“[W]hen I discovered that he, the author at once of my existence and of its unspeakable torments, dared to hope for happiness, that while he accumulated wretchedness and despair upon me he sought his own enjoyment in feelings and passions from the indulgence of which I was for ever barred, then impotent envy and bitter indignation filled me with an insatiable thirst for vengeance. I recollected my threat and resolved that it should be accomplished. I knew that I was preparing for myself a deadly torture, but I was the slave, not the master, of an impulse which I detested yet could not disobey.”
Mary Shelley understands so much about human nature and relationships. Oftentimes individuals toil on their overwrought and arduous tasks night and day – this is all in their intentions that “Passion” and “Mission” are assimilated into one ultimate being. Accomplishment and adulation are the other names with which hard work is rewarded. It is with this spiritual essence, an amalgamation, which sometimes, if unnoticed, leads restless beings astray, malnourished and athirst, and drives them into delirium and detachment from reality. Think of religious fervour and the craze for artistry pursuits of her days – when in extremity, how precarious these little longings of acquisition become a source of destruction in both body and mind.
In this novel, Frankenstein has an inquisitiveness of acquiring scientific knowledge. His assiduity is able to hypothesise, theorise, and actualise something so peerless and mighty that defies all beliefs in his field. With this, he creates an identity that becomes a real-world catastrophe – something which is too monstrous and hideous to be a plausible being. This “demon” only has one course to live – to haunt and destroy his creator by avenging and killing his loved ones – an unstoppable action only when death claims one of the two lives. Repeatedly, alike his unceasing trials and errors, Frankenstein goes through despair, poignancy, and estrangement from his society as he witnesses the lifeless forms befallen in front of his eyes one by one.
In terms of human desire, I might think of a relationship of one fulfilling and one consenting. In nuptial lives, whether a femme covert would one day stand up disagreeing being a silent partner of the ideals and fight for her own rights, to be that femme fatale. This idea could be incorporated as an analogy into Shelley’s novel.
To be honest, Frankenstein, as a novel, is not one of my favourites in terms of its storylines. It is too poignant to behold that becomes at times an irritation. But I really admire the depth that comes along with it; and I certainly agree with others that I would find some new ideas if re-reading it.
Reading & Roaming 