Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    Frankenstein: The Deluxe eBook Edition
    Frankenstein: The Deluxe eBook Edition
    Frankenstein: The Deluxe eBook Edition
    Ebook333 pages6 hours

    Frankenstein: The Deluxe eBook Edition

    By Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

    4/5

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    This deluxe ebook package features Mary Shelley’s classic gothic novel plus an extended excerpt of award winning author Kenneth Oppel’s thrilling prequel, This Dark Endeavor!

    What happens when an obsession defies your control?

    Victor Frankenstein has long sought the answer to creating new life. When he finally achieves his goal, he’s horrified by the results and abandons his creation, ready to forget what he’s done. But when tragedy befalls his family, Victor returns home to discover his creation is hiding nearby. To save his family from further despair, Frankenstein’s creature asks him to do the one thing he swore he never would do again.

    Mary Shelley’s novel explores with chilling dimensions the questions that reside at our core. What is the fabric of life and the soul? Where are the limits of our imagination? Can man’s reach shatter the boundaries between science, nature and God?
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSimon & Schuster Books for Young Readers
    Release dateSep 6, 2011
    ISBN9781442450219
    Frankenstein: The Deluxe eBook Edition
    Author

    Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

    Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin was born in 1797, the daughter of two of the leading radical writers of the age. Her mother died just days after her birth and she was educated at home by her father and encouraged in literary pursuits. She eloped with and subsequently married the Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, but their life together was full of hardship. The couple were ruined by disapproving parents and Mary lost three of her four children. Although its subject matter was extremely dark, her first novel Frankenstein (1818) was an instant sensation. Subsequent works such as Mathilda (1819), Valperga (1823) and The Last Man (1826) were less successful but are now finally receiving the critical acclaim that they deserve.

    Read more from Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

    Related to Frankenstein

    Related ebooks

    YA Social Themes For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      Tale As Old As Time: The Dark Appeal of 'Beauty And The Beast'

      Mar 26, 2017

      Disney's new live-action extravaganza is just the latest retelling of this classic fairy tale. But why do Beauty and her Beast have such a hold on us? And why are there so many versions of their tale?

      4 min read

    • Article

      Hell Or Holy Water

      Apr 30, 2021

      Hell Or Holy Water
      3 min read

    • Article

      The Ballad Of Songbirds And Snakes

      Jun 26, 2020

      BOOK SUZANNE COLLINS | SCHOLASTIC Collins returns to Panem with a prequel exploring President Snow’s early days as an increasingly ruthless mentor in the Hunger Games. With the Games themselves not yet fully formed, there’s plenty of lore to explore,

      1 min read

    • Article

      The 40 Greatest Books To Read Before You Die

      Apr 25, 2021

      Books, books, books. They will increase your lifespan, lower your stress and boost your intelligence. They will give you fuller, thicker hair. Whatever the breathless claims about reading, one thing is certain: losing yourself in a great novel is one

      14 min read

    • Article

      Three Poems by Geoffrey Hill

      Dec 15, 2018

      62. Why such irony in re the mystical context when a graph of even the most commonplace exchange would appear perplexed; when we drop out from the plainest statement in the posture of a bat? So, decide to make something of that, the style to resemble

      2 min read

    • Article

      If I Had a Sense of Beauty

      Dec 5, 2017

      If I Had a Sense of Beauty
      14 min read

    • Article

      Nick Laird

      Dec 15, 2017

      I was trying to write like an adult.I had children.I was at the end of something. As I waited at my table by the window for the coffee,I saw that the sirocco had depositeda scrim of dust on the sill overnight,and it was the dark red of powdered blood

      3 min read

    • Article

      Bard In The Woods

      Nov 30, 2020

      Bard In The Woods
      4 min read

    • Article

      Tears In The Kalahari

      Mar 11, 2022

      Tears In The Kalahari
      2 min read

    • Article

      AUSTRALOPITHECA1 & STARMAN2

      Sep 1, 2019

      The countdown to you begyns with me, deere Starman, when I wander, dumbly, deep into a space hospittable to Hunger. Now, all’s desert. No milk in syte. Just pitifull sand, what shushes as it slydes through your hande to rejoin itself. I’d join myself

      7 min read

    • Article

      The Drifter

      Apr 1, 2021

      The Drifter
      3 min read

    • Article

      Press-ganged!

      Jun 13, 2019

      Press-ganged!
      3 min read

    • Article

      Press Ganged!

      May 1, 2020

      Press Ganged!
      3 min read

    • Article

      Two Poems

      Nov 1, 2018

      In a hotel in a small town in Norfolk I am listening to someonethrowing glass bottles into a metal bin: toss-shatter, toss-shatter.There are no other sounds; it’s a quiet afternoonbut the one tossing them has a sense of rhythm and I havea sense that

      5 min read

    • Article

      Shelf Life

      Nov 2, 2023

      I’m not sure if I can truly pinpoint the moment my new novel Once A Monster was born – but I can trace the history of some of its most important ingredients. As a boy, looking through an old illustrated book of Greek myths, and being at once captiva

      5 min read

    • Article

      First Passage

      Jun 3, 2021

      First Passage
      16 min read

    • Article

      On Love

      Mar 7, 2022

      On Love
      7 min read

    • Article

      Commonplace Book

      Dec 1, 2021

      The light from the full moon lent a silky, glacial sheen to the towering front of the cloud, which stretched off to the horizon in both directions. I stood transfixed as it made its way down the street toward me at a little over the town’s speed limi

      3 min read

    • Article

      Paul Heiney

      Aug 30, 2019

      Paul Heiney
      3 min read

    • Article

      John Ashbery

      Mar 15, 2019

      He could understand the things at home.—Wallace Stevens, “Things of August” Scribbled on the expansive mist, the desireof many dwindles to usand our “activities,” wholesomeor otherwise. Soon it becomes apparentthat neither they nor I have any prise o

      4 min read

    • Article

      Home

      Dec 27, 2018

      Home
      3 min read

    • Article

      The Time for Art Is Now

      Mar 22, 2018

      The Time for Art Is Now
      4 min read

    • Article

      Hook, Line And Sinker

      Oct 18, 2018

      Hook, Line And Sinker
      4 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for Frankenstein

    4/5

    323 ratings323 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

    • 5/5
      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.

    • 5/5
      Considered by many to be the first science fiction novel.
    • 3/5
      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.
    • 5/5
      It's a wonderful, intense and superbly written novel.Don't be afraid to read it even if you don't like the genre.
    • 4/5
      A chilling tale! I read this in high school, which was a while ago, but even thinking about it now gives me the creeps.
    • 5/5
      Amazing book. It's so much more than I thought it would be. Very interesting!
    • 2/5
      Disappointing, especially for such a highly regarded "classic". 5% action, 95% describing how everyone *feels* about what just happened.
    • 3/5
      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"
    • 5/5
      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.
    • 2/5
      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.
    • 3/5
      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.
    • 5/5
      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.
    • 4/5
      My sympathies are with the monster. Victor von Frankenstein was a responsibility-avoiding, self-absorbed jerk!
    • 4/5
      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.
    • 4/5
      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.
    • 5/5
      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.”
    • 5/5
      Why did I wait so long to read this? An excellent novel and highly recommended. Wonderful.
    • 4/5
      probably a 3 for pure enjoyment, but the meta fascination of how it has fit into our culture and shaped our storytelling is a huge bonus.plus she was like 18 when she wrote things because they were bored at a house party.
    • 4/5
      Not at all what I was expecting. Have seen many movie adaptations and the book is far better. Loved it.
    • 4/5
      A classic.
    • 4/5
      Halloween re-read. Pure love.
    • 4/5
      It was good:)
    • 5/5
      It's taken me 70 years to read this classic. Ironically enough, I started reading it because I was reading a children's version of this book to my four-year-old grandson, and I did not want his book to put spoilers into my own classic story which I started reading simultaneously.Wow! What a novel! I never knew the "real" story of Frankenstein, nor did I know that Frankenstein was the name of the doctor who created the monster rather than the monster himself.This novel was written in 1818 by a nineteen-year-old. Another "Wow!" needs to be inserted here. The story is magnificently written. I never much in the past liked to read nineteenth-century novels, but I did learn to appreciate them more with tutored reads of selected older novels provided so kindly to me by a fellow member of LibraryThing. What I learned to do with those novels was to take notes on the story, the characters, and keep a running vocabulary. This bailed me out quite a few times during the reading of this novel as I simply cannot keep all this information in my head.What I found exceptional in this novel was the dense storyline which in some places was truly beautiful despite the grim nature of the story. This was a book about friendship (or the lack thereof) and of courage (in many different forms).I especially liked this quote from late in the story:Even where the affections are not strongly moved by any superior excellence, the companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our minds which hardly any later friend can obtain.Although people associate [Frankenstein] with horror, I will only now associate that word and the novel with sadness. It is a sad world in which we live in where some of us judge others by appearance rather than by inner motive. This novel only serves to accentuate that kind of sadness (and wrongness) and puts the face of a monster we call "Frankenstein" to that kind of sentiment.
    • 4/5
      3.5 stars

      Ok, so it’s one of the big two of the great classic monster stories: Dracula and Frankenstein…sort of a literary Beatles and the Rolling Stones scenario. Which do you think is better? Your choice may say a lot about you. Considered a classic both in the realms of science fiction and horror and even granted the distinction to be part of the literary cannon, the pedigree of Mary Shelley’s _Frankenstein_ is pretty much impeccable. This was actually my second attempt at reading the book, however, the first being stymied some years ago by the morose, and seemingly endless, philosophizing of the monster. Somehow this didn’t bother me this time around, and I was able to enjoy Shelley’s nightmare tale and appreciate its classic status. To me the book reads almost like a primer in the Romantic ethos, not surprising considering its author who was a member of one of the greatest literary circles of the Romantic movement. From the emblematic poetry quoted throughout and the many, many (many) paens to the revelatory aspects of wild and majestic Nature to the existential philosophizing central to all of the characters and the combination of hopefulness with despair, this book has the Romantic movement tattooed on its soul.

      Regardless of the fact that many see this as the birthing point of science fiction due to young Frankenstein’s pseudo-scientific attempts to create life, I think that these sfnal elements hold a distant second place to the more poetic and philosophical ones in the story. To me it isn’t the cautionary tale of the dangers of scientific progress that is paramount, but rather that of the family. I think _Frankenstein_ is ultimately more concerned with parenthood and its responsibilities, and an examination of what happens when love and its attendant obligations are absent, than it is with the dangers of the advancement of scientific knowledge. Victor is thus not so much at fault because he attempted to emulate God in the creation of life, but because he did not emulate Him in his care for his creation. (Though I think Shelley is herself ambiguous about whether God is any better…there seems to be an implicit judgement in some places that we in some sense share in the Creature’s abandonment.) Victor does not attempt to teach his creature or even do so much as stay in its vicinity after it has been awakened from death, instead abandoning it to the vicissitudes of the world merely because of its horrific appearance. Victor’s fault is compounded by the fact that his own family life was one of bliss with the full support and love of his parents, a fact that Shelley makes sure to underline as Victor tells the tale of his life. Even after his initial rejection by his creator and only link to humanity, the Creature attempts to live as best it can, looking for companionship and love until, driven by constant rejection due only to its frightful features, it chooses a path of vengeance and hate.

      Which of the protagonists is the romantic hero of this tale? Is it Victor, who is certainly mad, bad and dangerous to know (though in a somewhat different vein from Byron)? Or is it the Creature who seems destined to most evoke the reader’s pity and displays all of the pathos of the unjustly suffering tragic figure, for all of Victor’s whining about his own predicament? Victor is indeed somewhat laughable in his sentiments (though I imagine this was not Shelley’s intent). There are only so many times that we can hear his inner monologues about how he is suffering more than any of those around him due to the inner torments of conscience, while at the same time he sits safely watching a figure like the poor servant girl Justine who stands alone in the dock awaiting death for a crime she did not commit, before we roll our eyes in frustration. Sure Victor, poor you. The torments of the soul are surely a fate worse than an ignominious death. Victor’s extreme passivity is also somewhat annoying. I’m still not sure why he prefers to sit and moan over the trials that assail him instead of taking matters into his own hands. If he truly believed the creature was such a blight on creation, and one whose soul was irredeemable, then why didn’t he just wait for one of the Creature’s inevitable visits with a gun instead of nothing more than impotent rage and mad ravings? The novel would have been over much sooner and in much less dramatic a fashion, but it strained my credulity a bit that such a ‘genius’ didn’t have this simple foresight. One other moment in the story that stetched my disbelief was the manner in which the Creature learned to read and speak. Let’s just say that it involved an incredibly convenient series of coincidence and leave it at that.

      These issues aside, I did quite enjoy the novel. It was certainly chock full of ideas and had some luscious prose. Both were often in a somewhat overheated vein, but, given its place square in the midst of the Romantic genre I could expect no less of it. In addition to the critiques of parental abandonment Shelley also inserts several criticisms of the burden we carry as a result of our self-awareness. Tellingly, both Frankenstein and the Creature bemoan their sensibilities in an almost identical fashion and pine for the state of brute beasts, wishing that they had never “…known nor felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst and heat”. Intellect and feeling are an affliction that the happy beasts of the field need not suffer. Of course it is these very feelings that allow mankind to be both poet and scientist; to appreciate the beauty and wonder of Nature which the book so ardently admires; and to bring about the goodness of humanity as much as its evil, so these critiques are not, I think, without a rejoinder even in the novel itself.

      All in all this was a great read; an exemplum of the horror genre still in its infancy…but I still like _Dracula_ better.
    • 5/5
      Why did I wait so long to read this? An excellent novel and highly recommended. Wonderful.
    • 3/5
      This is the first time I read the classic Frankenstein. I've seen movies and read variations. They always make the monster seem so relatable. However, after reading the original story, I find the monster to be malevolent and detestable. It wasn't his fault that Victor gave him life and made him hideous. I understand him being angry and lonely and lost. I get that he is looking for someone to understand him and accept him for who he is. And I get that he blames Victor, with good cause. But he kills innocents. I enjoyed the story and felt awful for Victor. He made a huge mistake and he paid dearly for it.
    • 4/5
      Much better plot than the movies. Monster created by the meddling hands of man (the modern Prometheus of the subtitle) yet made evil by man's lack of compassion. Victor spends years studying how to create life and when he does so he immediately runs away. He is not the most robust of men. He swoons, holidays for months and runs away throughout the book. Frankenstein is a bit of an idiot really and his creation has more substance. The conversations between the two were highlights.

      At times it was slightly surreal (aside from the basic plot). The monster stalking Victor like his nemesis all over Europe and indeed to the Arctic. When he appears suddenly on a remote Orkney island where Victor is trying to create a female version for the monster was almost farcical. I was almost laughing out loud at this point.

      I enjoyed this but the style was a bit flowery and bloated and some perseverance is required. Worth it though.
    • 5/5
      This book isn't scary so much as it is sad, so definitely keep a box of tissues nearby when you read this.

      While I feel badly for all the characters involved, and while I don't condone the actions of the "Monster," I do definitely feel the need to mention that Victor Frankenstein is an extraordinarily oblivious and self-centered person. At least that was my perception of him.

      The book itself wasn't difficult to read and was extremely engaging, despite the fact that it was first published in the 1800's and you could really tell by the writing style. At first it was a little difficult, but not much, and I got used to it pretty quickly and soon found it to be almost lyrical. Not quite, but almost. There were times when it seemed to edge a bit on purple prose, but it wasn't in an irritating way.

      I found this book to be extremely engaging and I had a hard time putting it down from the start. It makes you think and engages your emotions as well as your reasoning. I would definitely recommend this book, even to people who don't usually like sci-fi or older books.
    • 4/5
      What a classic. I've read it several times and every time find something new to admire. And at the heart, that great message that the real monster lies within.
    • 4/5
      I loved this book and can't believe how differently this story has been portrayed by American culture. Aside from the sheer disbelief that everyone who has not read the book has gotten the story so WRONG, I often found myself getting wrapped up in the eloquence of Shelley's words. The way she described some of the most mundane things was simply beautiful.

      I loved the story within a story within a story. I felt it allowed us to not only see the characters as they saw themselves, but also as the respective narrator saw them. Though there were portions that I felt weren't necessary (Chapter 19 read like the most boring travel brochure ever) I appreciated most of it. Frankenstein's overall struggle and loss as a result of his "playing god" was heartbreaking.

    Book preview

    Frankenstein - Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

    Cover: Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley

    Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay

    To mould me man? Did I solicit thee

    From darkness to promote me?-----

    PARADISE LOST.

    Dedication

    TO WILLIAM GODWIN, AUTHOR OF Political Justice, Caleb Williams, &c. THESE VOLUMES ARE RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR.

    PREFACE

    THE EVENT on which this fiction is founded has been supposed, by Dr. Darwin, and some of the physiological writers of Germany, as not of impossible occurrence. I shall not be supposed as according the remotest degree of serious faith to such an imagination; yet, in assuming it as the basis of a work of fancy, I have not considered myself as merely weaving a series of supernatural terrors. The event on which the interest of the story depends is exempt from the disadvantages of a mere tale of spectres or enchantment. It was recommended by the novelty of the situations which it developes; and, however impossible as a physical fact, affords a point of view to the imagination for the delineating of human passions more comprehensive and commanding than any which the ordinary relations of existing events can yield.

    I have thus endeavoured to preserve the truth of the elementary principles of human nature, while I have not scrupled to innovate upon their combinations. The Iliad, the tragic poetry of Greece,—Shakespeare, in the Tempest and Midsummer Night’s Dream,—and most especially Milton, in Paradise Lost, conform to this rule; and the most humble novelist, who seeks to confer or receive amusement from his labours, may, without presumption, apply to prose fiction a licence, or rather a rule, from the adoption of which so many exquisite combinations of human feeling have resulted in the highest specimens of poetry.

    The circumstance on which my story rests was suggested in casual conversation. It was commenced, partly as a source of amusement, and partly as an expedient for exercising any untried resources of mind. Other motives were mingled with these, as the work proceeded. I am by no means indifferent to the manner in which whatever moral tendencies exist in the sentiments or characters it contains shall affect the reader; yet my chief concern in this respect has been limited to the avoiding the enervating effects of the novels of the present day, and to the exhibition of the amiableness of domestic affection, and the excellence of universal virtue. The opinions which naturally spring from the character and situation of the hero are by no means to be conceived as existing always in my own conviction; nor is any inference justly to be drawn from the following pages as prejudicing any philosophical doctrine of whatever kind.

    It is a subject also of additional interest to the author, that this story was begun in the majestic region where the scene is principally laid, and in society which cannot cease to be regretted. I passed the summer of 1816 in the environs of Geneva. The season was cold and rainy, and in the evenings we crowded around a blazing wood fire, and occasionally amused ourselves with some German stories of ghosts, which happened to fall into our hands. These tales excited in us a playful desire of imitation. Two other friends (a tale from the pen of one of whom would be far more acceptable to the public than any thing I can ever hope to produce) and myself agreed to write each a story, founded on some supernatural occurrence.

    The weather, however, suddenly became serene; and my two friends left me on a journey among the Alps, and lost, in the magnificent scenes which they present, all memory of their ghostly visions. The following tale is the only one which has been completed.

    VOLUME I

    LETTER I

    To Mrs. Saville, England

    St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17—.

    You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday; and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare, and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking.

    I am already far north of London; and as I walk in the streets of Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which braces my nerves, and fills me with delight. Do you understand this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes. Inspirited by this wind of promise, my day dreams become more fervent and vivid. 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 phænomena 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. 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.

    These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my letter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven; for nothing contributes so much to tranquillize the mind as a steady purpose,—a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. This expedition has been the favourite dream of my early years. I have read with ardour the accounts of the various voyages which have been made in the prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the seas which surround the pole. You may remember, that a history of all the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the whole of our good uncle Thomas’s library. 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 sea-faring 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.

    Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking. I can, even now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself to this great enterprise. I commenced by inuring my body to hardship. I accompanied the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea; I voluntarily endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep; I often worked harder than the common sailors during the day, and devoted my nights to the study of mathematics, the theory of medicine, and those branches of physical science from which a naval adventurer might derive the greatest practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself as an under-mate in a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I must own I felt a little proud, when my captain offered me the second dignity in the vessel, and entreated me to remain with the greatest earnestness; so valuable did he consider my services.

    And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish some great purpose? My life might have been passed in ease and luxury; but I preferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed in my path. Oh, that some encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative! My courage and my resolution is firm; but my hopes fluctuate, and my spirits are often depressed. I am about to proceed on a long and difficult voyage; the emergencies of which will demand all my fortitude: I am required not only to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my own, when theirs are failing.

    This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia. They fly quickly over the snow in their sledges; the motion is pleasant, and, in my opinion, far more agreeable than that of an English stagecoach. The cold is not excessive, if you are wrapt in furs, a dress which I have already adopted; for there is a great difference between walking the deck and remaining seated motionless for hours, when no exercise prevents the blood from actually freezing in your veins. I have no ambition to lose my life on the post-road between St. Petersburgh and Archangel.

    I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight or three weeks; and my intention is to hire a ship there, which can easily be done by paying the insurance for the owner, and to engage as many sailors as I think necessary among those who are accustomed to the whale-fishing. I do not intend to sail until the month of June: and when shall I return? Ah, dear sister, how can I answer this question? If I succeed, many, many months, perhaps years, will pass before you and I may meet. If I fail, you will see me again soon, or never.

    Farewell, my dear, excellent, Margaret. Heaven shower down blessings on you, and save me, that I may again and again testify my gratitude for all your love and kindness.

    Your affectionate brother,

    R. Walton.

    LETTER II

    To Mrs. Saville, England.

    Archangel, 28th March, 17—.

    How slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow; yet a second step is taken towards my enterprise. I have hired a vessel, and am occupied in collecting my sailors; those whom I have already engaged appear to be men on whom I can depend, and are certainly possessed of dauntless courage.

    But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy; and the absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil. I have no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success, there will be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed by disappointment, no one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection. I shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true; but that is a poor medium for the communication of feeling. I desire the company of a man who could sympathize with me; whose eyes would reply to mine. You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend. I have no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a cultivated as well as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own, to approve or amend my plans. How would such a friend repair the faults of your poor brother! I am too ardent in execution, and too impatient of difficulties. But it is a still greater evil to me that I am self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a common, and read nothing but our uncle Thomas’s books of voyages. At that age I became acquainted with the celebrated poets of our own country; but it was only when it had ceased to be in my power to derive its most important benefits from such a conviction, that I perceived the necessity of becoming acquainted with more languages than that of my native country. Now I am twenty-eight, and am in reality more illiterate than many school-boys of fifteen. It is true that I have thought more, and that my day dreams are more extended and magnificent; but they want (as the painters call it) keeping; and I greatly need a friend who would have sense enough not to despise me as romantic, and affection enough for me to endeavour to regulate my mind.

    Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find no friend on the wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel, among merchants and seamen. Yet some feelings, unallied to the dross of human nature, beat even in these rugged bosoms. My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful courage and enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory. He is an Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional prejudices, un-softened by cultivation, retains some of the noblest endowments of humanity. I first became acquainted with him on board a whale vessel: finding that he was unemployed in this city, I easily engaged him to assist in my enterprise.

    The master is a person of an excellent disposition, and is remarkable in the ship for his gentleness, and the mildness of his discipline. He is, indeed, of so amiable a nature, that he will not hunt (a favourite, and almost the only amusement here), because he cannot endure to spill blood. He is, moreover, heroically generous. 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 has passed all his life on board a vessel, and has scarcely an idea beyond the rope and the shroud.

    But do not suppose that, because I complain a little, or because I can conceive a consolation for my toils which I may never know, that I am wavering in my resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate; and my voyage is only now delayed until the weather shall permit my embarkation. The winter has been dreadfully severe; but the spring promises well, and it is considered as a remarkably early season; so that, perhaps, I may sail sooner than I expected. I shall do nothing rashly; you know me sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness whenever the safety of others is committed to my care.

    I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of my undertaking. It is impossible to communicate to you a conception of the trembling sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful, with which I am preparing to depart. I am going to unexplored regions, to the land of mist and snow; but I shall kill no albatross, therefore do not be alarmed for my safety.

    Shall I meet you again, after having traversed immense seas, and returned by the most southern cape of Africa or America? I dare not expect such success, yet I cannot bear to look on the reverse of the picture. Continue to write to me by every opportunity: I may receive your letters (though the chance is very doubtful) on some occasions when I need them most to support my spirits. I love you very tenderly. Remember me with affection, should you never hear from me again.

    Your affectionate brother,

    Robert Walton.

    LETTER III

    To Mrs. Saville, England.

    July 7th, 17—.

    My dear Sister,

    I write a few lines in haste, to say that I am safe, and well advanced on my voyage. This letter will reach England by a merchant-man now on its homeward voyage from Archangel; more fortunate than I, who may not see my native land, perhaps, for many years. I am, however, in good spirits: my men are bold, and apparently firm of purpose; nor do the floating sheets of ice that continually pass us, indicating the dangers of the region towards which we are advancing, appear to dismay them. We have already reached a very high latitude; but it is the height of summer, and although not so warm as in England, the southern gales, which blow us speedily towards those shores which I so ardently desire to attain, breathe a degree of renovating warmth which I had not expected.

    No incidents have hitherto befallen us, that would make a figure in a letter. One or two stiff gales, and the breaking of a mast, are accidents which experienced navigators scarcely remember to record; and I shall be well content, if nothing worse happen to us during our voyage.

    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.

    Remember me to all my English friends.

    Most affectionately yours,

    R. W.

    LETTER IV

    To Mrs. Saville, England.

    August 5th, 17—.

    So strange an accident has happened to us, that I cannot forbear recording it, although it is very probable that you will see me before these papers can come into your possession.

    Last Monday (July 31st), we were nearly surrounded by ice, which closed in the ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her the sea room in which she floated. Our situation was somewhat dangerous, especially as we were compassed round by a very thick fog. We accordingly lay to, hoping that some change would take place in the atmosphere and weather.

    About two o’clock the mist cleared away, and we beheld, stretched out in every direction, vast and irregular plains of ice, which seemed to have no end. Some of my comrades groaned, and my own mind began to grow watchful with anxious thoughts, when a strange sight suddenly attracted our attention, and diverted our solicitude from our own situation. 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.

    About two hours after this occurrence, we heard the ground sea; and before night the ice broke, and freed our ship. We, however, lay to until the morning, fearing to encounter in the dark those large loose masses which float about after the breaking up of the ice. I profited of this time to rest for a few hours.

    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 some one 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 an 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?

    You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question addressed to me from a man on the brink of destruction, and to whom I should have supposed that my vessel would have been a resource which he would not have exchanged for the most precious wealth the earth can afford. I replied, however, that we were on a voyage of discovery towards the northern pole.

    Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied, and consented to come on board. Good God! Margaret, if you had seen the man who thus capitulated for his safety, your surprise would have been boundless. His limbs were nearly frozen, and his body dreadfully emaciated by fatigue and suffering. I never saw a man in so wretched a condition. We attempted to carry him into the cabin; but as soon as he had quitted the fresh air, he fainted. We accordingly brought him back to the deck, and restored him to animation by rubbing him with brandy, and forcing him to swallow a small quantity. As soon as he shewed signs of life, we wrapped him up in blankets, and placed him near the chimney of the kitchen-stove. By slow degrees he recovered, and ate a little soup, which restored him wonderfully.

    Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak; and I often feared that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding. When he had in some measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin, and attended on him as much as my duty would permit. I never saw a more interesting creature: his eyes have generally an expression of wildness, and even madness; but there are moments when, if any one 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.

    When my guest was a little recovered, I had great trouble to keep off the men, who wished to ask him a thousand questions; but I would not allow him to be tormented by their idle curiosity, in a state of body and mind whose restoration evidently depended upon entire repose. Once, however, the lieutenant asked, Why he had come so far upon the ice in so strange a vehicle?

    His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom; and he replied, To seek one who fled from me.

    And did the man whom you pursued travel in the same fashion?

    Yes.

    Then I fancy we have seen him; for, the day before we picked you up, we saw some dogs drawing a sledge, with a man in it, across the ice.

    This aroused the stranger’s attention; and he asked a multitude of questions concerning the route which the dæmon, as he called him, had pursued. Soon after, when he was alone with me, he said, I have, doubtless, excited your curiosity, as well as that of these good people; but you are too considerate to make inquiries.

    Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman in me to trouble you with any inquisitiveness of mine.

    And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situation; you have benevolently restored me to life.

    Soon after this he inquired, if I thought that the breaking up of the ice had destroyed the other sledge? I replied, that I could not answer with any degree of certainty; for the ice had not broken until near midnight, and the traveller might have arrived at a place of safety before that time; but of this I could not judge.

    From this time the stranger seemed very eager to be upon deck, to watch for the sledge which had before appeared; but I have persuaded him to remain in the cabin, for he is far too weak to sustain the rawness of the atmosphere. But I have promised that some one should watch for him, and give him instant notice if any new object should appear in sight.

    Such is my journal of what relates to this strange occurrence up to the present day. The stranger has gradually improved in health, but is very silent, and appears uneasy when any one except myself enters his cabin. Yet his manners are so conciliating and gentle, that the sailors are all interested in him, although they have had very little communication with him. For my own part, I begin to love him as a brother; and his constant and deep grief fills me with sympathy and compassion. He must have been a noble creature in his better days, being even now in wreck so attractive and amiable.

    I said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret, that I should find no friend on the wide ocean; yet I have found a man who, before his spirit had been broken by misery, I should have been happy

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1