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A review by mercedes
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
dark
sad
fast-paced
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.0
No one can deny the hold Frankenstein has on the public consciousness, even if the knowledge of it is almost entirely understood from the 1931 film that revolutionised the monster's appearance yet oversimplified the plot of the story. So reading—even rereading—the novel can be strange. To begin with, from a contemporary point of view, we are given page after page of mostly uninteresting rambles by Walton, and yet the creation of the monster is told to us after the fact, with little detail, almost glossed over. Any suspension that can be built is through foreshadowing that all but explicitly tells us what is going to happen. It shouldn't work, and yet it does.
It's through said foreshadowing, and eventual circularity, that Walton's letters become interesting. It's through the repeated and ever-present themes within the book that the excitement, wonder, and meaning can be gained. It's hard to pick out what I love most about the book—I won't lie, everything prior to chapter 10 is a little tedious, but chapter 10 is marvellous. The creature's tale of looking in on the cottagers is just an absolute page turner for me. Mary Shelley's use of words, especially in the monster's dialogue, is breathtaking. The way she describes nature! The way that the creature speaks through Victor who speaks through Walton, and how each character parallels one another. But above all, it's the idea that knowledge is a danger that once attained is almost impossible to escape that really resonated with me on this reread.
Recently it's been playing on my mind that the constant onslaught of information I have consumed, particularly information pertaining to social justice, has served no purpose except to make me aware of the miseries in our existence. I cannot alleviate people's suffering or injustices they have faced, so what is the use of knowing about it? Is ignorance really bliss? I'm not sure that knowing all of the intricacies of bigotry and oppression have made me any more accepting than I already was of marginalised people, who before would have just been people but are now fit into neat little boxes in my mind. We further separate and alienate ourselves from others—like Victor Frankenstein. And to what end? Am I really better off for knowing every time a celebrity steps out of line, or a popular creator I've never heard of likes a problematic tweet? I don't think we have evolved far enough to be able to asborb these levels of constant mass-information sharing, and for that reason I have decided to stop browsing social media once again. Ignorance may not be bliss, but like Walton, like Frankenstein, like the creature, sometimes I feel knowledge may not always be bliss either.
It's through said foreshadowing, and eventual circularity, that Walton's letters become interesting. It's through the repeated and ever-present themes within the book that the excitement, wonder, and meaning can be gained. It's hard to pick out what I love most about the book—I won't lie, everything prior to chapter 10 is a little tedious, but chapter 10 is marvellous. The creature's tale of looking in on the cottagers is just an absolute page turner for me. Mary Shelley's use of words, especially in the monster's dialogue, is breathtaking. The way she describes nature! The way that the creature speaks through Victor who speaks through Walton, and how each character parallels one another. But above all, it's the idea that knowledge is a danger that once attained is almost impossible to escape that really resonated with me on this reread.
Recently it's been playing on my mind that the constant onslaught of information I have consumed, particularly information pertaining to social justice, has served no purpose except to make me aware of the miseries in our existence. I cannot alleviate people's suffering or injustices they have faced, so what is the use of knowing about it? Is ignorance really bliss? I'm not sure that knowing all of the intricacies of bigotry and oppression have made me any more accepting than I already was of marginalised people, who before would have just been people but are now fit into neat little boxes in my mind. We further separate and alienate ourselves from others—like Victor Frankenstein. And to what end? Am I really better off for knowing every time a celebrity steps out of line, or a popular creator I've never heard of likes a problematic tweet? I don't think we have evolved far enough to be able to asborb these levels of constant mass-information sharing, and for that reason I have decided to stop browsing social media once again. Ignorance may not be bliss, but like Walton, like Frankenstein, like the creature, sometimes I feel knowledge may not always be bliss either.
Content Warnings
Moderate: Murder, Child death, and Incest