Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

Our readers will guess from this summary, what a tissue of horrible and disgusting absurdity this work presents. — It is piously dedicated to Mr. Godwin, and is written in the spirit of his school. The dreams of insanity are embodied in the strong and striking language of the insane, and the author, notwithstanding the rationality of his preface, often leaves us in doubt whether he is not as mad as his hero. His disciples are a kind of out-pensioners of Bedlam, and, like "Mad Bess" or "Mad Tom" are occasionally visited with paroxysms of genius and fits of expression, which make sober-minded people wonder and shudder. We need scarcely say, that these volumes have neither principle, object, nor moral; the horror which abounds in them is too grotesque and bizarre ever to approach near the sublime.

There never was a wilder story imagined, yet, like most of the fictions of this age, it has an air of reality attached to it, by being connected with the favourite projects and passions of the times. The real events of the world have, in our day, too, been of so wondrous and gigantic a kind, — the shiftings of the scenes in our stupendous drama have been so rapid and various, that the effect is not altogether incredible. Here is one of the productions of the modern school in its highest style of caricature and exaggeration. It is formed on the Godwinian manner, and has all the faults, but many likewise of the beauties of that model. In dark and gloomy views of nature and of man, bordering too closely on impiety, — in the most outrageous improbability, — in sacrificing every thing to effect, — it even goes beyond its great prototype; but in return, it possesses a similar power of fascination, something of the same mastery in harsh and savage delineations of passion, relieved in like manner by the gentler features of domestic and simple feelings.

It is no slight merit in our eyes, that the tale, though wild in incident, is written in plain and forcible English, without exhibiting that mixture of hyperbolic Germanisms with which tales of wonder are usually told, as if it were necessary that the language should be as extravagant as the fiction. The ideas of the author are always clearly as well as forcibly expressed; and his descriptions of landscape have in them the choice requisites of truth, freshness, precision, and beauty. The being which Frankenstein has created is indeed formidable and terrific, but the author has so managed the fiction as to produce the desired effect without offending the taste, or shocking the feelings of the reader. The scene in which the demon first addresses his maker, and recounts his history, is wrought with a skill which almost reconciles us to the impossibility of the events.

We need scarcely say, that these volumes have neither principle, object, nor moral; the horror which abounds in them is too grotesque and bizarre ever to approach near the sublime, and when we did not hurry over the pages in disgust, we sometimes paused to laugh outright; and yet we suspect, that the diseased and wandering imagination, which has stepped out of all legitimate bounds, to frame these disjointed combinations and unnatural adventures, might be disciplined into something better.

The author of "Frankenstein" has not merely created a thrilling tale of terror, but has touched upon questions of profound philosophical importance. The work is a striking illustration of the consequences of unchecked ambition and the neglect of domestic affections. The descriptions of the scenes in the Valley of Chamounix and the glaciers of the Alps exhibit a power of language which is truly poetical. The character of the creature is drawn with a pathos that compels our sympathy, even while his actions fill us with horror. It is a work which, whatever its defects, gives evidence of no common powers, and which will be read with interest long after the ephemeral productions of the day are forgotten.

Everyone thinks they know this story from the movies but the book is so different. The monster is articulate and philosophical and its heartbreaking to watch him become evil because of how people treat him. Frankenstein himself is kind of a whiny idiot tbh. The framing story with Walton is genius. Mary Shelley was only 19 when she wrote this which is absolutly insane. A true masterpiece.