The Transformation of the Gulag

This piece was published as a guest article on 'Explaining History': http://www.explaininghistory.com/guest-articles/

‘We have been happily borne – or perhaps have unhappily dragged our weary way – down the long and crooked streets of our lives, past all kinds of walls and fences made of rotting wood, rammed earth, brick, concrete, iron railings. We have never given a thought to what lies behind them. We have never tried to penetrate them with our vision or our understanding. But there is where the Gulag country begins, right next to us, two yards away from us. In addition, we have failed to notice an enormous number of closely fitted, well-disguised doors and gates in these fences. All those gates were prepared for us, every last one! And all of a sudden the fateful gate swings quickly open, and four white male hands, unaccustomed to physical labour but nonetheless strong and tenacious, grab us by the leg, arm, collar, cap, ear, and drag us in like a sack, and the gate behind us, the gate to our past life, is slammed shut once and for all.’

Thus did Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn open his book, ‘The Gulag Archipelago.’ The first camp of this system, termed by him as a ‘mother tumour’ exuding ‘more metastases from itself’ was Solovki, known as SLON, situated on the Solovetsky islands. The transformation of this prison laid the foundations of the infamous Soviet labour camp organism: it was the prototype for the future brutality. Although not the only place where dissidents could be incarcerated in the early 1920s, it was, however, the guinea-pig of the Soviet secret police: they developed methods there which led to slave-labour becoming a profitable asset to the regime.

Clustered in the White Sea, the islands themselves are remote and isolated, although they have been the backdrop to a compelling historical vignette since the early 15^th century. Half a millennium before the Soviet Union rose to power, two Russian Orthodox monks stumbled upon the islands and remarked upon the absence of predators there, leading them to assume that the archipelago was sacred. Inspired by this blessed place, they established a monastery there. The Solovetsky Monastery became an economic and political hub in the following centuries: loyal devotees of the tsar, the monks aided him in exiling church heretics and opponents of autocracy, including Alexander Pushkin’s uncle, who had supported the Decembrist uprising. The monastery, supplied with a strong garrison and protected by an imposing fortress, was also on the border of the Russian Empire. As a result, it was crucial in repelling attacks from the Swedes, the Danes, and even the British during the Crimean War.

The incarcerations of the monastic era were eerily prophetic of what was to come. In the uncertain early days of the Soviet regime, White Army officers, aristocrats and other objectors were imprisoned at SLON from 1923 onwards. They shared the island not only with the monks and the guards, but also with a select group of socialist ‘politicals,’ who were granted privileges such as the right to newspapers and books, and freedom from work. However, the initial disparity between the conditions of the two groups was not to endure.

Arbitrary, vicious cruelty was commonplace. As documented by many survivors, the expression ‘there is no Soviet authority, only Solovetsky authority’ would become a familiar dictum. Alongside more conventional examples of torture, such as the threat of and subsequent carrying out of executions and beatings, several methods seem to be more unique to their setting: being sentenced ‘to the mosquitoes’ entailed the prisoner being tied to a post without any clothes on, and then left to be overrun by mosquitoes; rumours suggest that men were also killed by being thrown down a flight of 365 steep wooden steps. Disease and illness were rife, particularly typhus, which claimed around 1,500 lives in the winter of 1925-26. A former White Army soldier, Kiselev-Gromov, recounts in his memoirs that prisoners on one of the smaller islands, Anzer, were so desperate to escape the hard labour that they cut off their own hands and feet.

The camp was characterised by unpredictability in its early years, but this disorder was the catalyst for the birth of the Gulag system. It was as though the camp was unsure of its potential; as though ‘the child had not yet guessed its character.’ It was not clear whether the system was supposed to indoctrinate the prisoners, to punish them, or to generate earnings for the regime. However, by the middle of the decade, the Communists became acutely aware that SLON was failing in one of its crucial intended purposes: to become self-sufficient and profitable. Until as late as 1929, official figures state that in the Russian Republic of the Soviet Union ‘only 34 – 41% of all prisoners were engaged in work.’ In the first years of the camps, the country’s economy did not yet revolve around the Gulag, and the Five-Year plan, which demanded vast amounts of coal, oil, gas and wood, had not yet materialised. As Solzhenitsyn declared, ‘slave-driving the workers and allotting back-breaking work norms took the form of periodic outbursts, transitory anger; they had not yet become a vice-like system.’ When this shift occurred, punishments such as the pouring of water over prisoners in freezing temperatures, or allowing them to be consumed by mosquitoes were made redundant, as the new system venerated ‘trudosposobnost’, or the ‘capacity to work’, above all else.

Any pretence of rehabilitating the prisoners was dropped. Counter-revolutionaries and those with criminal convictions were amalgamated into one mass labour force, and the Solovetsky Society for Local Lore was closed, as were the camp’s newspapers and journals. Bizarrely, the only elements of the past system to remain were the Solovetsky theatre and museum, maintained to impress esteemed visitors such as the writer, Maxim Gorky. These drastic changes were partly the product of wider forces and structures, such as the pressing need for income and resources from the camps, and the futility of the chaos, which conspired to provoke perhaps an inevitable development in the camp’s functioning. On the other hand, agents of historical change cannot be overlooked either, and one individual’s remarkable role in its alteration is particularly significant.

Naftaly Frenkel remains an elusive and enigmatic character years after his death. According to Solzhenitsyn, he was born in Constantinople in 1883, the son of Turkish Jews. This is confirmed by his prisoner registration card, although claims of his purported origins ranged from being a manufacturer from Hungary to a worker in the Ford factory in America. Having travelled to the Soviet Union as a merchant, he was arrested in 1923 for ‘illegally crossing borders’ and was sentenced to ten years’ hard labour on Solovetsky. It is this inauspicious entry to SLON that makes the remainder of his tale so extraordinary: in a relatively short space of time, he was elevated from a prisoner to the camp’s commander, and was subsequently instrumental in its transformation.

It is widely believed that he was appalled at the economic mismanagement and disorder upon his arrival at the camp, and promptly submitted a detailed analysis to the prisoners’ complaints box. From here, the letter found its way into the hands of an administrator, who, believing it to be of interest to those above him in the hierarchy, forwarded it to Genrikh Yagoda, a Chekist bureaucrat who would ultimately lead the secret police. It is believed that Yagoda was so intrigued by this letter that he summoned Frenkel to meet with him in person. At this point, the story becomes further shrouded in mystery, for Frenkel himself claims to have been taken to Moscow, where he met with Stalin. However, the records seem to disprove this, as there is no mention of a meeting with the Party leader in the 1920s, although Frenkel did convene with Stalin in the 1930s, as well as benefiting from his protection during the purge years.

Frenkel was first the organiser and then the leader of the Economic-Commercial Department of SLON, and advanced its capabilities so greatly that the camps were seen not only to become self-supporting, but even profitable, as they began to divert business from others. They were, however, only seen to be self-supporting and profitable; in reality, SLON’s revenue in 1929 was falling short by 1.6 million roubles. Nevertheless, in 1925, for example, SLON outbid a local civilian forestry company for the right to deforest wood in Karelia, a development which created disquiet amongst the authorities. SLON was condemned as a ‘kommersant, a merchant with large, grabbing hands,’ whose ‘basic goal is to make profits.’

‘Every genuine prophet,’ pronounced Solzhenitsyn, ‘arrives when he is most acutely needed.’ The writer credited Frenkel as being ‘the nerve of the Archipelago’, as well as the innovator of the infamous system whereby prisoners were fed according to the amount of labour they performed. Frenkel implemented this simple process rigorously, creating three categories: those who carried out heavy work, those who carried out lighter work, and invalids. Each of these groups was instructed to meet certain standards and to carry out tasks specific to their capabilities, before being fed with rations commensurate with their individual performances. Anne Applebaum elaborates on this method: ‘In practice, the system sorted prisoners very rapidly into those who would survive, and those who would not. Fed relatively well, the strong prisoners grew stronger. Deprived of food, the weak prisoners grew weaker, and eventually became ill or died.’ Evidence indicates that this system of food proportionate to labour was employed before Frenkel’s rule, but, as Applebaum considers: ‘even if Frenkel did not invent every aspect of the system, he did find a way to turn a prison camp into an apparently profitable economic institution.’

A historian should not be a ‘hanging judge.’ On the contrary, those who study the past should detach themselves in order not to pass moral sentencing on those before them: the standards of the present should not be applied to the past. However, one can only wonder at Frenkel’s character, at his ability to distance himself callously from those with whom he was once imprisoned, and to treat them merely as a means to a profit. Solzhenitsyn paid no such heed to reservation, describing Frenkel’s face as brimming ‘with a vicious, human-hating animus,’ and ending his discussion of him by exclaiming that ‘I have the feeling he really hated his country!’

Upon his release from SLON, Raymond Duguet declared that ‘thanks to [Frenkel’s] horribly insensitive initiatives, millions of unhappy people are overwhelmed by terrible labour, by atrocious suffering.’ As noted above, Frenkel was saved from the Great Terror by personal favour with Stalin, despite the deaths of nearly all his former colleagues. Prior to this, when the Solovetsky archipelago became just another organ of Belomor-Baltiiskii Corrective Labour Camp, or ‘Belbeltlag,’ he was transferred to oversee the daily labour on the White Sea Canal from November 1931 until the end of its construction. He was awarded the Order of Lenin three times, and was released from his duties in 1947, before his death in 1960.

In the late 1930s, Soviet authorities still proclaimed Solovki to be economically unsustainable, and shut it down. More than 1,000 of its prisoners then vanished; it was not until 1995 that researchers finally unearthed documents indicating that the prisoners had been moved to the mainland in a clandestine operation, before being systematically executed and dumped in mass graves in a remote forest. Its legacy as the alma mater of the Gulag is notorious: like a shadow creeping across the ground, the practices brought to fruition in Solovki began to insinuate themselves into the mentality of the other labour camps across the nation. Solzhenitsyn’s words are chillingly accurate: ‘Then in in the thirties, a new camp era began, when Solovki even ceased to be Solovki – and became a mere run-of-the-mill Corrective Labour Camp. And the black star of the ideologist of that new era, Naftaly Frenkel, rose in the heavens, while his formula became the supreme law of the Archipelago: “We have to squeeze everything out of a prisoner in the first three months – after that, we don’t need him anymore.”’

Sources:

Anne Applebaum – ‘Gulag’

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn – ‘Gulag Archipelago’

Hilary Mantel The Time Traveller: A Review of 'Bring Up The Bodies'

In ‘Wolf Hall’, Hilary Mantel charted Thomas Cromwell’s stratospheric rise to power, from the son of a blacksmith to Henry VIII’s most trusted confidante. Published three years later, ‘Bring Up The Bodies’ is arguably an even finer work of fiction. After a brief interval of two months, the curtain is raised at Wolf Hall, the seat of the Seymour family: a fitting reminder of one of the integral factors of the ensuing plot, that of Henry’s decision to rid himself of Anne Boleyn after tiring of her temerity and haughty recalcitrance, as well as her failure to produce a son.  Cromwell’s ascension to authority is remarkable, but the vicissitudes of fortune experienced by Anne are equally as dramatic, though far more disturbing.

Henry’s condemnation of his wife continues to seduce historians and authors alike, and Mantel also treads this well-worn path of history. Cromwell is employed with the task of executing his master’s wishes, carrying out his work ruthlessly, and following the vein of thought which declares that ‘once you have fixed on the destruction of an enemy, that destruction must be swift and it must be perfect.’ By fuelling the flames of pernicious rumours, he proceeds to amass insurmountable evidence of Anne’s adulterous ways, culminating in her eventual arrest and death, and the reader sees every event refracted through Cromwell’s mind. He believes that ‘Truth can break the gates down, truth can howl in the street; unless truth is pleasing, personable and easy to lie, she is condemned to stay whimpering at the back door.’ It is to this modus operandi that he adheres, though not so much out of malevolence as through indifferent ambition. Anne is, to him, ‘just another trader’ who has ‘laid out her goods’.   He performs his task coldly, in the way that a butcher might slaughter a calf, and this detachment, when fused with unexpected flickers of both personal compassion and wry cynicism, creates a disarming concoction.

A simple retelling of Anne Boleyn’s catastrophic fall from grace would not alone distinguish a book from others; it is Mantel’s meticulous rendering of the tale that elevates this story above the multitude of other Tudor ‘fictory.’ The climax, which the reader has been anticipating throughout the book, does not fail to shock, regardless of its inevitability: this is testament to her ability to dismantle this oft-told story and renovate it in a fresh, unique form. Like the title of the novel, the skeleton of Cromwell’s legacy is also exhumed, and Mantel places the king’s elusive and misunderstood right-hand man in a cage of words for the reader to observe as an eye-witness. Henry too is intricately portrayed, laid out for examination with all his insecure caprice and doubts on full display: his body is like an ‘island building itself or eroding itself,’ and somewhere within are ‘dark mires where only priests should wade, rush lights in their hands.’ Cromwell himself has not yet exorcised the ghosts of his past, which are only a ‘whisper, a touch, a feather’s breath’ from him. He perceives Katherine of Aragon, after her demise, as being ‘too fresh in her tomb to lie quiet.’ It is to her that he attributes Anne’s miscarriage, believing her to have ‘reached out and shaken Anne’s child free, so it is brought untimely into the world and no bigger than a rat.’

Mantel’s observations are razor-sharp; her narrative is at once muscular and economical. Writing in a fluent, yet pungent style, her prose is punctuated with startling originality, and weaves a rich tapestry of Tudor life. She holds up the crisp light of language to illuminate the past for her audience; they are like travellers being welcomed into the capable hands of a guide from the turbulent storms of court in 1535 and 1536. She even addresses her reader as ‘we’, thus heightening the intimacy. Nonetheless, Mantel is both involved and concealed from her readers. At times, phrases seem to verge on Eliotic ambiguity; at other moments, the repulsion or affection she entertains for her characters is evident. So intensely immersed is she in her writing that she confessed in a Radio 4 interview to feeling ‘in danger myself. I felt a kind of moral contamination creeping over me.’ In addition to the protagonist and those close to him, the sprawling, glittering array of dramatic personae into which she breathes life cannot be overlooked, for this courtly masque jostles for attention on the pages.

Mantel presents a veritable feast for the senses: as with any skilfully-crafted work of fiction, the reader is shown the world envisioned by the author, but is then able to select the finest descriptive morsels to nourish their own imagination. The 16th century setting is not constructed wholly from the fabric of another’s mind, and our own consciousness shades in that which is not shown, and that which we wish to decorate with our own ideas and preferences. Nevertheless, ‘Bring Up The Bodies’ is so sumptuous with tantalising historical trimmings that the reader more often than not succumbs to the platter of delectable delights on offer. The novel is suffused with quotidian minutiae, and Mantel embellishes the most mundane details with exquisite language to enhance their tangibility: from Anne Boleyn’s famous pearls wrapped around her neck like ‘little beads of fat’ to a glance that ‘slides away like a piece of silk over grass’; from the ‘susurration, tapestry-muffled, of polyglot conversation,’ to the elaborate list of an abbey’s inventory, including ‘a chasuble of changeable satin’ and ‘an alb of cloth of gold.’

In the Author’s Note at the end of the novel, Mantel observes that ‘Mr. Secretary remains sleek, plump and densely inaccessible, like a choice plum in a Christmas pie.’ However, one emerges with a sense of loss, for Cromwell and the places he inhabits are so convincingly realised that it takes some time to rub the sleep away and consider the vast distinction that exists between the 16th and 21st centuries. It is one of the novel’s triumphs that it manages to blend these lines so masterfully: one cannot help but find its characters analogous with figures in society today, and indeed, human nature, replete with its repertoire of virtues and vices, is a constant across the centuries. Yet Annalist historians speak of a ‘mentalité’ of a bygone epoch, loosely taken to mean the different ‘way of thinking’ exercised by people in the past. Professor John H. Arnold posited that ‘the problem – but also perhaps the solution – with ‘mentalité’ is that the people of the past are as different from us as we are from ourselves.  At certain moments they – and we – cohere around different patterns of behaviour, and the historian can certainly seek out those patterns; but they are neither entirely the same nor entirely different from us’. Mantel thus captures the zeitgeist of 1536, and distills it into words, and, in so doing, brings the Tudor world closer to our minds than it has ever been before. It remains to be seen whether the Man Booker Prize is now a poisoned chalice, but one can be certain that the final instalment in the trilogy will continue to captivate its readers. ‘The Mirror and The Light’ will chart Cromwell’s most distinguished years in dominance, before his downfall and execution for treason in 1540. At the end of ‘Bring Up The Bodies’, however, he asserts that he is ‘stuck like a limpet to the future’; he has clearly overlooked a chillingly prescient remark made in an earlier chapter: ‘Death is your prince, you are not his patron; when you think he is engaged elsewhere, he will batter down your door, walk in and wipe his boots on you.’

'Frankenstein' - A Classic Work Of Fiction

The Oxford English Dictionary cites the adjective ‘classic’ as denoting something that has been ‘judged over time to be of the highest quality and outstanding of its kind.’ Indeed, to many people, a ‘classic’ book is one that has kept afloat in the waters of time, and succeeded in remaining relevant and pertinent in its message. Nevertheless, enduring over the years is not the only criterion that can be applied to this debate: when applied to novels, the term ‘classic’ is a more fluid, slippery beast than might appear. For a book truly to become a classic, it is necessary for it to possess other attributes besides resilience; the evaluation of books based solely on their age conjures up an unfortunate stereotype of musty volumes encased in dust and filled with obsolete, archaic language. Ultimately, it is the reader who passes opinion on the work:  a classic to one person may seem glorified and not worthy of praise to another. A ‘classic’ novel must communicate certain truths to its reader, and must achieve this by placing these messages within the vessel of carefully selected language. It must not be afraid to challenge, to provoke, or to alarm; however, it must open itself up to interpretation like a flower unfurling its petals to face the sun. It must comprise many textures, to be unpeeled like an onion by the avid reader, and, through these, it must be able to speak universally to anyone who cares to read it. Its characters must also prove to be immortal, and it must capture fundamental themes of human existence and distil them into words. To illustrate these points, it seems appropriate to introduce a book that, over the course of the last two centuries, has established itself firmly in the canon of ‘classical’ literature: ‘Frankenstein.’

Its very conception perhaps indicates that it was destined for success.  In the Year With Summer, 1816, Mount Tambora’s eruption the previous year had imprisoned the world in the icy grip of a volcanic winter. Although it was June, the bleak, cold weather forced a group of holiday markers into the villa of their host, thus abandoning their planned outdoor summer activities for indoor comfort. They were the host, Lord Byron, John Polidori, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and his eighteen year old lover, Mary Godwin, who was later to become his wife. As the light faded, the conversation moved to the topic of galvanism: the forcing of a muscle to contract with an electric current. It then turned to the experiments of Erasmus Darwin, the grandfather of Charles, who was claimed to have animated dead matter. Clustered the roaring fire, the group pursued this macabre threat, and began to read ghost stories in French from ‘Fantasmagoriana.’ His vivid imagination ignited, Bryon challenged his companions to a competition: to write a story of comparable horror.

‘Frankenstein’ was first published two years later, after Mary’s dream of ‘the pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together,’ and the novel crystallised around the image of a ‘hideous phantasm of a man stretched out’. It was the progenitor of the science-fiction genre, and was one of the most influential and pioneering works of its time: even Byron, not an admirer of intellect in young women, conceded that ‘it is a wonderful work for a girl of nineteen – not nineteen, indeed, at that time.’ It seems remarkable, considering that the emancipation of women was not to be realised for another century, that Mary achieved what she did. In her author’s introduction, she even muses upon the question of ‘how I, then a young girl, came to think of and to dilate upon so very hideous an idea?’ As Frankenstein fashioned a dreadful creature, so too was a monstrous plot created by the author. Was it perhaps a reflection of her being the daughter of two of the most prominent radicals of that time, William Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft? Or had the ideals of her Romantic lover, Shelley inspired her? Certainly there is speculation that some of Frankenstein’s character is based on her own husband: his pen name was Victor, and he dabbled with chemical reactions, electricity, magnetism, electricity and séances during his years at Eton and Oxford. Mary certainly embraced the implications of real technological innovations of the period.

What began as a seed in the mind of a teenage girl grew into a sprawling tree, casting out tendrils of ideas into the minds of its readers. This fiction encompasses many themes, from the danger of overbearing scientific aspirations and humanism to the values placed on aesthetic appearance, whilst challenging the Romantic myth of individualism. Frankenstein’s Creature is formed with the body of a fully formed man, but lacks language, conscience and memory, and progresses through the primitive stages of development. He appeals to his maker for compassion, exclaiming, ‘Oh! My creator, make me happy!’ and longs for human identity and happiness; after being denied this, he enters a destructive descent into devastating solitude, resulting in the deaths of many, including both his own and his inventor’s. Such an atavistic reversal of attitudes may be an allusion to human nature: resorting to violence when faced with seemingly impenetrable obstacles is too often observed in man’s actions. However, the Creature is not entirely robbed of his words and emotion: although he remains unremorseful for his past deeds when faced with death, he then laments the loss of a state of mind in which his ‘thoughts were once filled with sublime and transcendent visions of the beauty of the world.’ In this way, Mary invites her reader not to despise either of the central characters: no clear protagonist and adversary are presented. Frankenstein is not a scheming, egotistically obsessive scientist; he is instead a romantic figure, dedicated to his art and resolute in benefiting humankind. His creation may kill and destroy, but this is incited by his own misery, and his tragic fate elicits great pity in the reader.

A classic book must lend itself to all manner of interpretations, and ‘Frankenstein’ is no exception. It is one of the most protean texts in the English language, and its resonance with the turbulent period against which it was written makes it a book of many layers. A Marxist approach would emphasise it as a manifestation of its historical background by highlighting the language with which Mary depicted the Creature as echoing with that used to describe the contemporary working class. The Italian literary scholar Franco Moretti argues that: ‘Between Frankenstein and the monster there is an ambivalent, dialectical relationship, the same as that which, according to Marx, connects capital with wage-labour.’ The disparity between the Creature and its maker echoes when read in its socio-economic context: as a result of the hierarchical nature of the social system, degradation and misery were well-known to those lower down the class-ladder. In this respect, the Creature is almost an emblem of the proletariat, with all the restrictions of power that this status entails. This analogy can be further developed: if the Creature symbolises the working class, then his creator represents the industrialists and bourgeoisie; by the end of the story, each has caused the other’s ruin. The book can thus be read as a critique of the oppressive authorities that hold sway over others, from capitalism to the slave trade; it rejects these, and serves to remind the reader that subjugation engenders opponents who can subdue in turn the original power. Paulo Freire distilled this perspective in the following phrase: ‘the oppressed, instead of striving for liberation, tend themselves to become oppressors. The very structure of their thought has been conditioned by the contradiction of the concrete, existential situation by which they were shaped. Their ideal is to be men; but for them to be men is to be oppressors.’

The Creature, after those he admires ‘dashed me to the ground and struck me violently with a stick,’ resolves to wreak revenge on those who treated him so unjustly, and embarks upon a murderous campaign. However, the theory that those who are the recipients of suffering can mutate into the ones who first inflicted their pain can again be shown not to be solely shackled to fiction: less than half a century prior to the book’s publication, the bloody French Revolution had taken place, and this may have lingered in the author’s consciousness. In fact, she described the moment of the French Revolution thus: ‘The giant now awoke. The mind, never torpid, but never roused to its full energies, received the spark which lit it into an inextinguishable flame.’ One observer would even remark that ‘Mary et Shelley étaient enfants de la Révolution.’ The monster’s shift in attitude from empathetic to vengeful mirrors in part this uprising: much of the working class did set out with benevolent intentions, but their actions degenerated into the Reign of Terror, accompanied by gruesome guillotine slaughters and merciless violence. The English professor Anne K. Mellor suggested that: ‘Mary Shelley conceived of Victor Frankenstein’s creature as an embodiment of the revolutionary French nation, a gigantic body politic originating in a desire to benefit all mankind but abandoned by its rightful guardians and so abused by its King, Church, and the corrupt leaders of the ancient regime that it is driven into an uncontrollable rage – manifested in the blood-thirsty leadership of the Montagnards – Marat, St Just, Rosepierre – and the Terror. Frankenstein’s creature invokes the already existing identification of the French Revolution with a gigantic monster troped in the writings of both Abbé Barruel and Edmund Burke.’

Knowledge of the background of the book and its creator, does, therefore, provide a more profound insight into the mechanics of the story, for any work of literature is governed in part by its context. It would not be far-fetched to claim that many of the most fascinating works of literature have been penned by people as interesting as their oeuvre. The author’s mother, for example, contracted and died of puerperal poisoning ten days after giving birth, and Mary also lost three young children and her husband. This proximity to birth and loss is transposed on to her work, for the trials of life and death found in ‘Frankenstein’ could stem directly from a fascination with such occurrences. Her childhood is worthy of mention as well: William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge were regular visitors to Mary’s household in her childhood, and, aged nine, she heard Coleridge recite ‘The Rime of The Ancient Mariner.’ This event would undoubtedly have imprinted itself indelibly on her mind: indeed, Walton declares that he will ‘kill no albatross’ when he reaches ‘the land of mist and snow.’

Shelley’s influence also seeps into the book, as he encouraged her to write it. Notes at the back of the text inform the reader that Mary adopted a number of his suggested changes, including, in the form of ‘the path of my departure was free,’ an allusion to his poem ‘Mutability,’ which states that ‘the path of its departure still is free.’ He also wrote actual lines of the book: ‘the labours of men of genius, however erroneously directed, scarcely ever fail in ultimately turning to the solid advantage of mankind’ in the third chapter indicates the gravity he placed upon scientific achievements; ‘the republican institutions of our country have produced simpler and happier manner than those which prevail in the great monarchies that surround it’ in the fifth chapter demonstrates his commitment to the republican cause. The book itself can be seen as either revolutionary or retrogressive, which appears to chime with Mary’s own indecision: she fluctuated between supporting the radical cause, and fearing the devastating effects of war and uprising.

The novel can also be read as a realist one, for Frankenstein is not punished by metaphysical intervention, but instead by the consequences of his actions. Mary also seeks to explore and defend the emotions of those whom the world rejects and betrays. A feminist interpretation of the story would see Mary, the daughter of a fervent feminist, as having produced an ironic critique of the power-mongering patriarchy around her. The position of ‘father’ is questioned, and a feminist reading of the book would cite ‘Frankenstein’s failure to mother his child’ – the words of Anne K. Mellor – as his flaw. There is a notable absence of ‘God the Father’ and Frankenstein’s father is rather distant, hastily dismissing his son’s enthusiasm for the old alchemists that spark his imagination. De Lacey is a figure of impotence, for his blindness renders him incapable of caring for his children: a passive character, benevolent but dependent and feeble. Walton’s father’s ‘dying injunction’ is to ensure his son is denied a seafaring life, which leads to Walton’s determined effort to oppose this, and the ‘treacherous Turk,’ Safie’s father, is a figure of oriental despotism .Mary also seems sceptical of the male aim to conceive without the partnership of a woman, and conveys the consequences of such desires in her novel; these are depicted as being caused by the exceeding motivation of the male protagonists, who transgress boundaries between the human and the divine, for Frankenstein seeks to father a ‘new species’ who will ‘bless me as its creator.’ It must be noted, on the other hand, that although one might expect the daughter of a passionate feminist to portray resilient, forceful women, the reality is rather different. On the contrary, the novel is virtually devoid of such characters. Letters from Captain Walton’s sister, replying to his correspondence, are not included; Frankenstein’s mother dies caring for her adopted daughter before he reaches adulthood; Justine is hanged for confessing to a crime she did not commit; Elizabeth, though beautiful and gentle, waits dutifully for her lover before being murdered, and Frankenstein terminates his quest to creating a female companion for his Creature, vowing never to create a being ‘equal in deformity and wickedness.’

Another central theme of the book is the effect on human sympathies and relationships that obsessive questing to ‘conquer’ the unknown as. Frankenstein may satisfy his Promethean longing, but, as a result, he destroys all sympathies and relationships with his compulsive enterprise. This is what makes the book such a shocking warning: it seems so distant far away from normality, yet its themes lurk in the shadows of everyday lives even in the 21^st Century. The story demonstrates that life is precious and delicious, and should be properly nurtured for it to flourish: the Creature is almost a metaphor for life itself, a complex of forces that we tamper with at our peril. They may be refracted through the prism of fiction, but the book’s essential messages are not diminished. Its characters are strikingly original, and it has endured over a long period of time and will continue to do so. It seems fitting to end with Goethe’s immensely appropriate words, which are not only applicable to ‘Frankenstein’, but also to other ‘classic’ books: ‘Ancient works are classical not because they are old, but because they are powerful, fresh, and healthy.’ 

Poem - Dusk

Dusk

Is it not strange

That you who shared my laughter but a week ago

Should now be dust?

And all that I loved in you

Should hang upon the rhythm of your blood

Abruptly stilled?

Your final farewell: a fleeting breath

Floating quietly away.

Your spirit trod this haze to the stars.

Your strong body, now a fistful of ash

As stark as shell grit,

Is strewn on the bald land.

Rabbits frisking in the lonely gloam

Scatter it,

And you are swallowed by silence.

The cinders of happiness drift down.

I was a small bird in your leafy realm.

You scooped up my heart

And held it softly in your cupped hands.

Your love was imprinted on my bones.

Suddenly you were felled:

My living nest, my soul’s reflection -

And, like a pebble flung in the sea,

The arc of your fall has hurtled me

Out of the sunlight.