, the need to find out “what happens” will make you gobble this book up in a flash.
It’s not that difficult. For a book written in 1818, Frankenstein reads remarkably contemporary. Mary Shelley is a master writer and knows how to write a beautiful sentence but she rarely becomes convoluted in the way that many other classics are.
You will be moved. It is extraordinarily difficult not to feel compassion, empathy, and sympathy in painful quantities when reading Frankenstein.
It will sink into your life. Frankenstein is a cautionary moral tale that will force you to reconsider how you treat people or prejudge people.

If you haven’t read Frankenstein, reading over some of the elements that made the deepest impression upon me might convince you further. Don’t worry about spoilers. You probably know the gist of the story (after all, it’s made it’s way into every corner of pop culture) but you might not know the ending. I won’t give that away here.

If you’ve already read Frankenstein, let me know if these themes resonated with you as well. If you need to write an essay or book review on Frankenstein for school, I’d highly recommend focusing in on a few of these elements.

Steady purpose does not always tranquillise the mind

Right at the beginning of Frankenstein, the narrator who presents us with the story of Frankenstein, Walton, writes this in a letter to his sister, Margaret:

nothing contributes so much to tranquillize the mind as a steady purpose,—a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye.

When you first begin reading Frankenstein, you’re inclined to agree with Walton.

It makes sense, doesn’t it?

Being steady in your purpose has a calming effect because you feel like you’re doing something that matters, something you were made for, something that might even benefit the world.

But the deeper you get into Frankenstein, the more you realise that this is a pithy but erroneous soundbite.

It sounds good. It sounds logical.

Yet it’s not true.

Victor Frankenstein’s purpose of animating a figure built from the parts of corpses was steady.

His pursuit of the monster and vow to destroy it was steady.

But his mind was anything but tranquil. In short, Frankenstein was a nervous wreck.

I’m sure a steady purpose can tranquillise the mind. But I believe it’s entirely dependent on the nature of the purpose and whether it aligns with your moral compass.

You can also have a steady purpose that you believe in but you later discover to be a mistake.

Even with a good steady purpose like philanthropy, the arts, or the advancement of science and technology, your mind can be wracked with self-doubt and anxiety.

Education can be dangerous.

Whole books could be written on the subject of education in Frankenstein.

Frankenstein talks about his childhood education and gives a view that application is the way in which to deeply impress knowledge upon the mind.

We learned Latin and English, that we might read the writings in those languages; and so far from study being made odious to us through punishment, we loved application, and our amusements would have been the labours of other children. Perhaps we did not read so many books, or learn languages so quickly, as those who are disciplined according to the ordinary methods; but what we learned was impressed the more deeply on our memories.

Again, because this comes near the beginning of Frankenstein, we can be forgiven for thinking this is a pretty sound pedagogical philosophy.

But if the material one is learning is dangerous, or the individual doing the learning has a dangerous purpose, do we really want to impress this learning deep into our memories?

Choose the wrong thing to teach and ensure it stays seared into the brains of impressionable mistaken youths… And you may just have a problem on your hands.

We can also see in Frankenstein the idea that one erroneous statement implanted in the mind can spark a whole chain reaction of desires.

That is some Inception shit right there.

Frankenstein’s spark comes from his interactions with his teacher’s at university. There are two teachers, one who inadvertently nurtures Frankenstein’s desires, one who does not.

The teachers aren’t to blame as Frankenstein brings a paradigm of judging people based on appearance and attitude and uses that as a lens to judge their worth as educators and dispensers of ideas (this theme of judging and prejudging is strong throughout the book).

Frankenstein discards Krempe’s teachings based not on merit alone but based on the figure delivering them:

M. Krempe was a little squat man, with a gruff voice and repulsive countenance; the teacher, therefore, did not prepossess me in favour of his doctrine.

The more we read into Frankenstein, the more we question Frankenstein’s intelligence.

Animating the dead might require one kind of intelligence, but our central protagonist is severely lacking in another kind of intelligence:

Self-awareness.

He tries to convince us of this bullshit:

The labours of men of genius, however erroneously directed, scarcely ever fail in ultimately turning to the solid advantage of mankind.

Is that true?

If you’ve reached the end of Frankenstein, let me know your thoughts on that one…

I can rattle of a list of names of so-called “men of genius” (at least they would call themselves that) who have recently been indicted for serious crimes that did not turn to the “solid advantage of mankind”.

Frankenstein, as a character, is incredibly detestable.

I’m not sure there is another character in the entirety of literature I have hated so much.

I’m convinced that the reason I find him so repulsive is because he lacks self-awareness and yet still has the gall to call himself intelligent.

He is a hypocrite and a coward of the highest order.

His bullshit advice is endless:

A human being in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and peaceful mind, and never to allow passion or a transitory desire to disturb his tranquillity.

Now there’s nothing wrong with that advice but…

Frankenstein himself cannot take his own advice.

Doesn’t that make you question the advice itself?

What we’re witnessing as we watch Frankenstein’s fall – and make no mistake, the entire book is a strong allusion to Milton’s Paradise Lost (Shelley even started her first edition with a quote from the epic poem) – is every thinking person’s worst nightmare.

Frankenstein slaved away for two years on a passion project that he believed would benefit mankind because of one thought that consumed his every waking moment…

And when he completed his work, he felt not pride but disgust.

I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart.

There are, of course, glimmers of self-awareness in Frankenstein when he implores us to learn from his mistakes:

Learn from me, if not by my precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge, and how much happier that man is who believes his native town to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature will allow.

We can see Frankenstein as a cautionary tale as Frankenstein continues to warn us about the pursuit of knowledge:

If the study to which you apply yourself has a tendency to weaken your affections, and to destroy your taste for those simple pleasures in which no alloy can possibly mix, then that study is certainly unlawful, that is to say, not befitting the human mind.

Sometimes, when in the midst of deepest meditations, Frankenstein shows self-awareness:

if no man allowed any pursuit whatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity of his domestic affections, Greece had not been enslaved; Caesar would have spared his country; America would have been discovered more gradually; and the empires of Mexico and Peru had not been destroyed.

But is knowledge itself really to blame?

Frankenstein’s monster also seems to blame knowledge. He’s an intelligent being, knows hatred is wrong, believes in virtue…

To be a great and virtuous man appeared the highest honour that can befall a sensitive being; to be base and vicious, as many on record have been, appeared the lowest degradation, a condition more abject than that of the blind mole or harmless worm. For a long time I could not conceive how one man could go forth to murder his fellow, or even why there were laws and governments; but when I heard details of vice and bloodshed, my wonder ceased, and I turned away with disgust and loathing.

And yet the monster falls back on this idea that “knowledge clings to the mind”:

Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind, when it has once seized on it, like a lichen on the rock. I wished sometimes to shake off all thought and feeling; but I learned that there was but one means to overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death—a state which I feared yet did not understand. I admired virtue and good feelings, and loved the gentle manners and amiable qualities of my cottagers; but I was shut out from intercourse with them, except through means which I obtained by stealth, when I was unseen and unknown, and which rather increased than satisfied the desire I had of becoming one among my fellows. The gentle words of Agatha, and the animated smiles of the charming Arabian, were not for me. The mild exhortations of the old man, and the lively conversation of the loved Felix, were not for me. Miserable, unhappy wretch!

What do you see in that passage?

Is knowledge really to blame?

Or should the blame be thrown at man?

The barbarity of man.

That’s a phrase from the monster himself (though I wish I didn’t have to call him a ‘monster’):

I retreated, and lay down, happy to have found a shelter, however miserable, from the inclemency of the season, and still more from the barbarity of man.

The monster has been locked out of heaven by the barbarity of man.

Whilst Frankenstein is the most detestable character I have ever encountered in literature, the monster is the most sympathetic character I have ever encountered.

I’m sure anyone who has read Frankenstein has thought the same as me, and the sentiment is likely a cliché by now, but Frankenstein truly is the monster.

But not just Frankenstein…

The whole of mankind is monstrous and responsible for creating the monster.

The monster is actually an intelligent gentle man of feeling who wants only love.

We the reader watch Frankenstein in much the same way that Frankenstein watches humans in secret through the windows of their home.

And the way the lives of humans moves the monster, moves us in equal measure.

I felt sensations of a peculiar and over-powering nature: they were a mixture of pain and pleasure, such as I had never before experienced, either from hunger or cold, warmth or food; and I withdrew from the window, unable to bear these emotions.

The monster’s empathy makes us sympathise with him.

He is able to see hardship and feel the pain of others as though it were his own.

He cares for these people and wants to understand why they cry in, I believe, the hopes of being able to halt their tears:

They were not entirely happy. The young man and his companion often went apart, and appeared to weep. I saw no cause for their unhappiness; but I was deeply affected by it. If such lovely creatures were miserable, it was less strange that I, an imperfect and solitary being, should be wretched. Yet why were these gentle beings unhappy? They possessed a delightful house (for such it was in my eyes), and every luxury; they had a fire to warm them when chill, and delicious viands when hungry; they were dressed in excellent clothes; and, still more, they enjoyed one another’s company and speech, interchanging each day looks of affection and kindness. What did their tears imply? Did they really express pain? I was at first unable to solve these questions; but perpetual attention, and time, explained to me many appearances which were at first enigmatic.

When the monster discovers the cause of their distress as being poverty, he endeavours to help them in secrecy.

He knows they will be startled at his appearance, so he helps them without revealing himself and with no thoughts of reward in mind.

Service to mankind is reward enough for the monster:

A considerable period elapsed before I discovered one of the causes of the uneasiness of this amiable family; it was poverty; and they suffered that evil in a very distressing degree. Their nourishment consisted entirely of the vegetables of their garden, and the milk of one cow, who gave very little during the winter, when its masters could scarcely procure food to support it. They often, I believe, suffered the pangs of hunger very poignantly, especially the two younger cottagers; for several times they placed food before the old man, when they reserved none for themselves.

This trait of kindness moved me sensibly. I had been accustomed, during the night, to steal a part of their store for my own consumption; but when I found that in doing this I inflicted pain on the cottagers, I abstained, and satisfied myself with berries, nuts, and roots, which I gathered from a neighbouring wood.

I discovered also another means through which I was enabled to assist their labours. I found that the youth spent a great part of each day in collecting wood for the family fire; and, during the night, I often took his tools, the use of which I quickly discovered, and brought home firing sufficient for the consumption of several days.

I remember, the first time that I did this, the young woman, when she opened the door in the morning, appeared greatly astonished on seeing a great pile of wood on the outside. She uttered some words in a loud voice, and the youth joined her, who also expressed surprise. I observed, with pleasure, that he did not go to the forest that day, but spent it in repairing the cottage, and cultivating the garden.

Why is the monster so sympathetic?

The monster is an outsider looking in.

We can all sympathise with that.

We know what it’s like to be outside of a group and we have either experienced being rejected from a group, not accepted in the first place, or at least been plagued by the anxiety caused by thinking rejection is a possibility.

All men reject the monster…

Even his creator rejects him.

Abhorred monster! fiend that thou art! the tortures of hell are too mild a vengeance for thy crimes. Wretched devil! you reproach me with your creation; come on then, that I may extinguish the spark which I so negligently bestowed.

Imagine being born unloved, unwanted, and abandoned.

Then everywhere you went, you were met with horror and hatred.

When you finally return to your parent, they wish to kill you.

That’s the monster’s dilemma in a nutshell.

“I expected this reception,” said the dæmon. “All men hate the wretched; how then must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all living things! Yet you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature, to whom thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by the annihilation of one of us. You purpose to kill me. How dare you sport thus with life? Do your duty towards me, and I will do mine towards you and the rest of mankind. If you will comply with my conditions, I will leave them and you at peace; but if you refuse, I will glut the maw of death, until it be satiated with the blood of your remaining friends.”

The monster only turns bad when he has been rejected so many times.

All he wants is love and yet no one will give it to him.

The monster is a kid from a single-parent home, unwanted by everyone.

Now he’s acting out.

But with a good reason:

Unfeeling, heartless creator! you had endowed me with perceptions and passions, and then cast me abroad an object for the scorn and horror of mankind.

We all knew someone like that at school.

Someone who uses violence because they really want love.

It’s no mistake that Shelley continuously contrasts imagery of heat and ice:

One day, when I was oppressed by cold, I found a fire which had been left by some wandering beggars, and was overcome with delight at the warmth I experienced from it. In my joy I thrust my hand into the live embers, but quickly drew it out again with a cry of pain. How strange, I thought, that the same cause should produce such opposite effects!

Polar opposites like love and hate, two emotions that entirely govern the monster.

In addition to the recurring symbols of fire and ice, Frankenstein is filled with sublime and beautiful imagery.

**The sublime and beautiful in Frankenstein.**

We see the sublime and beautiful through Frankenstein’s eyes as he sees great scenes of nature:

Power and serenity coexisting in scenes like Mont Blanc:

We pursued our journey upon mules; and as we ascended still higher, the valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character. Ruined castles hanging on the precipices of piny mountains; the impetuous Arve, and cottages every here and there peeping forth from among the trees, formed a scene of singular beauty. But it was augmented and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps, whose white and shining pyramids and domes towered above all, as belonging to another earth, the habitations of another race of beings.

These sublime and magnificent scenes afforded me the greatest consolation that I was capable of receiving. They elevated me from all littleness of feeling

The sight of the awful and majestic in nature had indeed always the effect of solemnizing my mind, and causing me to forget the passing cares of life.

But Frankenstein is blind to the sublime and beautiful in his own creation.

The monster is sublimity itself with his appearance of power, instilling fear. But his mind, sentiments, intelligence, and delicacy of desire and emotion are beautiful.

Yet there’s an imbalance. His beauty is ignored, practically destroyed, and sublimity rises up with the monster indulging only his awe-inspiring, powerful, fear-inducing side.

Read more about the sublime and beautiful:

We know in reading Frankenstein that it is the creator and mankind that were responsible for the devastating behaviour of the monster.

But the question is why?

It comes down to prejudgement.

Frankenstein is a cautionary moral tale about the dangers of prejudgement.

People make up their minds about the monster before he has even done anything to warrant their opinions.

After William is murdered, Frankenstein says this:

A flash of lightning illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me; its gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect, more hideous than belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the filthy dæmon, to whom I had given life. What did he there? Could he be (I shuddered at the conception) the murderer of my brother? No sooner did that idea cross my imagination, than I became convinced of its truth; my teeth chattered, and I was forced to lean against a tree for support. The figure passed me quickly, and I lost it in the gloom. Nothing in human shape could have destroyed that fair child. He was the murderer! I could not doubt it. The mere presence of the idea was an irresistible proof of the fact.

Once again, Frankenstein is showing that animating a stitched-together collection of corpses is only one form of intelligence.

In addition to severely lacking self-awareness, Frankenstein is also completely devoid of emotional intelligence.

He prejudges the monster and basically says his ugly appearance is proof enough of him being a murderer.

This theme alone is why Frankenstein has the power to move readers to tears two-hundred years after it was written.

Us humans will always continue to wrestle with ideas of acceptance, rejection, prejudgement, and prejudice.

Why else is The Greatest Showman making a killing at the box office?

Frankenstein is also a tale of victimisation.

But the book becomes all the more difficult when, despite feeling overwhelming empathy for the monster, we begin to wonder how much the monster himself is to blame for his fare in life.

Let’s be honest, the monster didn’t do much to help his cause, did he?

I agree with the pain in his words as he speaks of the injustice and cruelty he has been born into:

“You are in the wrong,” replied the fiend; “and, instead of threatening, I am content to reason with you. I am malicious because I am miserable; am I not shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator, would tear me to pieces, and triumph; remember that, and tell me why I should pity man more than he pities me? You would not call it murder, if you could precipitate me into one of those ice-rifts, and destroy my frame, the work of your own hands. Shall I respect man, when he contemns me? Let him live with me in the interchange of kindness, and, instead of injury, I would bestow every benefit upon him with tears of gratitude at his acceptance. But that cannot be; the human senses are insurmountable barriers to our union. Yet mine shall not be the submission of abject slavery. I will revenge my injuries: if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear; and chiefly towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator, do I swear inextinguishable hatred. Have a care: I will work at your destruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart, so that you curse the hour of your birth.”

I can’t help but be reminded of Shylock’s famous “I am a Jew” speech from Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice.

Yet how much sympathy should we feel for the monster when his solution is revenge, despite a deep understanding that it is wrong?

Both Frankenstein and the monster ignore their potential redemptions.

Frankenstein wanted to help mankind but was blind to the fact that he could do so by helping his monster.

I had begun life with benevolent intentions, and thirsted for the moment when I should put them in practice, and make myself useful to my fellow-beings. Now all was blasted: instead of that serenity of conscience, which allowed me to look back upon the past with self-satisfaction, and from thence to gather promise of new hopes, I was seized by remorse and the sense of guilt, which hurried me away to a hell of intense tortures, such as no language can describe.

He could have also avoided his own intense pain and the deaths of others had he not rushed to prejudge the monster and instead teach him love by example.

The monster too could have taken a leaf out Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning (review here) and understood that his environmental conditions need not govern his response.

But we could debate this endlessly.

Frankenstein is a fascinating piece of art and I’m already going to reread it.

Then I’m going to follow the story out into the wider expanse of literature, like an estuary making its way to sea, and check these books off my list:

You can read Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein here.

All quotes are taken from: Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein (AmazonClassics Edition)

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