“Satan had his companions, fellow-devils, to admire and encourage him; but I am solitary and detested,”; these cryptic words encapsulate the gothic world of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein — the cautionary tale on the dangers of science and the pursuit of knowledge, but more importantly, position themselves as the representation of the lonely and the “others.” Around this time of the year, everyone remembers Frankenstein. Halloween is the holiday where we watch our favorite scary movies and re-read the most outlandish ghost stories and thrillers. A classic like Shelley’s has distinguished itself among the plethora of horror surrounding this day since the early 1800s when it was originally published.
Shelley’s world is chilling — full of the macabre and grotesque — yet, apart from its dark aesthetics, there underlies a thematic analysis on the destructive forces found when searching for glory and greed beyond the way Nature intended it to be. Such devices create an effective structure for the uncanny motifs we adore about Frankenstein, and is where we get a front-row seat to Victor Frankenstein’s demise at the hands of his own creation. These malevolent themes enhance the eerie nature of the book, encapsulate what we collectively love so much about Halloween, and are why we correlate Frankenstein to the season, but can we definitively say that this is the underlying uncanny factor about Frankenstein? Frankenstein’s true horror lies in the terrifying ways we relate to Victor’s “monster,” and the necessity of community and connection. The argument in support of this monster endures as our collective notion of the creature based on media is false. No one wants to admit that what may be more horrifying than what Frankenstein is known for from surface-level adaptations is the way in which we can relate to the monster and his alienation.
The monster’s adaptation of the human condition proves his embodiment of humanity — just like us, but his physical deformation is what distinguishes him as a monster, and thus, an “it,” to people. Although he is intrinsically different and symbolizes an “other” entity, Shelley provides a generality that often gets overlooked under the glamor of horror and the guise of the spooky, uncanny thematic underbelly of Frankenstein. Shelley exemplifies his understanding and kindness as the creature regularly aids a family by cutting and stocking wood in the night to protect them. In this way, he forms a special and wholesome bond with them; however, we have a belief that such a creature can only inflict pain and torture as a reflection of his outward appearance. Through art and books he understands the complexities of emotions and “an infinity of new images and feelings,” — on the very same page, he even admits to feeling “similar” to the family he tends to, who are positioned as his only link to humanity and the greater public (142). Even the monster himself, trying to emulate humanity in vain, begs Victor for a wife to escape society with so he can be left alone, but Victor rejects this wish; instead, sentencing the monster to “be cut off from the world” in utter isolation and rejection which is true torture (157).
People anticipate his monstrosity and terror as a correlation to his demeanor, but in actuality, the creature is a product of abandonment, reflecting the true nature of humanity and our need for community. Frankenstein defines what is uncanny. What’s even eerier than its gothic horror elements, however, is Shelley’s distinguished relatability between creature-to-human, and its implications on the importance of community and connection. The true nightmare of Frankenstein is not blatantly found within this creature, but hidden in the terrifying ways we may relate to the repercussions of “otherness,” and his resulting isolation.