An Abrupt but Necessary Change in Direction

It occurs to me at this late hour that I've been abhorrently negligent in my updatings of this blog. I suppose the only excuse I have is that, with all the work on my plate -- and yes, I know I'm not doing it, but simply the idea that I should be doing it is enough -- I simply don't have the time to be spending on an update. Fortunately, today was a productive day, so I'm giving myself a free pass here.

As of late, I've determined a number of things. Firstly, to the dismay of my many loyal readers (and my sincerest apologies go out to both of you), I've decided to abort the mission of completing my Initiations saga, for a number of reasons. Besides having essentially documented the most fun part, -- the water fight, the part whose narration inspired me to put the evening's events into words -- I've realized that the rest of the evening, while an absolute blast, just doesn't translate as readily to the written page as I'd hoped. Part Three sucked, actually. And it was a pain in the ass to write because rotations took up so much of the evening's time. I guess I overestimated how much I would be motivated to continue with the endeavor after getting past the best part. Besides, I've got some other ideas that I'd rather be working with creatively, ideas that hold much more promise than this particular narrative.

And so, I bid my aborted progeny a fond farewell. May the story live on in my memory so that I can regale someone with it someday and leave them with a smile. That having been said, now that the burden of completing that narrative is off my chest, I feel that I'll be more productive and frequent with my updating. Bear with me as I try to get back into the groove.

I don't have much else to say except that I've spent much of the day reading Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, a novel that almost everyone I know has read many times already but to which I have only recent been given exposure. It was part of the syllabus of my Gothic course, and I must admit that I didn't have high hopes, mostly because everyone knows "the Frankenstein story." Last semester, I read Bram Stoker's Dracula, and found that knowing "the Dracula story" in advance took certain things away from the experience, and made it somewhat less exciting and terrifying.

Much to my surprise, however, I discovered today that Frankenstein is a truly remarkable novel. As I read, I became increasingly more aware of the fact that "the Frankenstein story" as we know it is essentially an exaggeration of the sexier aspects of the story: unholy creation, a scientist playing God, a creature wreaking havoc on human life, murder, and mayhem. It's the stuff of horror fans' dreams. But the novel itself contains very few scenes that modern readers would consider truly horrifying. By contrast to expectations, the story is surprisingly affecting and emotional, with certain passages having such grand scope and beauty that it's easy to forget you're reading a novel meant to terrify.

There's also no distinct good or bad guy, no way that the reader can merely root for Victor or the monster: each has his own strengths and weaknesses, each cares deeply for certain people or convictions, and each has a certain uncheckable rage that exhibits itself from time to time. The motivations are what really give the novel gravitas, but it's those same motivations that are so missing in modern renditions of the story and thusly are so surprising to encounter in the source text. In fact, it's best to go into the novel thinking as little of what you think you know about Frankenstein as possible; otherwise, certain elements (such as the monster's superhuman speed and strength, and his quick education in and mastery of both the English language and the principles of argument) come as an almost unwelcome shock.

It does, however, take some patience. I found it hard to read in long passages, and in fact had to read it in three sittings (one of the novel's three volumes per sitting, a total of about 50 pages each of a Norton Critical Edition). Despite being incredibly good, it just doesn't lend itself to the kind of marathon reading that, say, Nabokov or Vonnegut does. The payoff, though, is well worth the price.

That having been said, I'll leave this post with one somewhat lengthy passage, abridged for the sake of generality, that appears near the novel's end and, I feel, strikes particularly poignant tones with me, particularly at my current age and condition. It addresses a scenario that I constantly fear will manifest itself in my own life; and the realization of such a tragic consequence has, in my opinion, never been rendered with such clarity until I read this today:

"'When younger,' said he, 'I felt as if I were destined for some great enterprise. My feelings are profound; but I possessed a coolness of judgment that fitted me for illustrious achievements. This sentiment of the worth of my nature supported me, when others would have been oppressed; for I deemed it criminal to throw away in useless grief those talents that might be useful to my fellow creatures. ... But this feeling, which supported me in the commencement of my career, now serves only to plunge me lower in the dust. All my speculations and hopes are as nothing; and, like the archangel who aspired to omnipotence, I am chained in an eternal hell. ... Even now I cannot recollect, without passion, my reveries while the work was incomplete. I trod heaven in my thoughts, now exulting in my powers, now burning with the idea of their effects. From my infancy I was imbued with high hopes and a lofty ambition; but how am I sunk!'"