IT LIVES! Behold, the return of content!
Specifically, Frankenstein recaps. Along with a huge apology for having dropped the ball.
So I’m finally getting back on track with Author Stuff and since I have neglected this newsletter completely for a while, I’m going to make the next six months or so of posts completely free. After that I’ll probably phase paid content back in; I’ll definitely let everyone know what I’m doing before I do it, so you can choose to have a paid subscription or not as you please.
(Also, thanks very much to all of you that stuck around while I wasn’t providing any content at all. I appreciate it.)
Nobody knows what’s going to happen with Twitter, and there’s no point in dwelling on it, so I’ve decided to relaunch this newsletter with something I’ve wanted to do for a while: recapping Frankenstein. I had a great (and terrible) time recapping Varney (collected here for your convenience) and a while ago I did a Twitter poll to see if there was any interest in further recaps, so. Without further ado, I give you The Letters.
Welcome once again to another edition of I Read Things So You Don’t Have To!
Frankenstein is one of the classic horror lit mainstays for a reason. It’s beautifully written, it’s genuinely psychologically thrilling, and it explores what it means to be a person and to be a monster. That it was also written basically to give Byron two fingers is icing on the cake.
The weakest character in the whole thing is, of course, Victor Frankenstein, who is such a goddamn undergraduate that it hurts. At no point during his ridiculous quest to conquer death did he seem to pause even once to consider whether he should be doing any of this, or think about the moral implications, or plan what he was going to do with his creation should he be successful (see also Dr. Chillingworth in Varney, who does basically the same exact thing with equally poor planning). He’s the epitome of the hyperconfident mediocre white man who did not expect a consequence for his actions, and I hate him enormously. The monster, by comparison, is the most human character in the book, and deserved much better than old Vic for a not-dad. I think what I’m getting at here is that this will not be exactly an unbiased recap.
With that said, let’s begin! Or rather let’s prepare to enter the Department of Epistolary Frame Story, because we don’t begin to get into the actual thing for several thousand words.
We open with a series of letters from a polar explorer/adventurer to his married sister. Captain Robert Walton is a man of many, many, many words, and very determined to share them. In brief we are given to understand that he is preparing to undertake a voyage to the north pole which will be dangerous and exciting and he’s really looking forward to it y’all:
I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of frost and desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight. There, Margaret, the sun is for ever visible, its broad disk just skirting the horizon and diffusing a perpetual splendour. There—for with your leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigators—there snow and frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe. Its productions and features may be without example, as the phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes. What may not be expected in a country of eternal light? I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle and may regulate a thousand celestial observations that require only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man.
He goes on and on and on:
These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native river. But supposing all these conjectures to be false, you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all mankind, to the last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole to those countries, to reach which at present so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine.
Count the clauses in that last sentence. Go on, count ‘em. I am in awe. He enlarges upon his theme by telling his sister (whom you might suspect of already knowing this) of his childhood and his ardor for learning and knowledge and so on. Oh, and he wanted to be a poet, too.
My education was neglected, yet I was passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my study day and night, and my familiarity with them increased that regret which I had felt, as a child, on learning that my father’s dying injunction had forbidden my uncle to allow me to embark in a seafaring life.
These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets whose effusions entranced my soul and lifted it to heaven. I also became a poet and for one year lived in a paradise of my own creation; I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the temple where the names of Homer and Shakespeare are consecrated. You are well acquainted with my failure and how heavily I bore the disappointment. But just at that time I inherited the fortune of my cousin, and my thoughts were turned into the channel of their earlier bent.
He eventually concludes the letter, and begins the next one by complaining that while he is finally setting out on his great adventure that he has been planning for six years, he is lonely for a friend. One can sort of understand why no one is jumping at the chance to become this dude’s boon companion, because if he talks anything like he writes you wouldn’t get a word in edgeways between all the compound-complex runon sentences. In the middle of the letter he pauses to tell a completely unnecessary little story-within-a-story about one of the people he’s recruited for his expedition:
The master is a person of an excellent disposition and is remarkable in the ship for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline. This circumstance, added to his well-known integrity and dauntless courage, made me very desirous to engage him. A youth passed in solitude, my best years spent under your gentle and feminine fosterage, has so refined the groundwork of my character that I cannot overcome an intense distaste to the usual brutality exercised on board ship: I have never believed it to be necessary, and when I heard of a mariner equally noted for his kindliness of heart and the respect and obedience paid to him by his crew, I felt myself peculiarly fortunate in being able to secure his services. I heard of him first in rather a romantic manner, from a lady who owes to him the happiness of her life. This, briefly, is his story. Some years ago he loved a young Russian lady of moderate fortune, and having amassed a considerable sum in prize-money, the father of the girl consented to the match. He saw his mistress once before the destined ceremony; but she was bathed in tears, and throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to spare her, confessing at the same time that she loved another, but that he was poor, and that her father would never consent to the union. My generous friend reassured the suppliant, and on being informed of the name of her lover, instantly abandoned his pursuit. He had already bought a farm with his money, on which he had designed to pass the remainder of his life; but he bestowed the whole on his rival, together with the remains of his prize-money to purchase stock, and then himself solicited the young woman’s father to consent to her marriage with her lover. But the old man decidedly refused, thinking himself bound in honour to my friend, who, when he found the father inexorable, quitted his country, nor returned until he heard that his former mistress was married according to her inclinations. “What a noble fellow!” you will exclaim. He is so; but then he is wholly uneducated: he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind of ignorant carelessness attends him, which, while it renders his conduct the more astonishing, detracts from the interest and sympathy which otherwise he would command.
…it’s not clear why we needed to know that. Moving on to letter number 3, Walton is (for him) brief; the missive is to inform his sister that he is now en route to his destiny, etc.:
Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured that for my own sake, as well as yours, I will not rashly encounter danger. I will be cool, persevering, and prudent.
But success shall crown my endeavours. Wherefore not? Thus far I have gone, tracing a secure way over the pathless seas, the very stars themselves being witnesses and testimonies of my triumph. Why not still proceed over the untamed yet obedient element? What can stop the determined heart and resolved will of man?
What indeed. But now we come to letter number 4, wherein we start to pick up some elements of actual story! The ship is beating steadily north through increasingly ice-choked waters to the point where the individual bergy bits form an actual solid sheet, and because of this (and a heavy fog) they heave to, sensibly enough. But lo, in the distance, once the fog begins to lift, they catch a glimpse of something unexpected:
We perceived a low carriage, fixed on a sledge and drawn by dogs, pass on towards the north, at the distance of half a mile; a being which had the shape of a man, but apparently of gigantic stature, sat in the sledge and guided the dogs. We watched the rapid progress of the traveller with our telescopes until he was lost among the distant inequalities of the ice.
This appearance excited our unqualified wonder. We were, as we believed, many hundred miles from any land; but this apparition seemed to denote that it was not, in reality, so distant as we had supposed. Shut in, however, by ice, it was impossible to follow his track, which we had observed with the greatest attention.
But that’s not all: the next day Walton awakens to find that the ice has broken up and a second dog-sled, or the remains of one, has drifted up to them on an ice floe and is inhabited by a mysterious man:
In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck and found all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel, apparently talking to someone in the sea. It was, in fact, a sledge, like that we had seen before, which had drifted towards us in the night on a large fragment of ice. Only one dog remained alive; but there was a human being within it whom the sailors were persuading to enter the vessel. He was not, as the other traveller seemed to be, a savage inhabitant of some undiscovered island, but a European. When I appeared on deck the master said, “Here is our captain, and he will not allow you to perish on the open sea.”
On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English, although with a foreign accent. “Before I come on board your vessel,” said he, “will you have the kindness to inform me whither you are bound?”
Walton tells him they’re headed for the north pole, and the man appears to find this acceptable and allows himself to be hoisted on board, where he promptly faints and requires brandy and hot soup and blankets. It is evident from the beginning that the mysterious stranger has captured Walton’s attention like whoa, and he only gets more and more fascinated as his guest begins to recover the power of speech:
I never saw a more interesting creature: his eyes have generally an expression of wildness, and even madness, but there are moments when, if anyone performs an act of kindness towards him or does him any the most trifling service, his whole countenance is lighted up, as it were, with a beam of benevolence and sweetness that I never saw equalled. But he is generally melancholy and despairing, and sometimes he gnashes his teeth, as if impatient of the weight of woes that oppresses him.
It turns out that he was originally in pursuit of the other mysterious figure the sailors had seen in the distance, and when told about the sighting perks up considerably. He asks whether they think the breakup of the ice would have destroyed the other sled, and refers to the creature on it as a daemon. In case you weren’t already following along, we can now tell who Mysterious Stranger A and Mysterious Stranger B are likely to be.
Walton’s crush deepens. We are no longer exactly in epistolary; this has become Dear Diary instead. He really really really digs the mysterious stranger:
My affection for my guest increases every day. He excites at once my admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree. How can I see so noble a creature destroyed by misery without feeling the most poignant grief? He is so gentle, yet so wise; his mind is so cultivated, and when he speaks, although his words are culled with the choicest art, yet they flow with rapidity and unparalleled eloquence.
You can picture the dude chinhandsing so clearly. They get to talking about Walton’s grand exploration, his selfless undertaking on behalf of humanity, his ambition, etc., and here a remarkable thing happens: Victor Frankenstein shows an ounce of self-awareness. Mark it well:
I was easily led by the sympathy which he evinced to use the language of my heart, to give utterance to the burning ardour of my soul and to say, with all the fervour that warmed me, how gladly I would sacrifice my fortune, my existence, my every hope, to the furtherance of my enterprise. One man’s life or death were but a small price to pay for the acquirement of the knowledge which I sought, for the dominion I should acquire and transmit over the elemental foes of our race. As I spoke, a dark gloom spread over my listener’s countenance. At first I perceived that he tried to suppress his emotion; he placed his hands before his eyes, and my voice quivered and failed me as I beheld tears trickle fast from between his fingers; a groan burst from his heaving breast. I paused; at length he spoke, in broken accents: “Unhappy man! Do you share my madness? Have you drunk also of the intoxicating draught? Hear me; let me reveal my tale, and you will dash the cup from your lips!”
DO TELL.
Walton rhapsodizes. Seriously. I am not exaggerating here: he loves Victor with a powerful and manly love that knows no bounds. This is still partially written to/at his sister, but mostly it’s him editorializing about his own adoration:
Will you smile at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine wanderer? You would not if you saw him. You have been tutored and refined by books and retirement from the world, and you are therefore somewhat fastidious; but this only renders you the more fit to appreciate the extraordinary merits of this wonderful man. Sometimes I have endeavoured to discover what quality it is which he possesses that elevates him so immeasurably above any other person I ever knew. I believe it to be an intuitive discernment, a quick but never-failing power of judgment, a penetration into the causes of things, unequalled for clearness and precision; add to this a facility of expression and a voice whose varied intonations are soul-subduing music.
get a room
Yesterday the stranger said to me, “You may easily perceive, Captain Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes. I had determined at one time that the memory of these evils should die with me, but you have won me to alter my determination. You seek for knowledge and wisdom, as I once did; and I ardently hope that the gratification of your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you, as mine has been. I do not know that the relation of my disasters will be useful to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing the same course, exposing yourself to the same dangers which have rendered me what I am, I imagine that you may deduce an apt moral from my tale, one that may direct you if you succeed in your undertaking and console you in case of failure. Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually deemed marvellous. Were we among the tamer scenes of nature I might fear to encounter your unbelief, perhaps your ridicule; but many things will appear possible in these wild and mysterious regions which would provoke the laughter of those unacquainted with the ever-varied powers of nature; nor can I doubt but that my tale conveys in its series internal evidence of the truth of the events of which it is composed.”
Walton hangs on his every word, but is concerned that telling his story will give Victor a sad:
“I thank you,” he replied, “for your sympathy, but it is useless; my fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and then I shall repose in peace. I understand your feeling,” continued he, perceiving that I wished to interrupt him; “but you are mistaken, my friend, if thus you will allow me to name you; nothing can alter my destiny; listen to my history, and you will perceive how irrevocably it is determined.”
See, the thing about Victor’s destiny is that it was in absolutely no way irrevocably determined by anybody but his own damn self. Even after he’d done the unthinkable and created the monster, even then he could have made a decision to not let his horrible error cause death and destruction out of ignorance and fear. He could have stepped up and taken responsibility for what he had done. He could have taught the monster how to exist peacefully, somewhere far away from people with pitchforks and torches, and he very specifically did not do this thing. That’s on you, Victor. That’s entirely on you.
He then told me that he would commence his narrative the next day when I should be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest thanks. I have resolved every night, when I am not imperatively occupied by my duties, to record, as nearly as possible in his own words, what he has related during the day. If I should be engaged, I will at least make notes. This manuscript will doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure; but to me, who know him, and who hear it from his own lips—with what interest and sympathy shall I read it in some future day! Even now, as I commence my task, his full-toned voice swells in my ears; his lustrous eyes dwell on me with all their melancholy sweetness; I see his thin hand raised in animation, while the lineaments of his face are irradiated by the soul within. Strange and harrowing must be his story, frightful the storm which embraced the gallant vessel on its course and wrecked it—thus!
And with that we finally have come to Chapter 1. More next time!
So happy to see you back.