I Read Mary Shelley’s ‘Frankenstein’.

steve cuocci
5 min readJul 4, 2022

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This past February I visited my parents in their new house in Charlotte. I stayed in their little guest room where they had set up a bookshelf, as it was their first month there and they were still trying to get a little bit of furniture in each room as it was a much bigger space than their previous home. I looked through the little library my dad collected and I was somewhat surprised that of the two dozen (max) books that were on that shelf, Frankenstein was one of them. It was always regarded as a “ClAsSiC”, but like a lot of books on that level, I [wrongly] assume that I have no need to read them because I already know what happened, I am familiar with this legacy, and that legacy has done the leg work for me. He insisted, passionately maintaining that I had to read it (he gave my wife the same energy around Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?).

I took it home and have finished several books since, but finally decided a couple weeks ago that it was time to get through this one as it’s nice and short and it’s one that I have that someone actually made the effort to suggest.

I suffer a lot with books written in the classical style, as so much of it has that overripe Theater Kid Energy. Scenes don’t seem to have the proper weight and time doesn’t seem to span the proper length, and it feels like certain segments are glanced over while certain illusions are mired in an overwrought woebegone fashion. I usually take the first 20–50 pages to adjust to the pacing and the language and the importance of everything. As dense and elaborate as it is, to me it feels like speaking to a 5 year old whose world is only as big as their life, and the things that are important are just-so and their sense of wonder is often overrun by what they know, because they have recently become addicted to their own knowledge. Once I became accustomed to the pacing and the language of it though, the story itself was certainly way better than the myth of it which I thought I knew.

For me, there was no sense of terror here. In fact, I don’t think I even felt fear impressed upon the characters much at all (though it could have been the language, again). What is often apparent is a recurring sense of hatred, of vile vengeance, and the inescapable certainty of ruin. Each page was touched by a gloaming sense of creeping death, that no matter the elaborate nature of Victor Frankenstein’s next steps, his acquaintances, friends and family would be mangled at the hands of his creation. A creation which, new to me, was eloquently spoken, intelligent, focused and overall more composed than I had learned he was. Hollywood (and the trees of thought that stemmed from it) ruined the reputation of Frankenstein for me. I wonder if Mary Shelley were to see the modern dreamcloud of what Frankenstein is to the modern populous if she would be blue in the face trying to change the trajectory of it, or if she would be happily astonished by it. I have to say that the tall, green, mute monster that I have locked in my mind is not at all the story that Shelley wrote. In fact, there is so much mystery around how hideous, how ugly, how utterly abnormal The Daemon is that I crave a vision of how she perceived it. How ghastly is this wretch that we never get to read a description about that goes longer than 2–4 words, how terrifying is this creation that it sends people reeling at a mere instantaneous sight of it? There is no lightning. No castle. No Igor. There is only science and its ill-begotten blight. The minimalism within that is incredible. The excitement for a sight of this creature is palpable. The foul experiments and application of under-the-table biological heathenism is only briefly mentioned, and all the rest occurs in our own imagination, a place that Shelley trusts us to find things far worse than she could ever conjure in word.

My dad’s key descriptor of the book over the rest is that it was sad. And I can’t pinpoint the articles or conversations, but somehow this feels like a cliche. Perhaps it’s not, but I have to say that I completely think it should be. There are three sadnesses sort of competing here, one at every layer of the story. But the main one which I think he was speaking about was that of The Creature Itself, initially having a belief in optimism and benevolence. Wanting only beauty, wanting only companionship, seeking only a glowing truth. And upon learning the nature of His Fellow Man, and not only those peers, but also of his Creator, it fouled him into something capable of rebelling at the species’ most base, taking the lives of many and ensuring the torment of those that Victor loved, most namedly himself.

In the end, the creature fulfills his life’s goal and even in that, finds that there is no joy remaining, no further plot to carry on with circumstance, and vows to burn himself upon a pyre to be done with his existence through and through. What a tragic cycle he has found Life to be, coming to this world only to be abandoned and despised, to then turn his violence into a focused weapon and to sate his unending thirst for vengeance only to find that its conclusion still met him with emptiness.

I would definitely recommend this book! I think it flies by pretty quickly once you sit with it and when you can actually get accustomed to the old style of writing (a distraction for me might just be a roadblock for me and easy for you). It really changed my mind about an entire mythos I had for the creature and the story itself and I think that kind of made me enjoy it that much more. Lots of really great lines in here that absolutely drip with hatred and threat.

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steve cuocci
steve cuocci

Written by steve cuocci

Let's talk about what we love. You can also find me on Instagram: @iamnoimpact

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