Frankenstein o el moderno Prometeo

Por Mary Shelley, Francisco Torres Oliver y Elena Odriozola

En el verano de 1816, Lord Byron invita al poeta Percy Bysshe Shelley y a su joven esposa, Mary, a su casa de Suiza. Los días son lluviosos y el anfitrión propone que cada uno escriba un relato de fantasmas. Así surgirá Frankenstein o el moderno Prometeo, publicada en 1818 y considerada la primera novela del género de ciencia ficción.
Atrapado en los hielos del Ártico, Victor Frankenstein es rescatado por el capitán Walton. Dedicará sus últimos días a narrarle la trágica historia de sus experimentos en búsqueda del poder de dotar de vida a la materia inerte y cómo el ser que creó se rebelaría contra él.
En esta edición destaca especialmente el trabajo gráfico de Elena Odriozola, quien ha hecho una personal lectura del texto clásico. Su teatrillo de papel es un escenario que abre las puertas a nuevas posibilidades de narración visual.

• Idioma: Español
• Editorial: Nórdica Libros
• Fecha de lanzamiento: 21 sept 2015
• ISBN: 9788416440153

Mary Shelley

Mary Shelley (1797-1851) was an English novelist. Born the daughter of William Godwin, a novelist and anarchist philosopher, and Mary Wollstonecraft, a political philosopher and pioneering feminist, Shelley was raised and educated by Godwin following the death of Wollstonecraft shortly after her birth. In 1814, she began her relationship with Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, whom she would later marry following the death of his first wife, Harriet. In 1816, the Shelleys, joined by Mary’s stepsister Claire Clairmont, physician and writer John William Polidori, and poet Lord Byron, vacationed at the Villa Diodati near Geneva, Switzerland. They spent the unusually rainy summer writing and sharing stories and poems, and the event is now seen as a landmark moment in Romanticism. During their stay, Shelley composed her novel Frankenstein (1818), Byron continued his work on Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage (1812-1818), and Polidori wrote “The Vampyre” (1819), now recognized as the first modern vampire story to be published in English. In 1818, the Shelleys traveled to Italy, where their two young children died and Mary gave birth to Percy Florence Shelley, the only one of her children to survive into adulthood. Following Percy Bysshe Shelley’s drowning death in 1822, Mary returned to England to raise her son and establish herself as a professional writer. Over the next several decades, she wrote the historical novel Valperga (1923), the dystopian novel The Last Man (1826), and numerous other works of fiction and nonfiction. Recognized as one of the core figures of English Romanticism, Shelley is remembered as a woman whose tragic life and determined individualism enabled her to produce essential works of literature which continue to inform, shape, and inspire the horror and science fiction genres to this day.

Vista previa del libro

FRANKENSTEIN

O EL MODERNO PROMETEO

Mary Shelley

Ilustraciones de Elena Odriozola

Traducción de Francisco Torres Oliver

Título original: Frankenstein

© De las ilustraciones: Elena Odriozola

© De las fotografías: Perdinande Sancho

© De la traducción: Francisco Torres Oliver

Edición en ebook: julio de 2015

© Nórdica Libros, S.L.

C/ Fuerte de Navidad, 11, 1.º B 28044 Madrid (España)

www.nordicalibros.com

ISBN DIGITAL: ISBN 978-84-16440-153

Diseño de colección: Diego Moreno

Corrección ortotipográfica: Ana Patrón y Susana Rodríguez

Maquetación ebook: Caurina Diseño Gráfico

Cualquier forma de reproducción, distribución, comunicación pública o transformación de esta obra solo puede ser realizada con la autorización de sus titulares, salvo excepción prevista por la ley. Diríjase a CEDRO (Centro Español de Derechos Reprográficos, www.cedro.org) si necesita fotocopiar o escanear algún fragmento de esta obra.

Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay

To mould me man? Did I solicit thee

From darkness to promote me?

Paradise Lost

Contenido

Portadilla

Créditos

Cita

Autor

Ilustraciones

Introducción de la autora para la edición de Standard Novels

Prefacio

Carta primera

Carta segunda

Carta tercera

Carta cuarta

Capítulo 1

Capítulo 2

Capítulo 3

Capítulo 4

Capítulo 5

Capítulo 6

Capítulo 7

Capítulo 8

Capítulo 9

Capítulo 10

Capítulo 11

Capítulo 12

Capítulo 13

Capítulo 14

Capítulo 15

Capítulo 16

Capítulo 17

Capítulo 18

Capítulo 19

Capítulo 20

Capítulo 21

Capítulo 22

Capítulo 23

Capítulo 24

Continuación de Walton

Contraportada

Mary Shelley

(Londres, 1797-1851)

---

Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, conocida como Mary Shelley, fue una narradora, dramaturga, ensayista, filósofa y biógrafa británica, reconocida sobre todo por ser la autora de la novela gótica Frankenstein o el moderno Prometeo (1818). También editó y promocionó las obras de su esposo, el poeta romántico y filósofo Percy Bysshe Shelley. Su padre fue el filósofo político William Godwin y su madre la filósofa feminista Mary Wollstonecraft.

En Nórdica hemos publicado su novela corta Mathilda, acompañada de dos obras de su madre, Mary y Maria.

Elena Odriozola

---

Nació en 1967 en San Sebastián, ciudad en la que ha vivido siempre. Empezó ilustrando libros de texto hace unos veinte años mientras trabajaba en una agencia de publicidad. Luego, una cosa llevó a la otra, y ahora lleva unos cien libros publicados, la mayoría de literatura infantil y juvenil. En esta misma colección ha publicado ¿Cuánta tierra necesita un hombre? Y Cenicienta.

PREMIO NACIONAL DE ILUSTRACIÓN 2015

Introducción de la autora para la edición de Standard Novels

Los editores de Standard Novels, al seleccionar Frankenstein para una de sus colecciones, me han pedido que les facilite algún dato sobre el origen de este relato. Accedo a ello con mucho gusto, porque así daré una respuesta general a la pregunta que tan frecuentemente me han hecho: «¿Cómo, siendo yo una jovencita, llegué a pensar y dilatar una idea tan tremenda?». Es cierto que soy muy contraria a ponerme a mí misma en letra impresa; pero como esta nota va a aparecer como apéndice de otra anterior, y se va a limitar a cuestiones relacionadas con mi calidad de autora solamente, apenas puedo culparme de cometer una intrusión personal.

No es extraño que, como hija de dos personas de distinguida celebridad literaria, pensara muy pronto en escribir. De pequeña, ya garabateaba: mi pasión predilecta era «escribir cuentos». Sin embargo, tenía un placer más querido que este: hacer castillos en el aire, dedicarme a soñar despierta, seguir aquellos derroteros del pensamiento que tenían por tema la formación de una secuencia de incidentes imaginarios. Mis sueños eran a la vez más fantásticos y más agradables que mis escritos. En estos, yo no era sino una estricta imitadora que hacía lo que habían hecho otros, más que consignar las sugerencias de mi propia mente. Lo que escribía iba destinado al menos a otros ojos: los de la amiga y compañera de mi niñez; pero mis sueños eran totalmente míos; no se los contaba a nadie: eran mi refugio cuando me enfadaba... y mi mayor satisfacción cuando me sentía libre.

De niña viví principalmente en el campo, y pasé bastante tiempo en Escocia. Visité con frecuencia los lugares más pintorescos; pero tenía mi residencia habitual junto a las orillas vacías y lúgubres del Tay, cerca de Dundee. Ahora las califico de vacías y lúgubres; entonces no eran así. Eran el nido de la libertad, la región placentera donde, inadvertida, podía conversar con las criaturas de mi fantasía. En aquel entonces escribía..., pero con un estilo de lo más vulgar. Fue bajo los árboles de los parques pertenecientes a nuestra casa, o en las peladas faldas de las cercanas montañas, donde nacieron y se criaron mis auténticas composiciones, los vuelos etéreos de mi imaginación. No me erigí en heroína de mis cuentos. La vida me parecía un motivo demasiado vulgar en lo que a mí se refería. No podía imaginar que fueran jamás a tocarme en suerte desventuras románticas ni acontecimientos maravillosos; pero no me sentí reducida a mi propia identidad; podía poblar las horas con creaciones mucho más interesantes para mí, a esa edad, que mis propios sentimientos.

Después, mi vida se hizo más ajetreada, y la realidad ocupó el lugar de la ficción. Mi marido, no obstante, estaba desde un principio muy ansioso por que demostrase que era digna de mi familia y me inscribiese en las páginas de la fama. Me incitaba constantemente a que alcanzase prestigio literario, cosa que en aquel entonces me gustaba; aunque después me he vuelto infinitamente indiferente a todo eso. En aquella época, él quería que escribiese, no tanto con idea de que produjese algo digno de llamar la atención, sino a fin de poder juzgar hasta dónde prometía yo mejores cosas para el futuro. Sin embargo, no hice nada. Los viajes y los cuidados de la familia me ocupaban todo el tiempo, y toda la actividad literaria que acaparaba mi atención se reducía al estudio, bien en forma de lecturas, bien perfeccionando mis ideas al comunicarme con su mente muchísimo más cultivada.

En el verano de 1816 visitamos Suiza y fuimos vecinos de Lord Byron. Al principio, pasábamos nuestras horas agradables en el lago, o vagando por la orilla; y Lord Byron, que estaba escribiendo el canto tercero de Childe Harold, era el único que pasaba al papel sus pensamientos. Estos, tal como nos los iba exponiendo sucesivamente, vestidos con toda la luminosidad y armonía de la poesía, acuñaban como divinas las glorias del cielo y de la tierra, cuyas influencias compartíamos con él.

Pero el verano resultó húmedo y riguroso, y la incesante lluvia nos confinó a menudo durante días. En nuestras manos cayeron algunos volúmenes de relatos de fantasmas traducidos del alemán al francés. Entre ellos estaba la «Historia del amante inconstante», el cual, creyendo abrazar a la desposada a la que había dado su promesa, se descubría en brazos del pálido fantasma de aquella a la que había abandonado. Estaba el cuento del malvado fundador de su estirpe cuya desdichada condena consistía en dar un beso mortal a todos los hijos de su predestinada casa, precisamente al llegar estos a la pubertad. Su figura gigantesca y sombría, vestida como el fantasma de Hamlet, con armadura completa, pero con la visera levantada, fue vista a medianoche, bajo los oportunos rayos de la luna, cuando avanzaba lentamente por la avenida. Su silueta se perdió bajo la sombra de las murallas del castillo, pero poco después chirrió una verja, se oyó una pisada, se abrió la puerta de la cámara, y avanzó hasta el lecho de los sonrosados jóvenes, sumidos en saludable sueño. Un dolor infinito se acumuló en su rostro al inclinarse a besar la frente de los niños, que al punto empezaron a marchitarse como flores tronchadas sobre el tallo. No he vuelto a ver esos relatos desde entonces, pero tengo sus peripecias tan frescas en la memoria como si las hubiese leído ayer.

—Vamos a escribir cada uno un relato de fantasmas —dijo Lord Byron; y aceptamos su proposición. Éramos cuatro. El noble autor comenzó un cuento, cuyo fragmento publicó al final de su poema «Mazeppa». Shelley, más inclinado a plasmar sus ideas y sentimientos en el esplendor de la brillante imaginería y la música del más melodioso verso que adorna nuestra lengua que a inventar el mecanismo de una historia, empezó un relato basado en experiencias de la primera etapa de su vida. Al pobre Polidori se le ocurrió una idea terrible sobre una dama con cabeza de calavera, castigada de ese modo por espiar por el ojo de una cerradura. He olvidado qué es lo que vio; algo tremendamente espantoso y maligno, por supuesto; pero, una vez reducida a una condición peor que la del famoso Tom de Coventry, no sabía qué hacer con ella, y no tuvo más remedio que mandarla a la tumba de los Capuleto, único lugar apropiado. Los ilustres poetas, incómodos con la trivialidad de la prosa, abandonaron enseguida su antipática tarea.

Yo también me dediqué a pensar una historia; una historia que rivalizase con aquellas que nos habían animado a abordar dicha empresa. Una historia que hablase a los miedos misteriosos de nuestra naturaleza y despertase un horror estremecedor; una historia que hiciese mirar en torno suyo al lector amedrentado, le helase la sangre y le acelerase los latidos del corazón. Si no lograba estas cosas, mi historia de fantasmas sería indigna de tal nombre. Pensé y medité... pero sin resultado. Sentía esa vacía incapacidad de invención que es la mayor desdicha del autor, cuando a nuestras ansiosas invocaciones responde la penosa Nada.

—¿Has pensado una historia? —me preguntaban cada mañana; y cada mañana me veía obligada a contestar con una mortificante negativa.

Todo debe tener un principio, para decirlo con palabras de Sancho, y ese principio debe estar vinculado a algo que lo precede. Los hindúes afirman que el mundo lo sostiene un elefante, pero hacen que al elefante lo sostenga una tortuga. La invención, hay que admitirlo humildemente, no consiste en crear del vacío, sino del caos; en primer lugar hay que contar con los materiales; puede darse forma a oscuras sustancias amorfas, pero no se puede dar el ser a la sustancia misma. En todas las cuestiones de descubrimiento e invención, aun en aquellas que pertenecen a la imaginación, se nos recuerda continuamente la historia de Colón y su huevo. La invención consiste en esa capacidad de aprehender las posibilidades de un tema; y en poder moldear y formar ideas sugeridas por él.

Muchas y largas fueron las conversaciones entre Lord Byron y Shelley, de las que fui oyente fervorosa aunque casi muda. En el curso de una de ellas discutieron diversas doctrinas filosóficas, entre otras la naturaleza del principio vital, y la posibilidad de que se llegase a descubrir tal principio y conferirlo a la materia inerte. Hablaron de los experimentos del Dr. Darwin (no me refiero a lo que el doctor hizo verdaderamente, o dijo que hizo, sino, más en relación con mi tema, a lo que entonces se decía que había hecho), quien tuvo un fideo en una caja de cristal hasta que, por algún medio extraordinario, empezó a moverse merced a un impulso voluntario. No era así, sin embargo, como se infundía vida. Quizá podía reanimarse un cadáver; el galvanismo había dado pruebas de tales cosas; quizá podían fabricarse las partes componentes de una criatura, ensamblarlas y dotarlas de calor vital.

La noche menguó durante esta charla, e incluso había pasado la hora de las brujas, antes de que nos retirásemos a descansar. Cuando apoyé la cabeza sobre la almohada, no me dormí, aunque tampoco puedo decir qué pensaba. Mi imaginación, espontáneamente, me poseía y me guiaba, dotando a las sucesivas imágenes que surgían en mi mente de una viveza muy superior a los habituales límites de la ensoñación. Vi —con los ojos cerrados, pero con la aguda visión mental—, vi al pálido estudiante de artes impías, de rodillas junto al ser que había ensamblado. Vi el horrendo fantasma de un hombre tendido; y luego, por obra de algún ingenio poderoso, le vi manifestar signos de vida, y agitarse con movimiento torpe y semivital. Debía ser espantoso; pues supremamente espantoso sería el resultado de todo esfuerzo humano por imitar el prodigioso mecanismo del Creador del mundo. El éxito aterraría al propio artista; huiría horrorizado de su odiosa obra. Confiaría en que, abandonada a sí misma, se apagaría la leve chispa de la vida que había infundido; en que este ser que había recibido tan imperfecta animación se resolvería en materia inerte; y así pudo dormir, en la creencia de que el silencio de la tumba extinguiría para siempre la existencia efímera del horrendo cadáver al que había juzgado cuna de la vida. El estudiante está dormido, pero se despierta; abre los ojos; mira, y descubre al horrible ser junto a la cama; ha apartado las cortinas y le mira con sus ojos amarillentos, aguanosos, pero pensativos.

Abrí los míos con terror. La idea se apoderó de tal modo de mi mente que me recorrió un escalofrío de miedo, y quise cambiar la horrible imagen de mi fantasía por realidades de mi alrededor. Todavía las veo: la misma habitación, el parque oscuro, las contraventanas cerradas con la luna filtrándose a través, y la impresión que yo tenía de que el lago cristalino y los blancos y elevados Alpes estaban más allá. No pude librarme tan fácilmente de mi espantoso fantasma; seguía presente en mi imaginación. Debía tratar de pensar en otra cosa. Recurrí a mi historia de fantasmas... ¡mi tediosa, desafortunada historia de fantasmas! ¡Oh! ¡Si al menos lograra inventar una que asustase a mi lector como me había asustado yo esa noche!

Veloz y animada como la luz fue la idea que se me ocurrió. «¡La encontré! Lo que me ha aterrado a mí aterrará a los demás; solo necesito describir el espectro que ha visitado mi almohada a medianoche.» A la mañana siguiente anuncié que había pensado una historia. Empecé ese día con las palabras: «Una lúgubre noche de noviembre», consignando solo estrictamente los tremendos terrores del sueño que me despertó.

Al principio pensé escribir unas pocas páginas, un cuento corto; pero Shelley me insistió en que desarrollase más la idea. Ciertamente, no debo a mi esposo la sugerencia de una sola idea, ni siquiera de un sentimiento; sin embargo, de no ser por su estímulo, jamás habría recibido la forma en que ha salido a la luz. De esta aclaración debo exceptuar el prefacio. Que yo recuerde, lo escribió enteramente él.

Y ahora, una vez más, pido a mi horrenda criatura que salga al mundo y que prospere. Siento afecto por ella, pues fue el fruto de unos días felices, en que la muerte y el dolor no eran sino palabras que no encontraban verdadero eco en mi corazón. Sus diversas páginas hablan de muchos paseos, muchos viajes y muchas conversaciones, cuando yo no estaba sola; y mi compañero era alguien a quien no veré más en este mundo. Pero esto es para mí; a mis lectores no les incumben estas asociaciones.

Solo añadiré unas palabras sobre las alteraciones que he introducido. Son principalmente de estilo. No he cambiado parte alguna del relato ni he introducido ideas ni circunstancias nuevas. He corregido el lenguaje donde era tan soso que mermaba el interés del relato; estos cambios aparecen casi exclusivamente al principio del primer volumen. En los demás, se limitan a aquellas partes que son meras adiciones a la historia, dejando intactos su fondo y su sustancia.

M. W. S.

Londres, 15 de octubre de 1831

Prefacio

El suceso en el que se basa este relato no es considerado imposible por el Dr. Darwin y algunos tratadistas alemanes de fisiología. No debe suponerse que yo esté ni lo más remotamente de acuerdo con semejante fantasía; sin embargo, al adoptarla como base para una obra de ficción, no he pensado limitarme a tejer una serie de terrores sobrenaturales. El hecho del cual depende el interés de la historia está exento de las desventajas del mero relato de espectros o de encantamientos. Está avalado por la novedad de las situaciones que desarrolla y, aunque imposible como hecho físico, proporciona a la imaginación un punto de vista desde el cual delinear las pasiones humanas de manera más amplia y vigorosa de lo que puede permitir cualquier relación de hechos verídicos.

Así, he procurado conservar la verdad de los principios elementales de la naturaleza humana, si bien no he vacilado en innovar sus combinaciones. La Ilíada, la poesía trágica de Grecia, Shakespeare en La tempestad y El sueño de una noche de verano, y muy especialmente Milton en El paraíso perdido se ajustan a esta regla; y el más humilde novelista que aspire a proporcionar u obtener alguna distracción con su trabajo puede aplicar en las creaciones en prosa, sin presunción, esta licencia, o más bien esta regla, de cuya adopción han resultado tantas combinaciones exquisitas de sentimientos humanos en los más altos ejemplos de la poesía.

La circunstancia en la que se apoya mi narración surgió de una conversación casual. Empezó en parte como un modo de distracción, y en parte como un recurso para ejercitar todas las parcelas inexploradas de la mente. A medida que avanzaba la obra, vinieron a incorporarse otros motivos. No soy en absoluto indiferente al modo en que afectan al lector las tendencias morales existentes en los sentimientos y personajes que en ella se contienen, cualesquiera que sean; sin embargo, mi mayor interés a este respecto se ha centrado en evitar los efectos enervantes de las novelas de hoy día, y en poner de manifiesto la bondad del afecto familiar, y la excelencia de la virtud universal. No debe suponerse de ningún modo que las opiniones que emanan naturalmente del carácter y situaciones del protagonista corresponden siempre a mis propias convicciones; ni hay que extraer la conclusión de que las páginas que siguen presuponen doctrina filosófica alguna.

También le interesa a la autora resaltar que empezó este relato en la majestuosa región donde se sitúa principalmente su escenario, y en compañía de aquellos a los que no puede dejar de echar de menos. Pasé el verano de 1816 en las cercanías de Ginebra. La estación era fría y lluviosa, nos reuníamos por la tarde en torno a un buen fuego de leña, y a veces nos distraíamos con algunos relatos alemanes de fantasmas que habían caído en nuestras manos. Esos cuentos despertaron en nosotros un deportivo deseo de imitación. Otros dos amigos (cualquier relato debido a la pluma de uno de ellos sería infinitamente más aceptable para el público que lo que yo pueda llegar a crear jamás) y yo acordamos escribir un relato, cada uno fundado en algún suceso sobrenatural.

El tiempo, sin embargo, mejoró de repente; y mis dos amigos me dejaron, emprendieron un viaje por los Alpes, y en esos grandiosos escenarios se olvidaron por completo de sus visiones fantasmales. El relato que sigue es el único que ha quedado completo.

Marlow, septiembre de 1817

Carta primera

A la Sra. Saville, Inglaterra

San Petersburgo, 11 de diciembre, 17…

Te alegrará saber que no ha acompañado ninguna desgracia al comienzo de una empresa que tú veías con tan malos augurios. Llegué aquí ayer; y lo primero que hago es confirmarte, querida hermana, mi bienestar y mi confianza cada vez mayor en el éxito de esta misión.

Me encuentro ya muy al norte de Londres; y, al pasear por las calles de Petersburgo, siento en las mejillas la fría brisa que me vigoriza los nervios y me llena de satisfacción. ¿Comprendes este sentimiento? Esa brisa, que ha recorrido las regiones hacia las que me dirijo, me anticipa el sabor de esos climas helados. Alentado por este viento de promesa, mis sueños se vuelven más fervientes y vívidos. En vano trato de convencerme de que el Polo es la morada de los hielos y la desolación; la imaginación siempre

Comentarios para Frankenstein o el moderno Prometeo

[moniquesnyman-1 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

A classic isn't a called a classic because it's a run-of-the-mill type of book. It's a groundbreaking novel/movie/song that inspires people and stays with you forever, and it's likely that it won't be topped in one, two or sometimes three generations. A classic is a classic because it's unique, and Mary Shelley's Frankenstein is definitely a classic. The prose is beautiful, the story is gripping and the book itself is absolutely breathtaking. As far as horror is concerned, this is one of those must-have classics that you can revisit every couple of years.

But we all know the story about Frankenstein and the monster he creates out of body parts. We all know who Igor is and what happens in the end, I mean, if you haven't read the book then you've probably watched one of the movies, right? So, instead of going on and on about the plot we all know about, I'm going to talk about the beautiful book. Seriously, this is one super pretty book. It's in Penguin Books' horror series, recently brought out for horror fans that includes five other fantastic titles (American Supernatural Tales was one of them). This is one pretty edition for one creepy tale ... in other words, you'll freaking love it if you have a thing for horror books. Also, I'm pretty sure it'll be a collectors edition in the not-so-distant future.

If that doesn't appeal to you, and you need a little something extra, rest assured that I can sweeten the pot for those folks on the edge. Guillermo Del Toro is the series' editor and there's a nice little introduction by him. Yes, he's not all movies all the time, sometimes this horror director makes time for books too!

So, yes it's pretty, yes it's a great edition and yes, the editing is great. As far as I'm concerned you can donate your other editions of Frankenstein to the less fortunate, because this one just looks so much better on a bookshelf.

[aseikonia · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

This is the second or third time I've read this and it's just as marvelous as before. A tale within a tale within a tale by a literary mastermind at the height of her genius.

[cindywho-1 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

This is another one I'd just never gotten around to reading. The story is far from what popular culture has made of it (I confess I was most familiar with the Young Frankenstein version) The monster is much more vocal and interesting. Victor is kind of a weenie and it's all a bit overwrought. I listened to the audiobook from the classic tales podcast and the narrator was pretty good, obviously enjoying all the "begone!s" and "wretchs"

[dalepeters_1 · Calificación: 2 de 5 estrellas]

Disappointing, especially for such a highly regarded "classic". 5% action, 95% describing how everyone *feels* about what just happened.

[reading_fox · Calificación: 2 de 5 estrellas]

Seminal fantasy work, one of the early defining books of fantasy genre. Shame it isn't more readable though I suspect that's just my more modern tastes.

[ladycalamity · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Amazing book. It's so much more than I thought it would be. Very interesting!

[kellyholmes-1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

A chilling tale! I read this in high school, which was a while ago, but even thinking about it now gives me the creeps.

[maddi-815887 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

It's a wonderful, intense and superbly written novel.Don't be afraid to read it even if you don't like the genre.

[maryh10000 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Considered by many to be the first science fiction novel.

[ladypembroke · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

I have thought, but this being a classic piece of literature, I'm not going to write them down for posterity. That never served me well in lit classes, and I don't foresee it going well on the internet.

[deusxmachina-1 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

I love this book so much more than any of the movie adaptations I've ever seen (actually, for anyone seeking horror and thrill in a story, this may be a huge disappointment), but in comparison to other novels of that genre and time period it's far from being flawless.I love the ideas in this story - the idea that one has to take responsibility for their creations, the idea that a being can be as gentle and good as a lamb, it will inevitably become a monster if it experiences nothing but rejection, the idea that just because something is scientifically possible doesn't mean that it should be done. Despite all the Romantic dressing up in this novel that makes it very clearly a product of its age, these premises are still modern and relevant.My gripe is with the characters. I'm aware that this is probably the 21st century reader in me, but - gods almighty, that Victor is a pathetic, self-absorbed piece of selfpity, full of "woe is me", much more fixated on his own emotions and tragic history than on the danger he has released carelessly on the world and without much reflection about his own role in this disaster. All his relationships seem shallow and superficial, and the only woman with a meaningful role in the story gets classically fridged to give him the final push.One day I'll have to read an adaptation from the wretch's point of view. His actions, reactions and justifications seem so much more interesting than Victor's.

[mdabril · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Frankenstein is one of my all-time favorite books, but it's important to understand why people like my enjoy it. If you haven't read the book, it may not be what you think.I love Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. To be clear, she is not the best author ever. Some aspects of her writing are a little juvenile and at times ever downright boring. Even though she herself was a woman, her female characters tend to be somewhat shallow and idealistic. Nevertheless, Shelley has a unique and gifted mind that is almost even prophetic in character. Her novel "The Last Man," for example, is one of the first to imagine the extinction of the human race, which is now a real possibility and an important area of thought. Similarly, Frankenstein is not altogether novel, since it builds heavily on earlier Romantic language, concepts, and images especially from Goethe and Mary's husband Percy Shelley. Nevertheless, she outdoes them by imagining in a prophetic way what the technological creation of new life could mean for the human person.With this in mind, let's be clear that Frankenstein is NOT a scary book, NOT about some dim-witted or pathetic monster, and NOT a source of cheap chills and thrills. It is first and foremost about the scientist who creates the monster. He does so out of a genius that unites both modern science and premodern thinking. Specifically how he makes the monster is beside the point; Shelley is secretive on this matter so that we do not get lost. It is not evident, for example, that he makes it from corpses; he uses corpses for study, but he seems to fashion the monster directly.The principle point of the book, therefore, is the emotion of Frankenstein as he comes to terms with his own creation. That which he fashioned to be beautiful, wonderful, superior to humanity turns out in fact to be hideous, ugly, and terrifying. The monster is superior to his maker in intelligence and power but not morality, and this forces Frankenstein to face his own unworthiness as a creator.Thus while Frankenstein the book is born out of Romantic ideas about the genius, the excellence of humanity, and the transcendence of the Promethean man--the one who dares to challenge the gods by taking upon himself the act of creation--it also profoundly serves as a counterpoint to the same Romantic spirit. This new Prometheus turns out to be a mere, weak man, who cannot quite come to terms with what he has created. Thus like her book "The Last Man," Shelley poses a vital question: Is humanity really still the gem of creation, or will the transcending force of nature ultimately leave us behind in the dust from whence we came?Frankenstein is thus a book that every reader of English should engage at some time. It would help, however, to have some familiarity with Romanticism (see an encyclopedia) and to spend some time reading some poems by other Romantic writers such as Percy Shelley. A brief look into Mary Wollstonecraft's Shelley biography might help as well, since I would argue that she is deeply shaped by the continual tragedies of her life, including the loss of her mother at an early age and a complex relationship with her father.

[jalenv_2 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

My sympathies are with the monster. Victor von Frankenstein was a responsibility-avoiding, self-absorbed jerk!

[jonfaith · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

As an eight year old child, I found myself in love with horror films. It was a Scholastic Press survey of horror cinema for children which appeared to crystallize this fascination. It was terrible time for a kid. We had moved twice in four years and my mom had left. My dad was traveling for work and a series of housekeepers and sitters were keeping the home fires burning. It is no surprise that I was reading all the time and staying up too late watching inappropriate films on television. That said, I was never drawn to Frankenstein.

The father of some neighborhood friends used to proclaim the superiority of all the Universal films, especially to the hyper-gore films of the late 70s. I could agree with Bela Lugosi or Claude Rains (as the Invisible Man) but I wasn't moved by Lon Cheney Jr's Wolf Man or the lump of clay which was Frankenstein's monster. It remains elusive to distinguish.

It was with muted hopes that I finally read Frankenstein this past week. I was pleasantly surprised by the rigid plot which slowly shifts, allowing the Madness of the Fallen to Reap Vengeance on the Creator (and vice versa). Sure, it is laden with symbols and encoded thoughts on Reason, Science and Class. Frankenstein remains an engaging novel by a teenager, one doomed by fate. It is prescient and foreboding. Highly recommended.

[drardavis · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Despite its 19th century style and vocabulary this story still horrifies, partly because the gruesome details are left to the imagination. Victor Frankenstein does not reveal how he reanimates the creature. Stephen King would have spent several bloody chapters arranging the guts and brains and eyeballs. The motion picture image of the creature is only supported by Shelley’s description of the watery yellow eyes and the straight black lips. The pearly white teeth, lustrous flowing black hair, limbs in proportion, and beautiful features give a more godlike aspect to the monster. The violence is barely described. A dead body with finger prints on its throat. An execution. Some screams and sticks and stones to drive the creature out of a cottage. Even the death of Victor’s fiancee is but a muffled scream in a distant bedroom and a body on the bed. The true horror is symbolic, mythical, ethical, and metaphysical. Mary Shelley describes the consequences of hubris in prose while her husband gives a similar image poetically in Ozymandias. “Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.”

[faith_murri · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful.
I have to admit, I was somewhat weary of this book. Despite its short page count, it is very wordy and has long, large paragraphs, and that made the prospect of reading this rather daunting. However, I swallowed my pride and did it, and was greatly rewarded.

I do know that for the sympathy of one living being, I would make peace with all. I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.
Frankenstein and his creature are both so interesting and complex; they're also both so pitiful. So much of their anguish and sorrow could have been avoided if not for human pride. They are both agents of horror and destruction in both action and inaction, and that made for a really interesting story.

Besides that, it's extremely quotable.

Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.
I was amazed at how Hollywood has continuously gotten the story wrong, so much so that this book felt entirely unique and the twists were effective. I don't know whether I should scorn or love Hollywood for their utter failure to accurately adapt this book into a faithful film. On one hand, this book deserves a great movie. On the other, the plot integrity of a very old book was maintained. The television show Penny Dreadful had a Frankenstein story line that was remarkably close to the source material considering, and the few big changes it made were justified in the larger story.

I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous.
The themes in this were amazing! I love complex characters and dark, ambiguous morality in my literature. To be completely honest, I sympathized with Frankenstein way more than the monster, which I hadn't thought I would going into it. I loved both characters though.

Overall, it's a great book with an awesome story, and everyone should read it.

[solitaryfossil · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Why did I wait so long to read this? An excellent novel and highly recommended. Wonderful.

[aspirit-1 · Calificación: 2 de 5 estrellas]

I didn't finish this story, perhaps because I'd tired of Victorian/Gothic fiction by the time I'd started reading this novel. Perhaps, it was because I hadn't expected a frame story about how the hedonistic Dr. Frankenstein created a person on whim, abandoned him, and refused to take responsibility even as his creation showed an infantile inability to move on from his traumatic rebirth without guidance.

Half-way through the story, I was rooting for someone to shove the doctor off a cliff and help Frankenstein's monster to become a self-sufficient man. I doubt the end is that cheerful.

There is a strong possibility that this story can be a trigger from adults who'd suffered neglect and abandonment in childhood. I appreciate that Shelley wrote a story that can elicit strong emotions through its plot, but it was too difficult to continue at times. I felt that too much of the story was told from Dr. Frankenstein's point of view (POV), making the section from the unnamed monster's POV more painful.

One day, I'll try reading all the way through with different expectations.

[msf59 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

It has taken me decades, but I finally read this classic horror novel. I have no excuse for the procrastination, but it turned out to be a nice surprise because it is much different from the movies, we are so familiar with. The films and vampire lore surrounding Dracula, seem to have followed closely to that novel, but Shelley's Frankenstein is a much more philosophical exploration, asking big questions about nature, mankind and our different responsibilities to each. This is even more impressive if you consider that the author was only eighteen when she wrote it. If you are still perched on a fence, over this one, reconsider, and give it a try. It also worked very well as an audiobook.

[schatzi_5 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

I'm not sure how I went this long without reading Frankenstein (or Dracula, which is still on my TBR list). Of course I'd heard about the story, and thought that I knew the basics of it (apparently I knew more about the movies than the book), and since it's October and Halloween is fast approaching, I thought that I'd find a creepy read.Instead, I found myself getting weepy over Frankenstein's creation. Frankenstein is a total dick, and I find it impossible to really feel anything for him except a vague disgust. Frankenstein spends years crafting his creation, and as SOON as his creation is animated, he is repulsed by him. Having brought this creation to life, with him knowing nothing about life or humans or anything, completely dependent on his creator for care, Frankenstein abandons him - FOR TWO YEARS. TWO FREAKING YEARS. Meanwhile, this poor creation is thrust into a world he does not and cannot possibly understand. He doesn't even understand hunger or thirst, much less how to speak or express his needs. All the creation longs for is acceptance; instead, he finds only horror. Every time he tries to help people in an attempt to win their favor, he's shot or beaten or hated. Is it any wonder that he becomes full of rage and turns that against his creator, whom he blames for bringing him to "life" and then abandoning him in a cruel world? I do feel sorry for the characters that are hurt because of their association with Frankenstein, but Frankenstein himself? Meh. In spite of never being formally educated, the creation is quite smart (having taught himself language and reason by observing, studying his neighbors circumspectly, and reading a few books he found abandoned) and totally calls out Frankenstein for his dickish behavior, and I enjoyed this part the most. And I hated how remorseful the creation was when Frankenstein dies, because I really wanted him to just say "fuck this hoe" and leave. Altogether, this wasn't what I expected it to be - and I'm glad for that. Three stars because I still feel we're suppose to sympathize a bit with Frankenstein, and I just can't. CANNOT.

[gbelik_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

I haven't read this since high school so it felt like I was reading it for the first time. There was so much more here than I remembered, both in plot and in ideas. Well worth a re-read.

[starla_aurora · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

I can understand all the love I hear for this book. It is writing is eloquent and you can fell the time period the author is from. Sadly, this extreme difference is noticed because of how many (terrible) writing styles there are in this day. I cant say much that is not already said about this book. If you are someone who enjoys very well written art, this is for you. Writing style is not what I judge highly, as long as I can feel what the characters are feeling and see what they have seen, I enjoy a book. As for the person who wrote that Hollywood got it terribly wrong, they did. I listened to this on audio book (amazing reader btw, George Guidall is brilliant -I loved his audio reading of The Ear, The Eye, and The Arm By: Nancy Farmer.

[fredacochran · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Read this in high school and loved it, I still love it, such a brilliant mine to come up with the characters and story.

[birdie.newborn · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

An important book. Mary Shelley is methodical, but also swept up in the Sturm-und-Drang emotionality of the period. Her characters have motivations, psychological depth, passions.

[soylentgreen23 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

The Good: The quality of this story, in terms of the ideas it contains and the philosophical musings it provokes, is far greater than that of the various movie versions.The Bad: The quality of the writing is not always equal to the quality of the story. This is very much a book written by a relatively young woman, trying to impress a literary scene with her abilities. The dialogue is very weak at times, and there are strange moments when Frankenstein collapses into a fever that last months and months, just to give his creation time to explore the world he finds himself in.The Ugly: Yes, the creature is ugly and terrible, but also very, very interesting. This thinking, moralising monster is much more worthy of our attention than the giant imbecile that haunts the cinema. Reading the story, one also wonders if the general public (or the press) has it right in describing genetically modified food as 'Frankenfoods'. The monster is only evil when he suffers the evil of society around him; he has an overwhelming capacity for love and for good.

[engpunk77 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Quality!

At one time this was my favorite classic novel--I've read it 4 times for 4 different classes and it's amazing how many different interpretations are out there regarding the nature of the monster! One professor believed he didn't exist at all--a figment of Victor's imagination or a manifestation of his oedipus complex. The fact that the men at the end witness the existence of the monster is an example of group hysteria. That's my favorite thesis and I wish I could remember the name of my professor that suggested it to give her credit!
A chilling and complex tale that examines the relationship between man and his creator, feelings of isolation and rejection, and monstrosity. A psychological thriller as much as a horror story. Recommended to lit majors especially!
By the way, this isn't my copy but one from a library book sale. Mine is so full of notes you can barely read the text anymore...

[fyrefly98 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Summary: Victor Frankenstein, the son of a wealthy Geneva family, was encouraged in his pursuit of the study of the natural sciences, and from his reading gleans the idea of creating life from non-life. So he builds a creature from human body parts, and animates it, and is then struck by the horror of what he's done, during which time the monster escapes. It soon learns that it is monstrous, and by hiding in a shed near a house with a family, learns language. It vows vengeance on Frankenstein, for creating it and abandoning it, and proceeds to kill those that Frankenstein loves, and to destroy his every chance for happiness.Review: This was a really fascinating read, and made for a surprisingly intense discussion at book club. I'd grown up with the pop-culture monster image in my head, and I knew enough to know that Frankenstein was the scientist, not the monster (although does his behavior make him the one that's truly monstrous? Discuss.), but I'd never before read the actual book. I was surprised how much of it doesn't match the Hollywood version, and by how much of it's from the monster's point of view - he's very articulate, which surprised me.The prose was really pretty dense - no point in saying once what you can say three times with a bunch of adjectives, I guess - and there was a lot of wailing and (metaphorical) gnashing of teeth and rending of garments, which got a little bit (a lot, actually) tiring. But I liked that it could be read on a number of levels - as a horror story, as a story about scientific ethics, as a story about the human condition and what it really means to be human, so that was all great. I also entertained myself as I was listening by seeing how far I could carry my theory that Frankenstein himself actually was murdering all those people - several times throughout the novel he goes into fits and has a fever from which he doesn't recover for several weeks, and when he does, someone else close to him is dead. It doesn't quite hold up throughout the entire story, but I thought it made an interesting possibility. 3.5 out of 5 stars.Recommendation: I didn't love it, but it's absolutely worth reading, both to get the real scoop on the mad-scientist cliche, and to provide lots of really interesting possibilities for debate with others.

[jbarringer-2 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

I wanted to like this book more than I did. The story of Frankenstein is in pop-culture enough that I knew pretty well what the book was about. What I didn't expect was how pathetic Frankenstein is, whining about everything and taking almost no responsibility for his own thoughts and actions. He gets awfully dramatic about his early education, as if he could really blame one conversation in his youth for his entire adult obsession over making his monster. Similarly, the monster seems incapable of taking responsibility for his choices and actions, even after he has become the articulate, intelligent creature he is when he starts killing people. I suppose if Frankenstein is a restrained sociopath, and Frankenstein is an expression of his repressed fantasies, maybe it makes some sense, but since Frankenstein narrates most of the story (in his whining style) I found this book to be a slow and not-so enjoyable read.

[khrystibooks · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

This book was excellently written and very philosophical, and way depressing. It's also very worth reading.

[bohemima · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

The book is different from the movie.How often have we heard and said that? In the case of Frankenstein the differences even more difficult than usual. The classic horror movie with Karloff is, oddly, more true to the essential message of the novel than one might expect—although the plot details are way off.We start with a framing device: Frankenstein has been rescued by a ship’s captain from the frozen waters of the far north. He (Frankenstein) tells his awful (in all senses of the word) tale. Frankenstein’s unhealthy curiosity and hubris lead him to create a “man.” This well-meaning, if bizarre, experiment doesn’t go well. Horror, murder, and mayhem ensue.But this isn’t just a Gothic romance designed to thrill the heart of the innocent reader. Instead it’s a study of what happens to a creature who is feared, hated, and rejected by everyone, including his creator. The reader soon realizes that if the Creature had been afforded even a modicum of compassion and understanding none of the evil would have ensued. This idea is well-realized in the movie from the 1930’s.Frankenstein is often read as a study in hubris and pride; the doctor is seen as impious at best and Saranic at worst. None of this is supported by the text.The book retains its suspense and compulsion to keep turning the pages even on a third or fourth reading. An excellent moral tale, couched in enough melodrama to please any lover of sensational fiction. There’s nothing prurient or gross to keep it from young or sensitive readers. Highly recommended.