When Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein she did so at a time of great ennui and anguish, a time of abandonment. She was not yet married to the poet Shelley but she was surrounded by his greatness and by the greatness of his friends, like Lord Byron. In a time when women were not expected to have the largess of Spirit that gave them the ability to articulate, with clarity and beauty, what lay in the innermost reaches of their hearts and souls.
Mary was the child of Mary Wollstoncraft who was a philosopher, advocate and scholar and who wrote the famous book A Vindication of the Rights of Women. Perhaps this genetic literary heritage along with a strong sense of advocacy for women was transmitted to her daughter in some way.
Frankenstein was created to be a creature only, an anomaly, one who was shunned, and who in his grotesqueness, stood apart. When the book was released in London it met with great controversy, especially when the author's identity was known (it was published anonymously at first as women were not allowed into the literary world). It was later republished by William Godwin, Mary's father, under her name.
I watched a movie about Mary Shelley's life recently and a particular moment in the film stood out for me. In a literary salon where both the poet Shelley and her father identified Mary as the author, her father said that the creature, this Frankenstein, reached out for love, tenderness and compassion, but received nothing in return. And that had even an ounce of love being shown to him he may not have become the monster that he did.
I think this is a profundity that we see all around us, especially today. We see this within families, where a child is shunned or misunderstood, or a husband or a wife is rejected. We also see this in the compact between corporations and those they employ. We especially see this in the heads of governments, those who display spectacular cruelty and indifferent coldness towards those they decapitate, whether in mind, body or spirit.
Every act of lashing out, every act of inhumanity and cruelty begins within the heart and soul of that person first.
Mary was the child of Mary Wollstoncraft who was a philosopher, advocate and scholar and who wrote the famous book A Vindication of the Rights of Women. Perhaps this genetic literary heritage along with a strong sense of advocacy for women was transmitted to her daughter in some way.
Frankenstein was created to be a creature only, an anomaly, one who was shunned, and who in his grotesqueness, stood apart. When the book was released in London it met with great controversy, especially when the author's identity was known (it was published anonymously at first as women were not allowed into the literary world). It was later republished by William Godwin, Mary's father, under her name.
I watched a movie about Mary Shelley's life recently and a particular moment in the film stood out for me. In a literary salon where both the poet Shelley and her father identified Mary as the author, her father said that the creature, this Frankenstein, reached out for love, tenderness and compassion, but received nothing in return. And that had even an ounce of love being shown to him he may not have become the monster that he did.
I think this is a profundity that we see all around us, especially today. We see this within families, where a child is shunned or misunderstood, or a husband or a wife is rejected. We also see this in the compact between corporations and those they employ. We especially see this in the heads of governments, those who display spectacular cruelty and indifferent coldness towards those they decapitate, whether in mind, body or spirit.
Every act of lashing out, every act of inhumanity and cruelty begins within the heart and soul of that person first.