Southern New
Hampshire University
Behind the Scenes of Margaret
Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale
A Psychoanalytic and
Deconstructionist Analysis
Lori Domingo
LIT-500
Dr. John Walker
5 March 2017
Using a literary theory to study a text
opens up a world of hidden layers of meanings buried deep within the lines of
the narrative. This agenda could belong
to the author of the text or it might simply speak out against the prominent
issues of the time period during which the work was written. At times, two theories may work together to
provide a deeper understanding of the narrative or an author’s character
development. The key elements of the
psychoanalytic and deconstructionist theories expose the character’s struggles
with his/her subconscious drives as he/she attempts to make sense of the world,
using an imperfect system of language to do so. Reading Margaret Atwood’s
novel, The Handmaid’s Tale through
the psychoanalytic and deconstructionist literary lenses highlights a society in
which women of childbearing age are ripped away from their loved ones and
forced into the totalitarian society of the Republic of Gilead. Atwood’s main character in the novel, Offred,
must suddenly leave all that she’s known and become a Handmaid, with her only
job being to reproduce. The price of the resistance of, or rebellion against,
the Gileadean regime is death. The
application of the psychoanalytic and deconstructionist literary theories to
the study of Atwood’s main character, Offred, accentuates the battle of the
psyche to retain autonomy under circumstances of forced social and linguistic
oppression.
The psychoanalytic theory is based on the
work of Sigmund Freud. Freud suggested
that “repression is essential to civilization…” (Introduction 389). The Gilead system that Atwood creates is
based entirely on repression as a means of control, with its primary target
being fertile women. Freud “realized
that the unconscious often expresses itself in the form of dreams [where the]
ego is stilled [and the mind can] express wishes or desires that cannot find
expression in waking life…because they are at odds with the requirements of
…the larger society” (Introduction 390).
It is these very expressions of her subconscious in her dreams that
gives Offred, Atwood’s main character, the strength to go on. By the light of day, under the repressive
control of the Gilead regime and the ego, Offred tries “not to think too much. Like other things…thought must be rationed
[because] thinking can hurt [her chances] and [she] intend[s] to last” (Atwood
8). The cover of darkness, however,
brings her a reprieve from the oppressive control of the daylight hours. She longs for the night because she knows
that no one in the Gileadean regime can control her dreams, allowing her to
“step sideways out of [her] own time” (Atwood 37) and slip off to a place and
time when she was happy and free. Her dreams are her escape back to all that
the totalitarian Gileadean society intends to remove from who she truly is.
Having suffered the traumatic loss of
having her family taken from her suddenly, Offred is forced to find a way to
hold onto her individuality under the heavy hand of the Gileadean control. Freud posits that while oppression is an
essential of any society, “such repression creates what might be called a
second self, a stranger within, a place where all that cannot…be expressed or
realized in civil life takes up residency” (Introduction 389). Facing complete repression in Gilead, Offred,
determined to survive and escape to freedom, slips into the role of the
hysteric, “a woman who obtains an ambiguous agency by both surrendering to and
subverting a phallocentric world” (Ghosal and Chatterjee 33). By becoming a chronicler, she uses her
narrative to accept and reject Gileadean control, allowing her to survive the
domination that threatens to crush her spirit; “I would like to believe this is
a story I’m telling. I need to believe
it. I must believe it…If it’s a story
I’m telling, then I have control over the ending. Then there will be an ending, to the story,
and real life will come after it. I can
pick up where I left off” (Atwood 39).
While Freud’s work laid the foundation for
the psychoanalytic theory, its literary application is not without its fallacies. Freud was baffled by the development of a
woman’s psyche, choosing to simply extend his definition of the male psyche
onto that of a woman. “Women might be
able to be full persons, subjects with agency, but only at the expense of their
femininity; or the can embark on the course of femininity, but only by
sacrificing their independence and agency” (Zakin para 17). As applied to Offred in Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, Freud’s line of
thinking implies that she has a choice concerning maintaining her individuality. This is in total conflict with the Gileadean
regime’s goal to maintain complete control through the oppression of autonomy.
Several theories combine to create the
psychoanalytic literary lens. Founded on
the work of Sigmund Freud, a second contributor to the field, Jacques Lacan,
“inserts the self into culture” (Lacan 441), stating that the individual is
shaped by the “Symbolic order into which [he/she is] born” (Lacan 441). This order defines the individual’s place in
the family. Lacan’s theory, known as the
Mirror Stage, also sets forth a series of identity-forming stages through which
an individual must pass as he/she transitions from the innocence of childhood
into the real world. Lacan’s shift from
the childhood stage of the Imaginary to the Symbolic stage of becoming an adult
is paralleled in Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, as the reader follows
the main character, Offred’s, adaptation from life as she knew it to her life
in the totalitarian world of Gilead.
Lacan’s Mirror Stage theory introduces
several stages of child development that lead to the formation of one’s
identity. As a young child, the
individual forms relationships with the objects around him/her without
assigning a particular name to those objects.
Once the child learns to make symbols, thus naming the objects of
his/her relationships, the process of identity formation moves into what Lacan
calls the Imaginary, in which “a subject sees himself in a mirror or
metaphorically in a mother’s image, which enables him to perceive images that
have discrete borders” (Joodaki and Jafari 4).
This shift induces a sense of loss in the child that can never be
filled. This yearning for the
familiarity of the past constitutes the Imaginary stage and “all human desire circulates
around it, yearning to hark back to the lost unity” (Lacan 441). This longing projects the underlying
emotional current of Offred’s transition from her previous world into her
existence in the world of Gilead: “There remains a mirror, on the hall wall…I
can see…myself in it like a distorted shadow, a parody of something, some
fairy-tale figure in a red cloak, descending towards a moment of carelessness
that is the same as danger” (Atwood 8). Offred is lost in that longing
associated with Lacanian Imaginary, as she attempts to understand and accept
what her life has become. She
experiences conceiving of herself as both an “internalized subject…looking out
at the world through the window of the body [as well as] an object…looked at by
other subject selves” (SNHU MOD 2 3). Offred transitions from the Lacanian Imaginary
into the Symbolic, an “order that includes everything from language to law,
containing all social structures…[and forming] a good part of what
[she]…call[s] reality” (Joodaki and Jafari 4).
Offred’s attempt to make sense of her
transition from Lacan’s Imaginary to the Symbolic stage relies on “language [to
restore]…its function as subject. This
journey is best understood when viewed through the deconstructionist literary
theory. Deconstructionism “asserts that
if we cannot trust language systems to convey the truth, the very bases of
truth are unreliable, and the universe…as we have constructed [it] becomes
unraveled or de-centered” (Purdue para 7).
Offred cannot describe her reflection in the mirror, seeing herself as
“a distorted shadow, a parody of something, some fairy-tale figure” (Atwood
9). The description of the mirror itself
as being “convex, a pier glass, like the eye of the fish” (Atwood 9)
contradicts our known understanding of a mirror. The traditional home mirror is flat, offering
a true reflection of one’s self. The
mirror in which Offred sees herself reflects the warped society in which she
now lives. She is unable to develop a true sense of who she is. Referring to herself as a “Sister, dipped in
blood” (Atwood 9) parallels the confines of a false sense of “purity” under
which she is now viewed by the Gileadean society. Nothing in Offred’s world is truly as it
seems.
Applying the deconstructionist literary
theory to The Handmaid’s Tale reveals
that “there is more to [the] text than de-evolution into some fundamentalist
arcadia. Atwood’s text is also about
language and how language systems formulate how we think” (Raschke 257). In Gilead, language is used as a tool with which
the regime attempts to control the way its citizens think of the world. Reading is outlawed. Pictures replace the written word on market
signs. This use of symbolic
representation cascades through society, with each class of women “marked by
symbolic dress, [indicating each individual’s] function: body vessels, domestic
servants and bearers of morality” (Raschke 258). Offred is well aware that her only job in the
Gileadean society is to reproduce, and her symbolic dress, with “everything
except the wings around [her] face [being] red: the color of blood, which
defines [her]” (Atwood 8) to everyone she meets. Should she fail to fulfill her prescribed
role, she would then be viewed as a “’nothing’ in the eyes of the Gilead
system, a hole in their political and sexual discourse, a Nonwoman” (Raschke
258).
Examining The Handmaid’s Tale through the deconstructive lens reveals Atwood’s
profound use of language in the realm of character development. The goal of the totalitarian society she
creates is to completely control every aspect of an individual’s development in
order to mold each person into what the regime deems as their sole function in
life. By wiping out all individuality,
those in control remove all chances of rebellion and possible overtaking of
their government system. Those in
authority understand that language “in the individual’s hands has the power to
create and re-create the world [but] in the hands of the authority, [it] has
the power to destroy” (SNHU MOD 8 3). Atwood
carefully crafts each of the Handmaid’s names by directly linking her to her
Commander. Each Handmaid’s name, “formed
by a preposition and its object, [marks her] not only as claimed property, but
as nonsubjects” (Raschke 258). Playing
with the rules of grammar, Atwood’s “exclusive use of the preposition and its
object [takes] the “I’ and its verb…[and eliminate it] entirely” (Raschke
258). By removing any sense of the “I,”
the Handmaid as an individual is completely erased, symbolically leaving her a
“blank page” (Raschke 259). Atwood’s
elimination of the sense of “I” perpetuates the Offred, a Handmaid, into a
state of nothing, allowing her to use her narrative to permit the Gileadean
regime to use an unstable language system to “impose meaning…and then enforce
its mandates” (SNHU MOD 8 3)
The deconstructionist theory does have its
critics who project the opinion that “thinking, reading, and interpreting are
only worth undertaking if we know in advance that we will come to rest in
absolute, timeless, universal truth” (Raschke 266). That being said, a deconstructionist text
often rambles as it seeks to discover its beginnings and middles. Its narrative structure doesn’t follow the
standard guidelines of logically progressing from beginning to middle to the
end of the story. Deconstructionism is a
complicated theory to grasp as it attempts to expose the instability of a
language system to make meaning. In her
book, The Wake of Deconstructionism,”
Barbara Johnson argues that simply because “more than one interpretation is
possible does not mean that everything is equally meaningless…[and] does not
mean that value judgements cannot be made” (qtd in Raschke 266). Supporters of deconstruction would counter
this statement, arguing that the theory does exactly what the critics say it
does not; it opens the door to a variety of interpretations of any one text.
Examining Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale through the
psychoanalytic and deconstructionist literary lens illuminates the battle of
the human psyche to retain its individuality under circumstances of complete
social and linguistic oppression. Shattering her life as she’s known it, Atwood
propels her main character, Offred, into a world of totalitarian domination
where all autonomy is oppressed. She
must draw from her past to survive, hanging onto all that she’s lost by
reviving it in her dreams, finding the strength and the will to live. Applying literary theories opens up the text
to a variety of interpretations, making it relatable to a broader audience by
uncovering layers of meaning that are often hidden within the narrative. The value of a literary theory comes in the
depth it brings to an author’s work, maintaining its value as an object of
learning, and often an historical artifact, for readers of the future.
Works Cited
Atwood,
Margaret. The Handmaid’s Tale. First Anchor Books Ed. New York: Random House.
1986. p.8-9, 37. Print.
Ghosal,
Nilanjana, and Srirupa Chatterjee. "The Hysteric as a Chronicler in
Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale." IUP Journal of English Studies.
Vol. 8. Issue 4. December 2013. pp.32-40. Web. Accessed 11 February 2017
“Introduction:
Strangers to Ourselves: Psychoanalysis.” Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed.
Julie Rivkin, Michael Ryan, ed. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing. 2004. pp.
389-390. Print.
Joodaki,
Abdol Hossein, and Jafari Yaser. “Anamorphosis: Symbolic Order in The
Handmaid’s Tale. International Journal of Zizek Studies. Vol. 9. Issue 2. 2015.
pp.33.
Lacan,
Jacques. “The Mirror Stage as Formative of the Function of the I as Revealed in
Psychoanalytic Experience.” Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Julie
Rivkin, Michael Ryan, ed. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing. 2004. pp. 441.
Print.
Purdue
Owl. “Psychoanalytic Criticism (1930’s - Present).” Purdue On-line Writing Lab.
Purdue.edu. n.d. Para.7. Web. Accessed 14 February 2017. https://owl.english.purdue.edu/owl/resource/722/08/
Raschke,
Debrah. “Margaret Atwood’s ‘The Handmaid’s Tale:’ False Borders and Subtle
Subversions.” LIT: Literature Interpretation Theory. Vol.6. Issue 3-4. Dec
1995. pp.257-268. Web. Accessed 20 February 2017.
SNHU
Module Two. “Testing the Waters: Psychoanalytic and Feminist Theories.”
SNHU.edu. snhu.edu. n.d. p.3. Web.
Accessed 13 February 2017. https://bb.snhu.edu/bbcswebdav/pid-14493078-dt-content-rid-41948949_1/courses/LIT-500-17TW3-MASTER/LIT-500%20Student%20Documents/lit_500_module2_overview.pdf
SNHU
Module Eight. “The Pain and the Pleasure of Language: Deconstruction.”
SNHU.edu. snhu.edu. n.d. p.3. Web.
Accessed 3 March 2017. https://bb.snhu.edu/bbcswebdav/pid-14493126-dt-content-rid-41948933_1/courses/LIT-500-17TW3-MASTER/LIT-500%20Student%20Documents/lit_500_module8_overview.pdf
Zakin,
Emily. “Psychoanalytic Feminism.” The
Stanford Encyclopedia of Philospy.” Edward N. Zalta, ed. Summer Edition. 16
May 2012. para. 17. Web. Accessed 13 March 2107. https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/feminism-psychoanalysis/
Lori
Domingo
Dr.
John Dellicarpini
LIT-509
6
January 2017
Frankenstein’s Creation: Monster or
Human
The Gothic genre first made its appearance
in 1764, with Horace Walpole’s The Castle
of Otranto, opening doors for writers of the era to express their thoughts
on subjects that were previously viewed as taboo and often terrorizing. As these authors penned their tales of
terror, they concerned themselves more with “the psychological experience of
being full of fear and dread, thus recognizing human limits” (Bowen para 6). Settings were painted amongst harsh
landscapes and extreme weather.
Characters lived in constant fear, uncertain of what awaited in the
darkness of the night. These stories were meant to shock their readers out of
their complacency to accept the existence of things that defied both reason and
explanation. One of the most well-known
novels of the Gothic genre is Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, a story that appears to be simply written but in
actuality weaves all of the themes of the Romantic era within its carefully
crafted lines. At first glance, Frankenstein appears to address the
theme of science versus nature, with Victor Frankenstein taking the creation of
a living being into his own hands. Further
examination of the text, however, reveals a much more profound truth. Allegorizing the Gothic elements of the
Natural, the Sublime, and the Human, coupled with giving a voice to her own
tragic past, Mary Shelley utilizes Frankenstein’s monster to make a powerful
statement on what it means to be “human” that is still relevant today.
One of the trademarks of the writers of
the Romantic era was the focus on the individual experience with nature and its
effects on the mind. This experience was
fundamentally different for every individual and helped form his or her idea of
reality. The Romantic approach placed
“nature as central to the human experience [but focused on] nature in its
simpler or wilder forms, not distorted by human artifice” (“The Age of Romanticism
XLVII). The concern was centered on what
the element of the Natural contributed to the formation of the human soul. The beauty of nature provided a direct
pathway to feelings of calmness and joy that colored the individual mind’s
thoughts, often creating a welcomed diversion from the troubles of everyday
life.
Mary Shelley attributed the effects of the
Natural to Victor Frankenstein’s monster, developing his soul into one that was
profoundly human. Abandoned by his
creator and left to wander, lost and alone, it is his interactions with the
Natural that provide the monster with his first lessons on being human. Driven by instinct to survive, overcome with
hunger and thirst, it is in his quest to fulfill his primal needs that the
monster is first touched by the beauty of the Natural. Lying exhausted and confused in the darkness,
his finds himself renewed when “soon a gentle light stole over the heavens, and
gave [him] a sensation of pleasure. [He]
started up, and beheld a radiant form rise from among the trees [as he] gazed
with a kind of wonder” (Shelley 93). This
first simple interaction with the Natural gave birth to the monster’s human
soul.
Stumbling around in the bleak, desolate,
winter landscape as he begins to try to figure out just “who” he is, the
monster is frequently touched by the gentle hand of the Natural. He sees the beauty in the stream that
quenches his thirst. He discovers
nature’s bounty as he satisfies his immense hunger with plentiful berries. He was “delighted when [he] first discovered
that a pleasant sound, which often saluted [his] ears, proceeded from the
throats of the little winged animals who had often intercepted the light from
[his] eyes” (Shelley 93). The appearance
of Spring with its “pleasant showers and genial warmth [that] greatly altered
the aspects of the earth…which so short a time before, was bleak, damp, and
unwholesome” (Shelly 103) renewed his spirit with hope. In keeping with the Romantic belief in
Nature’s power to provide the human soul with a temporary reprieve from its
oppressions, the monster looked upon the blossoming landscape around him and
was able to forget about his painful past, allowing him to exist peacefully in
the present while looking ahead a “future gilded by bright rays of hope and
anticipations of joy” (Shelley 103).
Both his heart and spirit were pure.
Much as the warmth and life of Spring
brought joy and hope to the monster’s spirits, the changing seasons brought
with them harsh lessons. Shelley
paralleled the seasons and landscapes with the monster’s fall from the
innocence of his youth. The death and
decay of life brought forth by the warmth of Spring mirrored the demise of his
hopes of being accepted by the humans he had come to love. What was once a fertile, colorful home had
become a bleak, desolate prison for the monster whose heart was hardened and
cold. Amidst his anger and grief,
however, the Natural did offer a brief moment of consolation as the beauty of
Spring arrived once again, surprising him with “emotions of gentleness and
pleasure, that had long appeared dead [revived]…[allowing him to forget his]
solitude and deformity” (Shelley 125).
It is Victor Frankenstein’s creation himself, as he contemplates the end
of his life, that best expresses the effects the element of the Natural had on
the development of his soul as human:
I shall no longer see the sun or
stars, or feel the winds play on my cheek…some years ago, when the images which this world
affords first opened upon me, when I felt the cheering warmth of summer, and heard
the rustling of the leaves and the warbling of the birds, and these were all to
me, I should have wept to die (Shelley 197).
A second very powerful element that the
Gothic authors of the Romantic era combined with the Natural to capitalize on
the effects on the reader was the Sublime.
In his work, A Philosophical
Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful, Edmund
Burke sought to define the Sublime, expounding on the concept that “terror is
in all cases whatsoever, either more openly or latently, the ruling principle
of the sublime” (Burke 365). Burke went
on to describe the qualities of something considered to be sublime: “…sublime
objects are vast in their dimensions…the great, rugged and negligent; the great
ought to be dark and gloomy; the great ought to be solid, even massive”
(367). While such objects were inclined
to produce a feeling of terror in the beholder, the end result was the feeling
of astonishment. Rugged landscapes and
stormy weather were typical causes of this type of astonishment. The individual, upon coming face-to-face with
the Sublime, became paralyzed and often forced to look away from such a
scene. It was widely accepted that
“whatever [was] terrible, with regard to sight, [was] sublime too…[and it was]
impossible to look on anything as trifling, or contemptable, that may be
dangerous” (Burke 366). Because of his
terrifyingly sublime appearance, no human being that the monster came in
contact with was able to actually look at him.
Unable to understand this, he “falsely felt hope to meet beings who,
pardoning [his] outward form, would love [him] for the excellent qualities
which [he] was capable of unfolding” (Shelley 195). His hopes were never fulfilled.
To truly understand the sublime effects
that defined the life of Frankenstein’s monster, it is important to
differentiate between sublimity and beauty.
The differences between the two form the basis of the human prejudice
that the monster fell victim to. The
Romantics believed that in order to look upon something and consider it
beautiful, the object in question must trigger the senses, spreading a sense of
overall joy to the individual mind. In
his essay, Edmund Burke sought to define the qualities of what the Romantics
considered to be examples of beauty:
1.
Beautiful [objects are] comparatively small.
2.
Beauty should be smooth and polished.
3.
Beauty should shun the right line, yet deviate from it insensibly.
4. Beauty should not be obscure.
5.
Beauty should be light and delicate.
(Burke 367)
On the surface, Shelley’s monster deviated
from every aspect of the Romantic definition of beauty, subjecting it to the
cruelest, darkest side of the prejudice of human nature. The irony of the abusive treatment the
monster is subjected to, based solely on his outward appearance, is that he
internally exemplifies many of the qualities of what is considered
beautiful. Abandoned at birth, the
creature’s heart and mind were blank slates.
As he experiences the world around him, he was filled with wonder and
joy. Stumbling upon an impoverished,
common family, he strived to develop his human inclinations, hoping to one day
be accepted into society. His reliance
on the cottagers to teach him how to become human models itself alongside
William Wordsworth’s ideas that in order to develop a true sense of the meaning
of life, “humble and rustic life was generally chosen, because, in that
condition, the essential passions of the heart find better soil in which they
can attain their maturity” (Wordsworth XLVII).
Observing the cottagers served the monster well, as he grew into a
compassionate being capable of loving others.
Shelley gave her progeny a sublime outer shell that begged all who
encountered it to look beneath the surface to discover a beautiful soul. The creature’s very existence served as a
powerful statement of breaking down the walls of human prejudice, giving
intrinsic value to all living beings.
Mary Shelley definitely felt the influence
of the Sublime as she penned Frankenstein. Inspired by the stormy weather, rugged
landscapes, and talk of the process of creating life artificially in the lab,
Shelley gave birth to the most notorious creation of all: Victor Frankenstein’s
monster. In doing so, she took the
Sublime to places where the concept had never been considered or applied. The monster himself encapsulated the very
definition of the sublime. “In Frankenstein, the sublime is the site
for the emergence of…the creature’s [voice]…[giving him a place where he can
speak] with a sublime power of self-determination in the face of seemingly
insurmountable obstacles” (Fredricks 184).
His massive size and grotesque appearance struck terror in the hearts of
all who beheld him. Beginning his life
as a gentle giant in a place that gave him immense happiness and feelings of
love, both the sublimity in the landscape and in his transformation into a
murderous monster ran parallel to each other.
A creature who once viewed the world around him with astonishment and
awe became an example of the terrifying sublime. His heart and soul grew as bleak, hard, and
cold as the landscape surrounding him. He
took solace in his surroundings as the “desert mountains and dreary glaciers
[became his] refuge” (Shelley 89), with those desolate landscapes the only
places where he felt no fear of encountering the prejudice of human
beings. It is the ability to relate to
the creature’s pain, coupled with the individual experience of the Natural, that
draws the reader into the human aspects of the monster’s sublime life. It is impossible to escape the overpowering
feeling of isolation and loneliness.
Written six years after Frankenstein,
it is the haunting words of Mary Shelley’s husband, Percy Bysshe Shelley, in
his poem Sonnet [Life Not the Painted
Veil], that capture the essence of the monster’s life:
Lift is not the painted veil which those
who live
Call Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there,
And it but mimic all we would believe
With colours idly spread – behind, lurk
Fear
And Hope, twin Destinies; who ever weave
Their shadows, o’er the chasm, sightless
and drear.
I knew one who had lifted it – he sought,
For his lost heart was tender, things to love,
But found them not, alas! Nor was there
aught
The world contains, the which he could
approve.
Through the unheeding many he did move,
A splendor among shadows, a bright blot
Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that
strove
For truth, and like the Preacher, found it
not. (Shelley 751)
Shelley steps away from presenting the
Sublime as it relates to the monster’s physical appearance and reaction to his
surroundings. Delving into Longinus’
five sources of the sublime as it pertains to writing, Shelley applied these
qualifications to the creature she created.
Longinus began his argument with his first source of the sublime as it
applied to the individual’s ability to display a “boldness and grandeur in
thoughts” (Longinus 360). Being
self-taught and simplistic in his way of thinking as he strove to learn how to be
human, Shelley’s monster became a voracious learner, devouring every piece of
written material he could gather into his possession. Through the study of such books as Plutarch’s Lives, the monster’s thoughts
leapt out of the boundaries of the simplistic, “[elevating him] above the
wretched sphere of [his] own reflection to admire and love the heroes of past
ages” (Shelley 115).
Having only the basic experiences of
pleasure and pain to develop his understanding of Plutarch’s Lives on, the monster sought to apply the new emotions
that swelled within his heart and mind to his own condition. Following in line with Longinus’ second
source of the sublime, the monster’s passions were stirred, endowing him with
“the greatest ardour for virtue rise within [himself], and abhorrence for vice,
as far as [he] understood the significance of those terms” (Shelley 115).
The
sublime effects of the written word manifested themselves deep within the mind
and heart of the monster, eliciting wonder and the inherently human response of
questioning the world around him. It was
his reading of Paradise Lost,
however, that had the most profound effect on Frankenstein’s creation. It was within these lines that he first
encountered the concept of God.
Grappling with the concept of a higher being, the monster experienced
the Kantian sublime. According to Kant,
“the sublime is the moment when the subject, confronted by an overwhelmingly
large or powerful object in nature…is unable to grasp the object in perception…[so]
the mind – over and above the senses – can “present” the object as an idea”
(Vine 142). Reading Paradise Lost brought the monster face-to-face with the idea of an
“omnipotent God warring with his creatures” (Shelley 115), soliciting the human
response to the sublime, complete astonishment.
The strongest example of Longinus’ sublime
as seen in Frankenstein’s monster does not lie in his grandiose thoughts and
human reactions to the sublime. Unable
to speak in his earliest days, Shelley develops the creature’s “noble and
skillful application of expression” (Longinus 360) as her novel
progresses. The monster becomes quite
capable of expressing his thoughts and emotions, proven as he recounts his
story to his creator. The ardor with
which he holds his readings as truths opens up his mind to question his very
existence; “Who was I? What was I? Whence did I come? What was my destination” (Shelley 115)? He encapsulates each of Longinus’ sources of
the sublime, not in the written words as intended, but in his verbal
communication of his struggles to learn what it means to be human.
Mary Shelley employs a third
Gothic/Romantic element to add depth to the monster’s search for self-identity
and humanity. It was during the Romantic
era that consideration of the treatment of non-human animals began to surface
in the works of some of the great writers.
The debate grew heated over the subject of animal rights, focusing on
the abusive treatment the creatures were forced to endure. Those who supported the moral and fair
treatment of animals challenged the line that existed between the Human and the
Non-Human living beings. Victor
Frankenstein made his scientific intentions very clear: “It was with these
feelings that I began the creation of a human being” (Shelley 48). These intentions get lost in translation as
his creation struggles to discover who, or what, he is. Nothing about the creature’s physicality
resembles that of a human being. His
stature is gigantic, disfigured, and grotesque to the sight. He makes his home deep within the woods and
can exist comfortable on the barren, ice-covered landscapes. He travels with almost a super-human speed
and agility. Overcome with grief over his
rejection by humans, he reverts to his animal-like behavior, expressing his
“anguish is fearful howlings…like a wild beast” (Shelley). It is these traits and physical
characteristics that equate Victor’s creation more to the non-human animal
world than that of the human.
Because of his hideous appearance, the
monster falls victim to horrific physical abuse. His first attempt to enter into the society
results in a devastating physical attack as he is pelted with stones and many
other objects. Forced to retreat back
into the woods, he lays, tattered and bruised, unable to understand the brutal
treatment he received at the hands of men.
The monster compares his nature to that of “the ass and the
lap-dog…whose gentle intentions were affectionate, although his manners were
rude, [and he felt he] deserved better treatment than blows and execration”
(Shelley 103). Shelley makes other
references to the monster’s animal nature throughout the novel when describing
his living conditions. Similar to the
fate of many non-human animals, the monster is thrown out into the cold, dark,
winter weather and forced to find shelter from the elements. Non-human animals were considered disposable,
existing entirely for the use by man, and having no soul or mind capable of
feeling any type of emotion.
One of the first to establish criteria for
the humane treatment of non-human animals, Jeremey Betham determined that
“claiming that whether a group of beings have rights turns not on the questions
“Can they reason?, nor Can they talk? but Can they suffer?” (qtd. In Lallier para 1).
Shelley leaves no room for doubt in terms of whether or not
Frankenstein’s monster suffers. He
suffers from the instinctual, primal ailments: hunger, thirst, exhaustion,
heat, and cold. The monster’s sufferings
go far beyond the realms of physical suffering, however, separating him from
those non-human animals he bears a resemblance to in his stature. He experiences compassion and love, elation,
and wonder towards the cottagers he observes.
He’s lost in confusion and pain of rejection. He harbors resentment and jealousy over the
human connection he longs for but will never have. His heart is overcome with intense rage when
he is once again abandoned by the ones he loves, vowing revenge upon his
creator. Lastly, the monster is filled
with remorse and grief once he learns that what he’d hoped for, the death of
his creator, has come to pass. The
victim of the “attitudes of the prejudice held by humans against non-human
animals” (Williams 1), Frankenstein’s monster comes face-to-face with the dark
side of the humans whom he had previously placed upon a pedestal.
Shelley transposes another human trait
upon the monster, further distinguishing him from the non-human animals. It would be natural to assume that a
“creature” who calls the forest his home would be carnivorous. Hunting is an instinctual part of an animal’s
nature. Frankenstein’s monster bypasses
hunting and killing, [demonstrating] his benevolent human side when he chooses
to eat a vegetarian diet” (Williams 2-3).
He chooses to gather his nourishment peacefully over the taking of
another life to feed his own. This
decision “emphasizes his consideration of other beings, a kindness that humans
did not extend to him” (Williams 4). The
creature’s gentle nature, coupled with his vegetarian diet, paint the picture
of a compassionate, human soul. His
physical stature simulates that of the animal, but it is “his ability to speak
against the injustices he suffers because of human prejudice” (Williams 4) that
differentiates the monster, positioning him as a spokesperson for those who
could not speak for themselves.
Mary Shelley expertly weaved her
narrative, intertwining many of the Gothic elements to give life to Victor
Frankenstein’s creature, but in doing so, she found a voice for her own tragic
past. No stranger to loss, grief,
isolation, and longing, she adeptly transferred her feelings into the monster,
revealing an innately human heart and mind.
Shelley’s mother died from complications of childbirth eleven days after
she was born, leaving her motherless and longing for attention from her
remaining parent, her father. Her often
rebellious behavior and resentment towards her stepmother only further served
to increase the isolation she felt.
Shipped off to boarding schools and foster homes, Shelley longed for the
connection she’d lost with her beloved father.
Frankenstein’s creature suffered a similar fate, being abandoned by his
“father” at the very moment he was given life.
This early rejection at the hands of his creator developed into the
monster’s underlying problem, coloring every future event he experienced. These “unconscious conflicts and psychic
experience of loss and longing for connection” (D’Amato 118) are common bonds
that Shelley and her infamous monster share.
Frankenstein’s creation was Shelley’s outlet for her own pain and
loss. The “struggle against isolation”
(D’Amato 123) is the central theme shared by both Shelley and the characters
she created. She evokes sympathy in the
reader, pushing her nameless creature to the forefront of such human issues as
parental ties and the regard for the importance of family values.
Loss and grief are not the only human
emotions that Shelley pulls from her past to give her monstrous creation
life. She taps into her own feelings of
guilt, “[compensating] for [her] horrific crime: the murder of her namesake”
(Karbiener xxvi). In spite of the fact that her loss made her a victim, forced
to live her life without the comforts and nurturing that a mother provides to
her child, she could not escape the subconscious belief that she was at
fault. The loss of her mother, coupled
with being sent away in her early teens by her father, magnified Shelley’s
sense of being an outcast. Using
Frankenstein’s hideous creation as an emotional outlet, she released these
feelings in the monster’s own, desperate search to discover where he
belonged. Like Shelley, the monster
confessed his agony over the fact that “No father had watched [his] infant
days, no mother blessed [him] with smiles and caresses, or if they had, all
[his] past life was now a blot, a blind vacancy in which [he] distinguished
nothing” (Shelley 108). Both the
orphaned monster and Mary Shelley were robbed of the structure of familial
guidance, forced to learn about, and face, life’s challenges alone.
Abandonment, isolation, and loneliness
were issues that continued to haunt Shelley.
Grappling with trying to understand her feelings, she brought them to
the surface in Frankenstein’s monster.
She speaks truth over the importance of the need of every living being
to feel a sense of belonging, exploring the life-shattering consequences of the
deprivation of such human connection.
Using the fact that children are born innocent and pure, and are shaped
by their environment, she metaphorically attaches these traits to the monster’s
moment of creation. Like the human
infant, he was given a heart designed for love and compassion. Sadly, he was “born” deformed and perceived
by those around him as being hideously different. Determined to overcome his differences, the
monster’s morality persevered in the face of torment, rejection, and
prejudice. It was the realization that
his “protectors had departed, and had broken the only link that held [him] to
the world” (Shelley 123) that shattered all hopes of a harmonious, peaceful
communion with humans, filling his heart with uncontrolled hatred and the
desire for revenge. The monster’s
damaged human psyche gave into the pressures of rejection and prejudice,
sending him on a tumultuous, downhill spiral, eventually leading him to his
demise.
Mary Shelley found the love and sense of
belonging she so desperately sought at the age of sixteen, when she married
Percy Bysshe Shelley. She found herself
surrounded by a group of highly eccentric friends, socializing with a group of
highly-recognized, second-generation poets.
Her life story, however, remained one of tragedy, with the loss of all
but one of her children and, later, her beloved husband. Despite all of her best efforts, the only
constant in her life was loss. This
underlying feeling was one she shared with her monstrous creation. Unlike the author who brought him to life,
Frankenstein’s creation never found acceptance, love, or that ever-important
sense of belonging. His time on earth
was a lonely existence as he struggled to discover just where he fit in.
One of Shelley’s gifts to Frankenstein’s
monster was the ability for self-realization, which brought him from hopeful innocence
to the acceptance of his lot in life: “My heart was fashioned to be susceptible
of love and sympathy; and when wrenched by misery to vice and hatred it did not
endure the violence of change without torture such as you cannot even imagine”
(Shelley 194). Unfortunately, the
creature’s remorse came a bit too late to make a difference and change the outcome
of his life story. Grief-stricken by the
accomplishment of his goal, the monster stands over the dead body of his
creator, begging for forgiveness: “Oh, Frankenstein! generous and self-devoted being! what does it avail that I now ask thee to
pardon me? I, who irretrievably
destroyed thee by destroying all thou lovedst” (Shelley 193)? The monster expresses the horrific injustices
he was forced to endure at the hands of human beings, portraying himself as a
victim, but, with the consummate goal having been reached, another human trait
reveals itself to him: “For while I destroyed his hopes, I did not satisfy my
own desires. They were forever ardent
and craving; still I desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned…Am I
to be thought the only criminal when all of human kind sinned against me”
(Shelley 195-196)? Even in his moment of
darkest despair, the monster’s innate morality brings him to the realization
that meeting hatred with hatred was not the answer to his isolation and
abandonment. He was suddenly aware of
the “monster” that he had become. As his
quest to learn what it means to be human comes to its tragic end, the monster
eloquently expresses the depth of his despair: “Oh, that I had forever remained
in my native wood, nor known nor felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst
and heat!” (Shelley 107).
Over the years, there have been many
interpretations of Shelley’s Frankenstein. Some have gone so far as to transpose the
name, Frankenstein, from that of his creator to the monster himself. One common thread runs amongst the various
interpretations of the novel. The
monster “has retained a surprisingly human quality…its innate morality is made
apparent” (Karbiener xv-xvi). Several
years after her novel’s publication, Shelley, herself, admits to feeling affection
for the creature as she “once again…[bids her] hideous progeny [to] go forth
and prosper” (Shelley 9). This speaks volumes on the fact that we, as humans,
harbor the desire to be compassionate, accepting, loving beings. That being said, the monster’s life story is
a shining example of what keeps us from living up to that potential.
Bringing together the Gothic elements of
the Natural, the Sublime, and the Human with her own tragic past, Mary Shelley
gives a voice to Frankenstein’s monster, making a powerful statement on what it
means to be “human.” Addressing the
concerns of the time, she spoke out against the oppression of basic human
rights and the evils of living behind the veil of prejudice. In many ways, she sparked the ongoing debate
on the nature versus nurture as they relate to human growth and
development. While the Romantic authors
placed a major role on Nature in the development of the human mind and soul,
Shelley’s Frankenstein brought to
light the fundamental truth that without the nurturing, human connection, the
individual soul and mind cannot thrive.
Her monster begins his life with all the hopes and innocence that are
characteristic of a young child. The
reality of humanity with its fears of the unknown and the ignorance of
prejudice replaces his wonder at the world around him with a heart hardened
with the bitterness of revenge and hatred.
The character of Shelley’s monster continues to resonate with poignant,
frightful, human qualities that are still met with a degree of apathy and
denial. Her novel delivers on its
promise to terrorize, which is the goal of the Gothic genre. Shelley’s look at the condition of raw humanity
offers a glimpse into a terrifying aspect of human nature, pointing out that,
despite the “forward” way of thinking, even in today’s society, human beings
have a long way to go in terms of removing the veil of prejudice.
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