I love it when you read a piece of literature and it somehow just sweeps you away. For me, that it what it was like reading Frankenstein. It's not the story itself-- it's the gloriously poetic way that the language takes you on a journey, both through the mind of a broken young scientist, and through geography.
I mean, don't get me wrong, I loved the story. I thought the story was fascinating and captivating and dramatic, and I appreciate how incredibly different it is from the pop-culture Frankenstein with which we are all familiar. It's intriguing, deep, and asks questions that probe into the very nature of humanity. It's not about a groaning, drooling monster throwing little girls into rivers. It's a malformed, sympathetic being with his own inner struggles. And that's pretty epic. I wish that it was a more widely read book, because it deserves the attention.
But I digress-- I actually don't want to talk about the story, I want to talk about the world. In class today, we spoke about the Romantics and their obsession with the sublime: the unbridled, untamed, raw, exhilarating forces of nature. This is a major theme throughout Frankenstein. Throughout the book, Victor Frankenstein effectively takes a tour through Europe, and Shelley uses all the characteristics of the landscape to express the inner moods of the character as he evolves from an innocent young child to a tortured soul on the brink of madness.
For example, as Frankenstein recalls his childhood (or, actually, any recollection of happiness), he always mentions the beauty of the mountains and the placid blue lake. They become the symbols of peace and safety, to which he clings with fondness. In greatest opposition to this inviting scene, perhaps, is the small house in Scotland to which he retreats when trying to build a mate for his monster. When he arrives, the building is small, dilapidated, and weather-beaten, a tiny shack on a rock surrounded by a harsh, roaring ocean. The people who live around it are cold and hardened, affected by want and starvation for their entire lives. Fittingly, at this point, Victor Frankenstein is himself in a tortured and desperate state, so full of misery and hatred that he would welcome even his own death to stop his pain.
There are so many other examples of Shelley using the environment to tell the story in the richest ways... The misty crags where he meets the monster for the first time, dangerous and mysterious and desperate. The thunderstorms that captivate and pique the interest of the young Frankenstein, echoing a fearlessness towards the power of nature. Frankenstein submitting to the stillness and silence of the ocean at nighttime, as he resolves to his new conviction despite his inevitable fate. The power of the weather is astonishing. Even the monster feels and describes it, as he relates how his emotions were affected by the passage of the seasons. The list goes on and on.
There were occasionally moments when I read Victor describing the landscape along a river, or pointing out a particular mountain in the distance, and I innerly groaned for him to hurry it up and get to the story. I think about half that book was landscape, 1/4th of it self-pity, and the final part actual plotline. But in retrospect, I appreciate all that rich imagery. In a way, it was what truly gave the story its power.
