A 2018 headline in The Sun read 'Flakensteins: Snowflake students claim Frankenstein's monster was "misunderstood" — and is in fact a victim' (O'Shea). To suggest that compassion for Adam is a modern phenomenon or a symptom of increasing concern about the rights of non-human animals is to overlook entirely the core moral concern of Frankenstein, published in 1818.[1] The novel quite clearly encourages pity both for Victor and for his creation by virtue of their predicaments, and Shelley's concern is in how these pities differ, and where they ought to be directed. In other words, she is asking who deserves the greater sympathy? Initial reviews, generally skeptical of the genre and repulsed by the horror, failed to identify a moral message in the book[2], finding neither character worthy of compassion. On the other hand, Percy Bysshe Shelley, who was close to the novel's authorship not only as husband to Mary but also as a competitor in the famous ghost fiction competition, had an opposite emotional reaction. His review proposed that 'there is perhaps no reader… who will not feel a responsive string touched in his inmost soul.' Soon in the same essay it becomes apparent that his sympathies lie with the monster (The Athenæum). Contrasting opinions about the interpretation of Frankenstein, particularly regarding the reader's compassionate response, are therefore not new. In fact it is a (if not the) key interest of the novel; Shelley challenges the reader's ability to sympathise by describing an extraordinary object.
Despite Frankenstein's narrative, which repeatedly dehumanises the 'filthy dæmon' (52), it is precisely the human qualities of Adam[3] that endear him to the reader. For this effect, Shelley exploits a communal feature of psychology: our sympathies towards each other are much deeper than they are towards animals. In The Descent of Man, published over half a century later, Darwin confirmed that, although it can cross species, sympathy is usually confined to a single group: 'no doubt a tiger or lion feels sympathy for the sufferings of its own young, but not for any other animal' (82). Since Adam is so human-like, the reader struggles to distinguish between the explicit animalisation of him as a monster, and the implicit humanity in his nature. Unrecognisable either as fully man or fully animal, the human reader's selfish gene is aroused and interprets him as a form of man.[4] Inevitably, the quantity and the quality of his human features anthropomorphise him to such a degree that he is sympathetic[5], and furthermore a reader may struggle to resist sympathising with him. Indeed, the etymology of the word 'sympathy' requires both participants to be the 'same' — not 'other' — for 'sym-', an alternative form of the prefix 'syn-', derives from the Ancient Greek word for 'together with' and 'identical'. This vocabulary of course does not mean animals are excluded from human compassion, but that the specific word 'sympathy', having origins in kinship, describes a sensation best applied to inter-species relationships. 'For the Romantics, sympathy meant primarily "fellow feeling"' (Caldwell 263).
With these evolutionary and semantic explanations in mind, the reader's strange inclination to sympathise with a monster is better understood. Now this essay suggests, and focuses on, how this profound emotion of sympathy is produced from a static text, a process not unlike the endowing of a cobbled body with the spirit of life. As mentioned above, the humanness of any being makes it possible for another human (the reader) to identify with it, and by extension to pity it. So far, however, this point has been made without a detailed examination of Adam's 'humanness'. That now follows.
The monster is assembled from human body parts. These Victor collected during raids on charnel-houses, and constructed in a human collage: 'his limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful' (37). Thus, Adam's corporeal identity is technically human, and designed to be anatomically good-looking. Perhaps more importantly, his birth process is very humanlike. In the same way that babies have mothers, he has a creator. And his creator, Victor, has endowed him with life in a process which Shelley leaves equally mysterious to the outward magic of childbirth.[6] In both cases, a being enters the world without expectation and without experience; while Adam may present visually as an overgrown man, at his birth he has a sentience comparable to a newborn human. Victor observes how 'a convulsive motion agitated its limbs' (36) in the first signs of life, and this too reminds of a baby's first wriggles. One more idiosyncrasy of human experience shared by Adam is directly pertinent to the moral inquiry of Frankenstein: we do not choose to be born, nor do we choose any of the factors concerning our entry into the world. That point may sound superfluous, but the strangeness of birth (from the child's perspective) warrants remark. Time, place, family, physical characteristics, mental attributes, personality, and more are all elements decided by nature in a random lottery. Though Victor overpowers nature and assumes the role of artist, Adam's experience of birth is nonetheless identical to any other human's. One uniting condition of human sympathy is the recognition that we are all members of 'the draw' as victims of luck and the unrequested, unexpected process of birth. Frankenstein may not dwell on it, but the reader can see how Adam is launched just like a human into his unusual life.
The dynamic of creator to created (and by extension to 'creature') is the driving force behind both the plot and the philosophy of Frankenstein. Once the horror is peeled away — a challenge insurmountable to some early reviewers[7] — the novel patently relates a moral failure firstly in Victor's unconsidered creation of a conscious life, and secondly in his subsequent abandonment of Adam. In the language of philosophy, Victor is a moral agent, Adam a moral patient.[8] An almost unavoidable interpretation is to say that their relationship is an analogue of mankind's relationship to God, and in this reading Adam's earthbound suffering, when mixed with his creator's absence, represents the human condition. Indeed, the repetition of the word 'creature' confirms this point from a perspective of vocabulary, for the word can mean 'human', 'animal', and simply 'created thing' all at the same time[9], and could therefore be imagined as the perfect word to describe Adam, the half-animal, half-human creation that he is. Rarely, however, does the text use the word 'creature' to refer to Adam (39, in Victor's lab is one of few examples); more often than not 'creature' is used to indicate humankind, such as Victor's 'fellow-creatures' (124). Besides the intertextuality that through this word connects the novel to Paradise Lost, the uniform usage of 'creature' collects the monster and the humans in a single group. Shelley places Adam in parallel with humans in multiple ways — corporeal, experiential, metaphorical, and lexical — to make it easy for the reader to identify with him, and consequently to sympathise.
Convincing though they already are, these parallels to the experience of mankind are perhaps only superficial, the result of some sort of anthropomorphic bias.[10] When observed carefully in every demonstration of his faculties, Adam displays a super-human competency that adds a brutish shade to his character. He tells Frankenstein how he 'could with pleasure have destroyed the cottage' (99) and how he 'wished to tear up the trees' (100), neither of which are achievable feats for any human. Somehow he is capable of walking down a mountain 'with greater speed than the flight of an eagle' (109), and recovering from a bullet wound within weeks (104). And these exhibitions of physical prowess are dwarfed by his mental abilities. Having observed speech ('articulate sounds' 80), Adam endeavours to learn what words mean, and how they are verbalised. Such a process takes years in babies, but in only a few days he has an elementary understanding of English, sufficient enough to distinguish it from other languages. Soon he also learns to read (86), finding 'extreme delight' (93) in Milton and Goethe. His abilities are exceptional, particularly because he learns in isolation (no parenthood, no companionship), and particularly because he is only two years old![11] Even when Shelley's intention to frighten the reader, which manifests itself in both the appearance and the pursuit of the monster, is taken into consideration of these implausible achievements, he still seems superhuman. Modern AI terminology would deem him a sophisticated AGI — artificial general intelligence — towards which many research efforts are focused despite the prediction that AGI is decades or centuries away. Combined, the monster's speaking and reading establish a powerful rhetoric upon which he depends. Arguing efficiently, his ability to be persuasive is improved, and at times the very verbal formulation of his feelings is compelling. For example, his torrent of rhetorical questions, all revolving around 'how dare you sport thus with life?' (70) is an forceful protestation, to which Victor only responds with physical rage (Leith, FT).
Adam's extraordinary faculties, insofar as they distinguish him from other humans, risk alienating him from the reader who, sensitive to their own inferiority, struggles to relate. But in practice this does not occur: there is no reader of Frankenstein capable of similar genius or strength, and yet many sympathise with the monster all the same. Since he is extremely capable in certain mental domains — comprehensible speech being no easy task — it is likely that his intelligence is consistent throughout his brain and each of his emotions is accordingly adjusted. Put differently, his hyper-brain implies a hyper-sentience in which his feelings are as deep as his mind is wide. At the least, Adam's relation of his thought process exposes a sensibility preoccupied with grand themes and heightened senses. For example, he explains how he learned 'to admire [the cottagers'] virtues, and to deprecate the vices of mankind' (92). The mere sight of a caring old man inspires 'sensations of a peculiar and overpowering nature' (77), and reflections on his ugly physicality lead to 'agony' he 'cannot describe' (87).
No doubt Adam's capacity for emotion is far more intense than the average human. Therefore, the reader can suppose that his subjective experience of suffering is not only miserable and sincere, but also multiples more extreme than that of a human in similar peril. In addition, his propensity to hope is equally acute, so any fluctuation between hope and despair (such as follows his initial conversation with De Lacey) can be understood as pathetically drastic. Adam's resemblance to humanity already leads to sympathy, but the knowledge that each of his sensations is more keenly felt than a human can easily imagine makes his plight all the more pitiable and the reader's sympathies all the more concentrated.
Adam portrays himself as a most delicate monster.[12] At first he is harmless and one may venture to add that he is even cute in his ignorance. His surprise, for instance, on discovering that the warmth of a fire stings at too close a distance ('how strange, I thought, that the same cause should produce such opposite effects' 74) is reminiscent of a sweet, infantile naivety. A monster shocked by a small ember can hardly be an agent of malice or wickedness. Moreover, Adam describes benevolent deeds with no self-serving motive like the collection of wood on behalf of the cottagers. Their happiness, he claims, gave 'pleasure' (80). It is important to be sceptical like Victor of his creation's lavish altruism as he is appealing for a companion and might, in the interest of persuasion, doctor or create a narrative which elicits greater sympathy than is really deserved. Yet there is no indication of dishonesty — to his detriment Adam confesses his involvement in the murder of William without hesitation — nor is there a self-indulgent focus on his benevolence. If anything he understates the goodness of his deeds, unaware of the rhetorical impact a focus on his own charity might have. Even Victor recognises that the 'tale… provided him to be a creature of fine sensations' (108). However, Adam's goodwill is not a cause for sympathy in itself, despite the way in which it encourages the reader to admire his personality.
What really induces sympathy is the realisation that all of the monster's benevolence is in vain. However carefully or however wholeheartedly Adam seeks to earn human respect, he will inevitably be rejected on account of his appearance. Together this results in a greater fall: he is denied access to human society in the same lunge as he is reminded of his own repulsiveness. Since his kindness is unrequited, he is part of an unfair transaction in which his efforts will never succeed in anything consequential for the monster's status. Such a situation is palpably pitiable. Another dimension which increases the reader's pity is that these attempts to make a meaningful friendship do not fail due to any mistake on Adam's behalf, but simply due to human prejudice and instinctive terror. Indeed, his competition is not reason or considered denial — these must be easy to defeat for a creature as intelligent as Adam — but panic, which is impossible to subdue. Janis McLarren Caldwell believes the prevalence of this theme demands a reframing of how critics should consider the book: 'The plot of Frankenstein… repeatedly dramatises failure of a social sympathy' (270). In her opinion, the story of a monster and his creator is merely a vehicle for social commentary, and Shelley's concern is less about the morals of one scientist, more about the consequences of scientific progress to society at large. While Caldwell may be bending the text to too strict a reading, the emphasis on social distance from Adam is unavoidable, and often sympathy-inducing.
The adage declares 'no good deed goes unpunished'. While the fact that Adam's kindness goes unappreciated at the cottage already gives rise to compassion of the sort that readers offer in lieu of inter-narrative gratitude, the incidents wherein his kindness backfires and results in further suffering give rise to an even stronger pity. In a traditional hero narrative, the rescue of a drowning girl would create a well-loved star in her saviour. But when Frankenstein's monster drags a girl, who had fallen into the stream, onto the shore, his assistance is left unrewarded, and he is shot in the shoulder. This is so far removed from the thanks he truly deserves that the reader cannot resist compensating for his maltreatment by offering sympathy. James C. Hatch, describing the presence of shame in the book, echoes Adam Smith's writing on sympathy when he states that 'sympathy is spectatorial and implies that one can look at others and sympathize with them looking at oneself' (40). The reader of Frankenstein is a spectator of (the monster) Adam's difficulty in integrating with his society, and in lieu of it offers the bond of sympathy. As narrator, he is not crafty with his story, and this potentially life-altering moment is covered in a single paragraph, but the honesty with which he shares his reaction indirectly constitutes a plea for compassion towards Victor, and by extension, the reader. By juxtaposing the anecdote with a description of his subsequent upset and shock, he shows his own thought process, and the exact thought process that leads to his outrage.[13]
The monster asks his creator to build a friend, and in this request is further cause for sympathy. As with humans, seeking company is in general a sign of unhappiness, and so the fundamental sensation of loneliness expressed by Adam is one which any reader can recall. The modern poet David Whyte writes that 'to be left alone is a deep, fearful and abiding human potentiality of which we are often unconsciously, deeply afraid' (Consolations, 9) — it is a condition that few humans actively enjoy. So, on a superficial level, Adam's hope for a friend is pitiable as an outward symptom of isolation. But the specifics behind his request consolidate this feeling too, for, as he explains, he is hoping for a female 'with whom I can live in the interchange of those sympathies necessary for my being' (106). Although his actions previously demonstrated a benevolence of heart, and a frustration at the lack of reciprocity, now he states explicitly both that he desires an 'interchange' and that such a symbiosis is 'necessary' for his happiness. It is phrased as a demand to Victor, but the virtuousness of this request reflects Adam's characteristic good intentions. After all, it is 'sympathies' he is hoping to experience and share, and sympathy is the precise alleviation he encourages in a caring reader. Edmund Burke imagined a 'great chain of society' in 1759, wherein imitation, ambition, and sympathy would be 'principal links' (On the Sublime and Beautiful, 38). Perhaps it is ironic, therefore, that the novel's supposedly civilised society denies this latter standard, while the object of their cruelty, whom they misinterpret as beastly, desires the very feeling that they lack.
Part of Shelley's scheme to convince her reader of the Adam's good nature requires that she emphasise the gulf between mankind and the kind-but-grotesque monster. She shows how he is repeatedly spurned (despite the well-meaning intentions he purports to have) because of human fear and inability to see beyond the skin-deep aspect of the monster. Ironically, the crass reaction to his ugliness rather illustrates a certain callous and ugly facet of human behaviour. In a novel that is overtly unrealistic (Shelley felt the need for a Preface in order to rationalise the 'fiction' (the sixth word of the book, 5)), the anthology of reactions to Adam is very lifelike. Here it is impossible not to detect the selfish, Darwinian behaviour of humans concerned only with themselves, to the injury of another sentient being. And worse, each scream, attempt to run, or attack on the monster is entirely plausible; no stretch of the imagination is necessary for a reader to recognise human cowardice. In this way, Victor and his habit of avoidance is a synecdoche for human moral standards on the whole. Consequently, by revealing Adam's inner experience of this abject behaviour, which as personal thought lies hidden to those with whom he interacts, the reader understands the inescapable burden of his situation as the unnecessary by-product of human selfishness. The reader then sympathises as a type of compensation for the poor treatment of him by the book's characters.
An important feature of the novel is that there is no strict protagonist or antagonist. Captain Walton simply provides the frame narrative; Victor, whose story takes up most of the text, is at times the protagonist (though by no means an always commendable one); and Adam has an endearing narrative of his own that uses role-reversal to present his creator as the antagonist. The subtitle of the book, 'The Modern Prometheus', certainly refers to Victor through comparison to Greek mythology. But the title, 'Frankenstein', is not as explicit — it could refer to Victor, but alternatively it could refer to Adam (a quasi-son of Victor), or for that matter any member of Victor's family. Possibly for a similar reason, the name 'Frankenstein' is most regularly used in popular culture to mean the monster rather than the true Victor Frankenstein. By softening the boundaries of hero and foe, and by allowing the opposing voices to weave through the narrative, Shelley ensures no strict loyalty to either. As a result, the secondary literature naturally fluctuates between describing Victor as the 'hero', and Adam as the 'hero'.[14] Here is an inversion and fluctuation of narrative stereotypes that expands upon the doppelgänger theme which characterise the relationship of the novel's two main characters.[15]
A list of the monster's atrocities makes for unpleasant reading, and context removed will naturally give rise to hatred rather than compassion. The first-degree murders alone include the killing of Frankenstein's best friend, wife, and youngest brother. Surely these are the exploits of an 'ogre' (105)? Not so fast. Frankenstein's narrative structure affords the reader an omniscience that demonstrates the moral ambiguity of the situation. The lack of a third-party impartial narrator is balanced by implicit details in the stories which imply unstable emotions; the reader watches Victor panic and realises then that his language is contaminated by a guilt and a hatred for his own handiwork. Meanwhile, in Adam's eloquence he convinces the reader of the extents of his misery (more successfully than he convinces the biased Victor) so that, like Captain Walton, after listening to him we find ourselves 'suspended by a mixture of curiosity and compassion' (168).
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[1] The crude headline metamorphosed into a Twitter meme in recognition of the tabloid's mistake. 'Snowflake students claim Romeo and Juliet may have had a "problematic" relationship,' wrote user @TechnicallyRon. [2] E.g. The British Critic, New Series. 9 (April 1818): 432-8. 'We need scarcely say, that these volumes have neither principle, object, nor moral.' [3] Some say 'monster', some say 'creature'. Some use capital letters, some don't. For readability — and since Shelley has the humanoid tell his creator 'I ought to be thy Adam' (70) — I will use the not unpopular nickname for Frankenstein's monster: 'Adam'. [4] See Dawkins, Richard. The Selfish Gene. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989. Print. [5] 'Tending to elicit sympathy'. Definition 2.b of "sympathetic, adj. and n." in the Oxford English Dictionary. The other, more common definition (3.a: 'sharing or affected by the feelings of another or others') is explored later in the essay. [6] Victor's reluctance to share the secret of animation is a convenient pretext for this narrative omission. [7] 'The Monthly Review' of April 1818 completed its review of Frankenstein in just two scathing sentences. As it is so brief, I shall reproduce it here: 'An uncouth story, in the taste of the German novelists, trenching in some degree on delicacy, setting probability at defiance, and leading to no conclusion either moral or philosophical. In some passages, the writer appears to favour the doctrines of materialism: but a serious examination is scarcely necessary for so excentric a vagary of the imagination as this tale presents.' [8] These terms of course cannot be used definitively. For instance, Adam becomes an agent of suffering for Victor, who has now become the patient. In fact, the alternation of roles is a recurring motif. [9] And perhaps even a 'sinful person'. [10] Nick Bostrom's 'anthropic principle' warns of a selection bias in physics while observing our universe. The same applies on a small, literary scale here — as human readers of a creature's narrative we are inclined to remember disproportionately our own human experiences. This naturally leads to further sympathy. [11] If only in a technical sense. Frankenstein, like most science fiction, is subject to flaws; the most obvious, to me at least, is the ambiguity of the monster's age. At birth he cannot speak, nor barely open his eyes, but walking is apparently not a challenge. [12] Shakespeare's The Tempest: 2.2:92-3. [13] Sir Walter Scott: 'this monster, who was at first, according to his own account, but a harmless monster, becomes ferocious and malignant, in consequence of finding all his approaches to human society repelled with injurious violence and offensive marks of disgust.' Review in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine (March 1818, 2): 613-20. [14] For The British Critic, Victor is 'the hero of the tale'. But for The Gentleman's Magazine, as well as Percy Bysshe Shelley, whose interpretation of the text is likely to be the most canonical, it is Adam who takes that role. [15] For more on the 'doppelganger' theme, see Patrick Brantlinger's chapter Race and Frankenstein in the Cambridge Companion, pp.128-41. He proposes that the resemblances of language between Victor and his creation is another development of their swirling dynamic.
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Botting, Eileen Hunt. Godmother of Intelligences. Aeon 3 October 2018. Web. Burke, Edmund. On the Sublime and Beautiful. New York: John B. Alden, 1885. Archive.org. Caldwell, Janis McLarren. 'Sympathy and Science in Frankenstein.' The Ethics in Literature. Ed. Andrew Hadfield, Dominic Rainsford, and Tim Woods. Hampshire: Macmillan Press, 1999. Print. Darwin, Charles. The Descent of Man and Selection in Relation to Sex Volume 1. London: John Murray, 1871. Darwin Online. Leith, Sam. 'Frankenstein's monster makes a logical and emotional appeal.' Financial Times 31 October 2018. Web. Hatch, James C.. 'Disruptive affects: shame, disgust, and sympathy in Frankenstein.' European Romantic Review 19.1 (2008): 33-49. T and F Online. O'Shea, Gary, and Thea Jacobs. 'FLAKENSTEINS Snowflake students claim Frankenstein's monster was 'misunderstood' — and is in fact a VICTIM.' The Sun 5 March 2018. Web. Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus. Ed. Nick Groom. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2018. Print. Shelley, Percy Bysshe. 'Review of Frankenstein (1818 edition)'. The Athenæum 10 November 1832: 730. Web. Smith, Andrew. The Cambridge Companion to Frankenstein. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2016. Cambridge Core. Whyte, David. Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words. Washington, USA: Many Rivers Press, 2015. Print. Wolfson, Susan J.. 'Introduction: Frankenstein, Race and Ethics.' The Keats-Shelley Review 34.1 (2020): 12-21. T and F Online.