Frankenstein: A Human Story
Reading Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein in the 21st century and for the first time, I am amazed by the self-awareness rendered by her characters. It’s not only the knowledge of self that is impressive, but its intuitiveness and spontaneity in Victor Frankenstein’s narrative. The author’s descriptive ability speaks to a spectacular capacity in empathising with her characters. It must also be a reflection of a characteristic attribute in applying to her self a tremendous formula for self-analysis. Obviously, it is an impressive mind that writes.
I wonder whether it was the period in which Shelley wrote that gifted her this active self-consciousness, or whether it can be attributed to her own, independent aptitudes.
This feature of the novel so struck me due to its latent absence in our modern world. Perhaps the style rang even louder when juxtaposed to my preceding intercourse with literature – Bret Easton Ellis’ minimalistic Less Than Zero, whose content and style so properly illustrate this lacking. Ellis is a master of characters devoid of connection to themselves or to their world, and he has seen his works reach cult status because of it. His masterpiece, American Psycho, was made into a hit feature film in 2000. In fact, this lack of awareness, or, rather, disconnection with self, whose reverse is taken as granted in Shelley’s writing, has become a popular contemporary style.
These grim themes surely resonate strongly with readers. Proof is unfettered by examples. Chuck Palahniuk, author of Fight Club and Choke, saw his popularity surge with the release of Fight Club as a feature film starring Brad Pitt. The uptake of his themes – of fragmented identity and the urge to rage against a purported trap of modernity – by the masses speaks to feelings of discontent toward society among its members.
Shelley’s Victor Frankenstein, however, is the opposite of transgressive fiction’s modern misanthropes. He fervently sympathises with himself, wailing against the destruction his creation causes and tangibly pains for redemption.
Frankenstein comes from the opposite of the broken homes of Ellis’ and Palahniuk‘s characters. Raised by a good family under an exceptionally loving roof and experiencing a self-described ‘near perfect childhood,’ Frankenstein values life, the family unit and the virtues of community and society. He bemoans the destruction inadvertently caused by his hands, completely contrary to the complacent voyeurism of Clay, the homicidal rampages of Patrick Bateman and the planned chaos of Tyler Durden.
It is human desolation that is described in all these novels, yet noting the differences in ethical reactions by the character from the 19th century versus those of the 20th century is itself enough to desolate.
Even Frankenstein’s monstrous creation exalts the virtues of a pious disposition. The monster – not even human – recognizes the honour of virtue and morality. His initial guilelessness and his acquired iniquity uncover to the reader the nature of humanity. Apart from his freakish proportions, the monster is essentially human. But after being treated as an ugly creature and persecuted by the prejudice of man, only then does he truly become a monster, his proportions enabling his distraught mind’s desire for destruction.
In Frankenstein, we see what we could become without the acceptance of a community or some sort of belonging. The creature seeks the sympathy and companionship of another. The absence of this connection is what defines him as a monster; his epic proportions and strength are simply tools that enable his superhuman capacity for devastation. Shelley has essentially described the characters of transgressive fiction, though in her society the monster would be a creature; in ours, the monster is believably human.
Reading these opposing works from different eras speaks volumes to a contemporary moral and spiritual crisis. We seem to have a disconnect with ourselves and, therefore, with others. Society is broken and so are its members. It is this unconscious and ruling discomfort that modern writers such as Ellis, Palahniuk and even, Salinger in The Catcher in the Rye touch upon in their works. The promulgation of such contemporary deficiencies is a directive of every noble author and their perception the responsibility of every astute reader.
So vast are the moral differences between Shelley’s protagonist and these modern examples that one cannot help but question the nature of the societies that produced them. The mass appeal of transgressive fiction is but an indication of the problem.
In the film American Psycho, Patrick Bateman’s monologue at a dinner party hits the nail on the head (which, funnily enough, he literally contemplates doing later with a nail gun (pictured below)):
“…We have to end apartheid for one. And slow down the nuclear arms race, stop terrorism and world hunger. We have to provide food and shelter for the homeless, and oppose racial discrimination and promote civil rights, while also promoting equal rights for women. We have to encourage a return to traditional moral values. Most importantly, we have to promote general social concern and less materialism in young people.”
