tl;dr: the original content of「Frankenstein」has, in spite of (or maybe because of) its fame, actually been quite obscured. What it unexpectedly delivers is an engrossing dissection of psychological turmoil, paradoxes in the human condition, and the nature of purpose. It is, at times a bit heavy, at times a bit verbose, but it is also well worth reading. -- ★★★★½

「Frankenstein」is fertile soil for emotional examination with unusual introspective depth; and the book has left me, if not changed, in deep reflection. Indeed, in reflection on reflection itself, for it is a device central to why the book works so well; much of the tension, interest, lies in the distance between objects and their reflections. This is most obvious in the plight of Frankenstein’s monster (the Monster, henceforth), and in the Monster and Frankenstein each as the other’s image; but in a broader sense, the book also acts as a mirror to its own cultural legacy, and a mirror to the reader. Of course the latter two are true of all stories, but few tales have been so thoroughly disfigured by cultural telephone, and few tales are so personal in their demands of the reader.

At first I started back, unable to believe that it was indeed I who was reflected in the mirror; and when I became fully convinced that I was in reality the monster that I am, I was filled with the bitterest sensations of despondence and mortification.

​

- The Monster

The notion of self and identity is recursive and circular, its only grounding found in the reflection; and similarly, the only vision we have into the other is their reflection into space. The trouble is that this window into truth is unreliable and often misleading, yet we have nothing else on which to rely. In「Frankenstein」, the Monster is at first of noble comportment and high ideal; these are the core of its being, and at the heart of its struggle is the discord between this inner nature and its physical manifestation. All who gaze upon it are aghast and repelled. Even it, on staring back upon itself in glassy water, is sickened and recoils. And to twist the dagger that pierces its heart, no excess of virtue can ever deliver it from the immutable disqualification that its visage sentences it to. This dissonance, the chasm between the thing and its image, is in a sense the monster itself.

The harrowing knowledge of this reflective gap does not, on its own however, drive the story forward. What provides intrigue is the inescapability of the reflection. After all, the story is not about the Monster, nor is it about Frankenstein; the story is about Frankenstein and his Monster, inextricably tied and terrible in each other’s sight. Much of the book is exactly about Frankenstein’s retreat into escapism, exactly about the impossibility of such a retreat. If the Monster were not Frankenstein, he would not run. But it is. And it is a blight on humanity. He, above all, cowers with disgust at the Monster because it is the manifestation of crime that is his alone. And it is that he cannot stand to see himself that makes him wish to cast his reflection away, but one cannot elude their own shadow.

Through the events of the book, the reflective tension is resolved, but in the only manner possible: that is, the alignment of the thing to its reflection. Interestingly, in the story, the reflection is the static object onto which the preimage is made to conform. The Monster, unable to bear its own agony, closes the gap by becoming the horror that embodies it. And Frankenstein, in asserting the perfect corruption of his creation, refuses to allow the Monster any other choice, and in doing so is brought by his and the Monster's hand to resemble in desolation, uncharity, and vindictiveness the very detestable thing he wishes to detach himself from.

I personally am not versed in the details of other versions of「Frankenstein」, but from existence in the environs of modern Western culture, it is impossible not to know the general shape of the story which has no doubt achieved ubiquity and universal fame; one must, by osmosis, have formed prior notions of the doctor and his creation. But by an ironic turn, in the process of its ossification into cultural bedrock, such alteration has occurred as to render the original text unrecognizable (a doubly ironic fate for the Monster which, in the novel, is so cursed by preconception). While reading, I found it quickly necessary to unburden myself of the things about the story which I thought I knew, especially with respect to the Monster. It was only after the fact that I came to discover that the tropes most associated with「Frankenstein」were introduced as creative liberty in the story's adaptation and revision (many changes being quite creatively liberal). There is no scientific accident, no bumbling hulk, no bolts or electric reanimation or primal fear of fire. And the eloquence and good nature of the Monster are, at first, wholly unbelievable. And beyond this, Shelley herself revised the book in 1831, and I discovered that much of the ambiguity and moral grayness of the text are distinct to the 1818 edition^[1]. Which brings us to perhaps the story's most powerful use of reflection, which is that of the reader themself.

The Monster is compelling, and even more so in proportion to the extent that it wears the reader's face. The book becomes the pool into which we, ourselves, peer and stare back. Lucky are those who have not before recoiled at the thing beheld in the bathroom mirror every morning, but for those of us who have, the fate of the Monster is all the more painful. And lucky too are those who have not fruitlessly tried to escape themselves and all about their existence which is disgusting, but for those of us who have, the fate of Frankenstein is all the more cautionary. But the reflective quality is far stronger than mere character relatability. The very structure of the writing requires projection onto our soul. After all, we construct a truth and judgement from Walton's letter conveying Frankenstein's recalling of the Monster's oration. We are presented not with the Monster as it is, Frankenstein as he is. The onus of interpretation is explicitly placed upon the shoulders of the reader, and any interpretation will say as much of the reader as it does of the events of the book. The 1818 version of「Frankenstein」is obfuscated in its presentation and unresolved in its moral implication -- qualities lost in its subsequent tailoring. There is no comfortable telling of a hero or villain; both Frankenstein and the Monster are reasonably justified; both Frankenstein and the Monster are terrible. And we have no direct insight into either. My understanding of the book was not an underlying truth handed down from on high. And it seems to me by design that the reader is the one writing the “real” story that dwells beneath the text.

So I guess I'll close with how I've chosen to write the story.「Frankenstein」is about compassion as an essential need. We are presented with the anguish found in the reflection and its misunderstanding, and the things we hate about the reflection are also the things which cannot be changed. For as long as truth is vested in the reflection's untruth, the anguish remains. The reflection itself cannot bend, so the book erases the untruth by the thing becoming as repulsive as its image. From this, however, emerges false and fading fulfillment, nothing beyond ruin and emptiness, anguish in place of anguish. There is but one glimpse the book gives of hope, and it is in the blind De Lacey for whom the Monster's face and frame hold no power of revelation. I am forced to think that if Frankenstein had within him ultimate grace and mercy, the Monster might have been saved from its terrible fate. That if the Monster had within it ultimate grace and mercy, Frankenstein and all those he held dear might have been saved from their terrible fate. But it is impossible to peer beneath the veil and see a thing as it is, and hard to even acknowledge that one only sees a veil. Yet how necessary is it to extend compassion, the kindness that in imperfection is so desperately needed, and most of all to the veiled! No good fortune is promised in exchange, indeed perhaps only even greater pain. But the consequences of the converse are certain misery and disaster in which all must be made to wallow.

「Frankenstein」is, however, so much more than what, in a short post, I am able to communicate, the meanings it admits endless and rich. I hope you might be convinced to give the original, if you haven't already, a read, because you may, like me, find it quite surprising and insightful.

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