Frankenstein vs. Romeo and Juliet
Comments by David Pyle
One of my favorite muses is to read through the lens of an author; specifically Classic Horror. Most author’s lens’ tend to look either through smoky glass, a microscopic view or even telescopic. My personal favorites are the imperfect skewed ones, the ones with macular degeneration.
The better interpretive writing classes do something similar; always nudging students to look past the obvious themes in a story; an almost meditative process.
From personal experiences, I’ve noticed that it usually isn’t until after my completed manuscript is stapled and proudly placed on the appropriate stack that I glimpse what was lurking beneath my own skin; hidden within my own recesses.
I wonder how many other authors have experienced the dissecting experience, the humbling experience of learning something about themselves that escapes through the hubris of writing? Little tidbits that their soul had been screaming at them to notice, that took the scrutiny of others to expose.
I recently took a glance into the classic Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, rediscovered by many, sometimes superficially destroyed and neutered. But the original…, forces me to take note.
In the beloved story of Frankenstein lurks another monster, more devastating than the electrically and chemically regenerated patchwork of dead flesh.
—-Here are a few things I believe the story is trying to speak:
My passion has driven me to look for this unknown that I’ve sought after all my life. This unknown deep dark pit that I’ve never seen or known is calling to me, so if it doesn’t exist, then I have to create it. Somehow, I have to put the pieces together and give life to it.
I see those pieces in different people, but there never seems to be that one perfect person with all the pieces I’m craving. Now my life is at a point where my need is driving me mad. There isn’t any more time. I have to create this unknown with my own hands.
I looked everywhere I was instructed to look, among my peers, for years and never saw the one with all the right pieces in place.
So finally, my passion drives me to do the unthinkable. I go out, to the places that I know I shouldn’t. I look in the alleys, in the bars, brothels, the highways and hedges, among the dead of society. Finally, I see a way to get what I want.
I find one person that is nearest to what I crave. I take this one home in secret, all the while knowing that if anyone sees this…; this thing that I’m doing at face value, I’ll be ostracized from all my friends, family, peers, and colleagues.
Now. I have my precious. My secret that I’m coveting. Others would never see the potential finished product that I see. I can barely control my excitement, my passion, as I delve deeper into molding this one into what I crave.
I begin to hack and cut, knit and force upon this creature all the other attributes that I need. Hands which are soft to my touch, or strong when needed. Eyes that are for me instead of all the others which pass by. Arms that can grip me and never let go. A perfect creature. A soul that is of my own making.
Finally, I’ve done it. I’ve created this monster, sought after this monster; brought it to life, shocked into existence.
Now that my beloved creature, my distorted vision of love, suddenly comes alive, it sees what I’ve been up to. This beloved sees itself after all that I’ve done. It becomes cognizant of it’s original self and no longer recognizes that self any longer; not after all my…, modifications.
The only thing left for my creature to do is try to escape. But where can something so repulsive run to that is away from the thing it loathes most, -itself?
Then my secret is out; in the open for everyone to see. It’s hideous to behold, only I can see it’s potential, and everyone else wants to see it dead. My relationship with this love I’ve created is something no other can visualize.
Above all, now that it has found it’s freedom, now that it’s alive, I can’t control it. My beloved creature, identified with me by normal society, exposed to all the hateful eyes of society, is now on a rampage and it’s lashing out at everyone it sees, daylight or dark.
During the course of its exodus, my monster meets a child and shows it the tenderness of a mother’s touch without harm. This creature, this monster is willing to be met halfway if it could only be met with the innocence of a child, even a blind man could see that the horrific creature was only something that had been wounded beyond repair.
Society comes with their pitchforks and torches and all the hatred and loathing to destroy. Now it’s only a matter of time before what I thought I wanted comes back to destroy me, its creator, for what I’ve done.
———-
So if you’re willing to look through the distorted lens of the author’s eye and see what they see, feel what they feel, you might see a different story. But be careful that you don’t look too deeply. You might actually see something more devastating and horrific than you expected…, you might see yourself.
Will you be the Creator, the Creation, or will you be the one carrying a pitchfork and flames?
……………
