Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus

I often seem to be in two minds about the books I read. ‘Frankenstein’ is, unfortunately, not the exception.

The novel opens favourably: the use of a (for want of a better turn of phrase) random guy sending letters to his sister is off-putting a good way. I had approached the novel with some agitation about what I would encounter, so reading some nice letters about travelling in Russia was pleasing. On a literary level, however, it was an excellent device: the gorgeous romantic imagery and elsewhere loving, conversational tone of the letters is juxtaposed by the introduction of Victor Frankenstein’s story, as from there, the mood is bleak, bleak, bleak.

That’s not to say that it wasn’t enjoyable. I really loved the first part of Victor’s story, as he recounted his almost Faustian lust for knowledge and achievement. Shelley’s inclusion of his interest in dated philosophers such as Paracelsus created an excellent feeling of naivety that caught me off guard: pop culture had me believing that Professor Frankenstein was old, deranged and prone to laughing maniacally; in fact, he is far more interesting: he is a guilty tragedy who eternally laments his creation of the monster and tries to put things right. This inner struggle is at the heart of the novel, for me: the escalation of the monster’s crimes sends Frankenstein into deeper and deeper despair, which reaches its climax in the monster’s ultimatum: create a female partner for him, or face the death of his family.

I have to take a little break here to discuss the character of the monster. When I began the section of the novel where the creature retells his history, I encountered a problem: how does this newly-created being know anything? How did it know that shade offers respite from heat? How did it know that it should eat to feed itself? How can it have rational thoughts, if it was indeed created and immediately let loose into the wild? I don’t know much about the development of babies, but I’m quite sure that a ‘newborn’ would not know how to do very much at all. I appeased myself by saying that the monster was not a newborn, that it must have been created with a knowledge of basic things – but then the author spent several pages recounting the creature learning how to speak.

Hm. Paradoxical.

This was the biggest problem with the novel, for me. It has been hailed as the precursor to science fiction, but in my eyes it fails on the physiological front, and succeeds on the characterisation and theme. Take the monster, for example: it tells a story of its inception as a peaceful, rational being and its descent into spite from its treatment by humans, but the beauty of the passage is that neither Victor nor the reader knows how much to believe: the monster’s later actions would suggest that it is cold and heartless, and indeed Victor states that it employs ruses to get what it wants. The question is then raised: is the monster rational and vengeful, or a demon that is only rational to be calculating? Furthermore, is Victor’s view of the monster clouded by his own experience of it?

I don’t actually have the answer to any of those questions, so I’ll just summarise: ‘Frankenstein’ has been evidently touched by the zeitgeist; with its frequent citations of nature as a calming, benevolent influence, Romanticism flows through it as much as the Faustian thirst for knowledge. It has many good points, namely the humanity of Victor’s character, the ambiguity of the monster’s, the excellent Romantic descriptions and the clever structure of stories within stories. It is let done by the logistics of its ‘science fiction’ core, in my opinion – it feels like the creation and history of the monster was not as thought out as it should have been. Finally, this book is incredibly depressing. I mentioned earlier that the explorer’s tone juxtaposes with that of Victor’s: from the moment his story begins, the reader sinks in his despair at the creation of the monster, the death of his family, the inability of a future moment of happiness. Of course the mood is understandable in such a novel, but I’m left in some doubt as to whether it is excusable.

Emma

Back in 2008, when I had to study ‘Pride & Prejudice’ for GCSE English, I positively loathed Jane Austen. I must have matured, however.

The novel follows the life of Emma Woodhouse, who is witty, endowed and beautiful – but does not want to marry. The first volume encompasses her scheme to match her friend Harriet with the eligible bachelor Mr. Elton; the second with the coming of three new neighbours, Jane Fairfax, Frank Churchill and Augusta Hawkins AKA The New Mrs. Elton; the third predictably charts Emma’s realisation of her own feelings for her childhood friend, Mr. Knightley.

What I love about Jane Austen is that you can guess the outcome of the plot by the blurb, but her novels are still immensely enjoyable. I’m a bit timid in using this phrase, but I believe it’s down to the ‘realism’ of it all.

Austen creates very diverse, believable characters. Many writers can create a good character in description, but do not reflect it consistently in describing their speech and actions. Austen breathes life into characters to make them, in my eyes, more than realistic. I can easily imagine the lives of Emma, of Miss Bates, of Frank Churchill, continuing when I close over the page because she transcribes her ideas for characters into living beings.

However, one problem that I have with Austen is how far to believe in it. She is known for writing novels of manners – social commentary. To that end, should I put faith in her portrayal of strict etiquette, exemplary planning for balls etc.? To what extent does Austen put across a realistic portrayal of 19^th century landed gentry? I’ll have to read other authors from the time period to find out.

I love the pacing of Austen novels. Except in instances of utmost importance (which I wouldn’t want to reveal), ‘Emma’ continues at a very stately pace, neither rushing nor stilted, but continually engaging. This is the word that is used to describe Jane Austen, and one that I find very apt. Her novels do not create immense paroxysms in the reader, but they stimulate the mind, thus challenging the preconception that great literature bounds only the very grandest emotions in life. ‘Emma’ focuses on the small details: a wry comment, a letter, body language, eye contact. I never find myself bored because the reader is enchanted by the stretched realism of Austen’s world, and so he believes in the importance of this or that ball, or his or her engagement. I can see, therefore, why people could dislike Jane Austen: she deals in the arcane and trivial lives of the upper class, which was, even in the 18^th century far removed from the lives of most – in the 21^st century, it is no wonder that in wider society she has numerous critics.

Personally, however, I believe. And so this world of rich characterisation and nuance opened up to me to become one of the most realistic reading experiences I have ever encountered.

The Big Push!

I'm making a big push to resurrect my blog. My literary opinions must be vocalised!

Proof Of My Blogger-Existence

I finished Jane Eyre. It was really very good.

I'm going to go have some lunch.

My little book that is most definitely not a diary

I was at the glorious Belfast Continental Market a few weeks ago. I think I'll go find a picture of it. I'm going to start posting much more multimedia on this little blog. The technological age and all this hoohah. So... here we go...

Aw, would you look at that? Absolutely beautiful. The Belfast Continental Market is a glorious little gem of attempted culture in our great capital where various stalls from various different countries are set up ie. crepes, weird meat burgers et cetera...

That was quite cynical. I adore the Continental Market and I shouldn't be so harsh about it. So, on my annual galavant around the block this time, I bought a delightful pair of... Polish (?) slippers (I should probably upload a picture in the new spirit of things but I don't want to) and, what this post is really about, my glorious little leather-bound book.

It's my book log book - which I keep accidentally referring to as my log book log. Which makes no sense.

My book log book is my log book where I log books! This means that I record the date and opening thoughts of whatever book I happen to be starting, note down a few thoughts throughout if I feel the need, and then a short summary/review plus the date whenever I finish the book.

Glorious! It will be an absolute asset when I start cramming literature into my tiny mind for university interviews.

I'm writing this post because I made the first step today. I wrote in the little book (should I name it? - I name quite a few inanimate objects...) for the very first time - apart from when I wrote my name it, which doesn't count because it was boring. And in my glorious little leather-bound book I wrote:

Monday 27th December

The Odyssey

Homer 

There was some little comment following that but I've forgotten what it was now.

Isn't that exciting? Doesn't it fill your heart with glee? Written recordings of every book I'm going to read until the end of time! Exhilarating!

I'm reading Homer's 'Odyssey', in case the little quotation (multimedia!-ish) above didn't give it away. It's the Penguin Rieu prose translation. I had a little rant about this in my glorious little leather-bound book earlier because how are you possibly supposed to understand Greek epic poetry if you are reading a prose translation of Greek poetry? Then I realised that even if I had been reading a poetry translation it would have been meaningless because there is simply no way that a translation could have preserved the original meter and structure of Homer's millenia-old Greek verse.

Or could they?

I don't know. I'm too tired to contemplate it.

Digression. I deeply, deeply like 'The Odyssey'. It's written in an 'oral' style that I believe essentially means it was written to be spoken in verse - like a story. This leads to many very hilarious repeated words, phrases, paragraphs and scenes in my icky prose translation that were originally necessary to keep rhythm in the Greek verse and are now just strange. For example, at the start of every single day, we receive the nice little phrase - "As Dawn arose, fresh and rosy-fingered". Menelaus is "auburn-haired", Odysseus is "resourceful", Athene is "The Goddess of the shining eyes". Every. Single. Page.

PICTURE INTERLUDE.

That's good old Menelaus looking less than auburn-haired in his grey, grey bust.

But yes, I am thoroughly enjoying 'The Odyssey'. Further updates as I progress.

Ohayo gozaimasu!

Trials

The most frustrating thing about learning to play an instrument is that sometimes you suck. Right now (right, right now - I'm procrastinating) I'm learning to play Massenet's 'Meditation' and I want to bloody throw my viola on the ground and stand on it. Because I was better last week.

Why? It's frustrating. If I was just awful and I stayed awful all the time that would be absolutely fine, but that glimmer of musical credibility that I hear once in a while just makes it so infuriating when I sink back into the doldrums.

Matthew is self-deprecating today. It's a good thing because ninety-nine times out of a hundred he is pompous.

Book update: finished one 'young adult' fantasy novel for the library club. It's called 'The Keeper's Daughter' by Gill Arbuthnot. Enjoyable. A solid 7.8. I have to read another young adult fantasy novel and then I'm going to back to my darling littérature. Currently debating between Matthew Lewis's 'The Monk' (Gothic Romanticism -- ah!) and Vladimir Nabkov's 'Lolita' (infamous twentieth century Russian sexcapade - ah!) The life of a teenager is a difficult one.

Poetry!

"If one really truly does indeed want to go to Cambridge then one really does have to begin studying poetry."

That is my inner scholar. He is very annoying but very correct. For that reason I bought the most beautiful little collection of poetry books a couple of days ago. It included:

• W.B. Yeats
• T.S. Eliot
• Sylvia Plath
• Ted Hughes
• W.H. Auden
• John Betjeman

I'll admit that before I bought the collection I had heard of four out of those six poets. But that's why I read! To learn! To that end I have started with Yeats. I have thus far read the very long introduction and about four poems, methinks. I'm not really feeling proper analysis, however.

In other news I have read the first book of Mervyn Peake's 'Gormenghast' trilogy, and I am in LOVE. I am convinced that it is indeed 'proper' literature, even though it doesn't have 'social context' or anything of the sort. I mean, it has endured more than fifty years in print. And what it does have is themes, and character, and motive, and macabre description!

I need to up the ante with my reading schedule or else no one will ever believe I'm smart.