In my rough draft, I explored how the concreteness of a book seemed to anchor the readers to the actual reading of it. With a computer screen, you feel disconnected from the actual words; with a book, however, you can actually feel and see the letters. Perhaps I could include this, to expand upon the fallacies of hypertext.

I could also talk more about the body vs. soul. to make in fit with my actual paper. Either way, I will continue to stress the point that hypertext ultimately does not count as literature.

Body vs. Soul: Searching for the point of Patchwork Girl

“You don’t have a Soul. You are a Soul. You have a body.” –C.S. Lewis

Lewis’s definition of the human identity establishes an interesting idea; humans are the essence of themselves; the body is simply a container for the soul, and does not define the nature and personality of the individual. This presents an interesting dichotomy between body and soul, medium and meaning, form and function, especially when applied to not just humans, but works of art as well. Does the form through which the meaning is relayed affect how that meaning is interpreted? Shelley Jackson, considering the technologically dominated society of modern times, addresses this question in her hypertext Patchwork Girl, inspired by Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and other works by writers such as L. Frank Baum. Shelley’s computerized disc sent shock waves throughout the literary community, as it presented a new medium through which writers could present their works. Some, however, viewed this revolutionary new method with horror and trepidation, including critic Sven Birkerts. Birkerts points out the many fallacies of using hypertexts such as Shelley’s (though when referring to hypertexts, Birkerts is not particularly referring to Patchwork Girl; rather, he is speaking of his experience with hypertexts). This leads to the ultimate conclusion that while hypertextual literature is an innovative idea, the obscure organization of it detracts from the overall meaning presented.

One of the most frustrating issues for readers of texts such as Patchwork Girl is the organization- or lack thereof. In Patchwork Girl, there are many different sections to click; Journal, Graveyard, Story, Crazy Quilt, with many different sections stemming from those (please see figure 1). This in turn leads the reader to somewhere completely different and pulls them off the original track they were on, until they have lost comprehension of the story. In Jackson’s own words, “Hypertext is schizophrenic: you can’t tell what’s the original and what’s the reference.” Also, the format in which the sections may be viewed does not help to point the reader in the right direction. Often, the arrows point to several different boxes, even curving around erratically until there is no clear start or finish (please see figure 2). Thus, “A hypertext never seems quite finished, it isn’t clear just where it ends, it’s fuzzy at the edges, you can’t figure out what matters and what doesn’t, what’s matter and what’s void, what’s the bone and what’s the flesh, it’s all decoration or it’s all substance” (Jackson). Hypertext renders the story, and thence the meaning, confusing, because there is no direction or plot to follow. There are so many routes to follow (none of which are clearly designated) that no clear resolution is established, making the reader feel that there is no worthy point to text.

Part of this organizational chaos can be attributed to the lack of linear structure; in novels, the story is laid out in a series of pages to be turned, designating, physically visually, a beginning, middle, and end. Thus, every part of the story is identified and read, and the reader ends the book with a sense of resolution. “The order of print is linear, and is bound to logic by the imperatives of syntax… Print communication requires the active engagement of the reader’s attention, for reading is fundamentally an act of translation” (Birkerts 122). However, with hypertext, no clear direction is designated. “Hypertext doesn’t know where it’s going” (Jackson). Whenever a reader clicks a box, they are taken to another box or chart. The switch seems abrupt, and the new box often does not connect to the one previously read. Indeed, the text in various boxes of Patchwork Girl seems incongruous and random. Here are two excerpts from Patchwork Girl, taken from the Body of Text section and two separate “This” boxes. The first one reads:

I’m cross-legged on a dusty pillow in a tiny Middle-Eastern restaurant on Valencia in the Mission- the bronze tabletop clangs when I hit the keys hard- someone is peering at me through the curtain behind the counter. (Jackson).

The next one describes:

I’m in the back of an air-conditioned convenience store at a gas station in Iowa- a man with a protruding lower lip is staring at me between bags of potato chips- I push aside the bean dip to prop my portable on the shelf. (Jackson).

One moment, the speaker is the Middle-East; then the narration jumps to Iowa. There is no transition, no explanation, and no connection between the two narratives. Even if these two were placed in a novel, no comprehensive meaning would be established, because each section seems to be referring to a completely different event, time, and place. Thus, even the actual content is difficult to comprehend, along with the actual format. The erratic, constant motion of the hypertext also makes it difficult to fully commit to whichever section the reader has selected, because one is unsure whether or not they missed a crucial part of the story before their current reading. Indeed, one feels disconnected from the text; the reader is unaware of the basic plot in the story, and therefore does not feel any desire or drive to continue reading.

The responsibility of choosing the next section of the story can be overwhelming, as well. As Birkerts relates, “For the effect of the hypertext environment, the ever-present awareness of possibility and the need to either make or refuse choice, was to preempt my creating any meditative space for myself (Birkerts 162). Patchwork Girl is more active; it requires the reader to make decisions and click on sections. Novels are more passive; the pages sit quietly waiting for the reader to turn them. This does not place any pressure on the reader; thus, more space is created to absorb and reflect on what was read at the reader’s discretion. Because the story is laid out for the reader in a linear, irrefutable order, the reader can simply lay back and enjoy as the plot unfolds before them. With hypertext, so much concentration is focused on discovering where the story is supposed to lead the reader, that the actual content is subsumed beneath this need to work to extract any plot. Furthermore, hypertext is simply too transient and fleeting in its format, and this transience is transferred to the words themselves. Not only does any meaning garnered from choppy readings of Patchwork Girl fail to take hold in the reader’s mind, but the format itself distracts the reader from the actual subject. The many boxes of hypertexts similarly bewilder Birkerts.

I experienced constant interruption- the reading surface was fractured, rendered collagelike by the appearance of starred keywords and suddenly materialized menu boxes. I did not feel the exhilarating freedom I had hoped to feel. I felt, rather, an assault upon what I had unreflectingly assumed to be my reader’s prerogatives (Birkerts 162).

Birkerts describes how his very instincts as a reader were impaired; rather than feeling liberated by this revolutionary new format, he simply felt overwhelmed and confused. Reading, as traditionally defined, was obscured by brightly colored boxes, swerving arrows, and disjointed text.

The soul- or essence- of something can only find translation through the body through which it is presented. As Birkerts says, “Soul- a vast, elusive word” (Birkerts 212). Unfortunately, even the most profound and beautiful writing or observation will be stifled if the form is an ugly, muddled mess. Such is the case with Patchwork Girl; no meaning can be garnered because the medium of hypertext is confusing and difficult to navigate. The medium itself is so distracting, the reader loses focus on the actual meaning. The focus becomes simply trying to figure out how to read the text, not the meaning of the words themselves. Thus, not much meaning can be discussed because the hypertextual format obstructs any ability to grasp a plot or story line. The soul is, ultimately, subsumed beneath the body; clearly, the two are inextricably intertwined. Indeed, this effect is quite tragic, given, as Birkerts observes, that “Soul is our inwardness, our self-reflectiveness, our orientation to the unknown” (Birkerts 212). The soul is where one retreats for the meditation and contemplativeness needed to truly absorb meaning. To strip away the soul from a piece of literature, then, is to strip away the quiet place which conveys the essence of the story.

Appendix

Figure 1

Figure 2

Citation

Birkerts, Sven. The Gutenberg Elegies. New York: Faber and Faber, Inc., 2006.

Jackson,Shelley. “Patchwork Girl.” Watertowb, MA ed.Eastgate Systems, Inc.

Jackson, Shelley. “Stitch Bitch: the patchwork girl.” mit communications forum 20 Nov 2008

This was definitely the most difficult of all the papers we have written so far; I struggled to find a meaningful topic, because I did not like Patchwork Girl. I’m afraid maybe I did not elaborate on her enough; however, the point of my paper was to show that the medium was so confusing, no meaning could be extracted. I do feel that I use Birkerts effectively, however.

I abided by the Honor Code in writing this paper.

]]> http://skrome2.wordpress.com/2008/11/22/body-vs-soul-searching-for-the-point-of-patchwork-girl/feed/ 0 skrome2 http://skrome2.wordpress.com/2008/11/19/revised-draft/ http://skrome2.wordpress.com/2008/11/19/revised-draft/#comments Wed, 19 Nov 2008 04:31:48 +0000 skrome2 http://skrome2.wordpress.com/?p=44 ]]>

“You don’t have a Soul. You are a Soul. You have a body.” –C.S. Lewis

Lewis’s definition of the human identity establishes an interesting idea; humans are the essence of themselves; the body is simply a container for the soul, and does not define the nature and personality of the individual. This presents an interesting dichotomy between body and soul, medium and meaning, form and function, especially when applied to not just humans, but works of art as well. Does the form through which the meaning is relayed affect how that meaning is interpreted? Shelley Jackson, considering the technologically dominated society of modern times, addresses this question in her hypertext Patchwork Girl, inspired by Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and other works by writers such as L. Frank Baum. Shelley’s computerized disc sent shock waves throughout the literary community, as it presented a new medium through which writers could present their works. Some, however, viewed this revolutionary new method with horror and trepidation, including critic Sven Birkerts. Birkerts points out the many fallacies of using hypertexts such as Shelley’s, leading to the ultimate conclusion that while hypertextual literature is an innovative idea, the obscure organization of it detracts from the overall meaning presented.

One of the most frustrating issues for readers of texts such as Patchwork Girl is the organization- or lack thereof. In Patchwork Girl, there are many different sections to click; Journal, Graveyard, Story, Crazy Quilt, with many different sections stemming from those. This in turn leads the reader to somewhere completely different and pulls them off the original track they were on, until they have lost comprehension of the story. In Jackson’s own words, “Hypertext is schizophrenic: you can’t tell what’s the original and what’s the reference.” Additionally, the text can be viewed in different formats, ranging from hierarchical charts to flow charts. The same information is presented in different ways, complicating the reading even more because not only are there different sections to read, but different formats in which to read it. Thus, “A hypertext never seems quite finished, it isn’t clear just where it ends, it’s fuzzy at the edges, you can’t figure out what matters and what doesn’t, what’s matter and what’s void, what’s the bone and what’s the flesh, it’s all decoration or it’s all substance” (Jackson). Clearly, hypertext renders the story, and thence the meaning, confusing; there is no direction or plot to follow. Because there are so many routes to follow (none of which are clearly designated) no clear resolution is established, making the reader feel that there is no worthy point to text.

Part of this organizational chaos can be attributed to the lack of linear structure; in novels, the story is laid out in a series of pages, and a beginning, middle, and end are clearly designated. Thus, every part of the story is identified and read, and the reader ends the book with a sense of resolution. “The order of print is linear, and is bound to logic by the imperatives of syntax… Print communication requires the active engagement of the reader’s attention, for reading is fundamentally an act of translation” (Birkerts 122). However, with hypertext, no clear direction is designated. “Hypertext doesn’t know where it’s going” (Jackson). The reader is presented with many sections to choose from, thus there is no sense of a beginning or end. Indeed, Patchwork Girl presents boxes with arrows leading to different boxes; however, the arrows branch off at various sections, leading to nothing specific. The reader finds it difficult to fully commit themselves to whichever section they arbitrarily selected, because they are unsure whether or not they missed a crucial part of the story before their current reading. Indeed, one feels disconnected from the text; they are unaware of the basic plot in the story, and therefore do not feel any desire or drive to continue reading. The responsibility of choosing the next section of the story can be overwhelming, as well. As Birkerts relates, “For the effect of the hypertext environment, the ever-present awareness of possibility and the need to either make or refuse choice, was to preempt my creating any meditative space for myself (Birkerts 162). Patchwork Girl is more active; it requires the reader to make decisions and click on sections. Texts are more passive; the pages sit quietly waiting for the reader to turn them. This does not place any pressure on the reader; thus, more space is created to absorb and reflect on what was read at the reader’s discretion.

Despite the abstract nature of words, many readers enjoy being about to feel a concrete book in their hands and physically see the letters in print. With hypertext, however, the screen acts as a barrier between the reader and the words. According to Birkerts, “Words read from a screen or written onto a screen- words which appear and disappear, even if they can be retrieved and fixed into place with a keystroke- have a different status and affect us differently from words held immobile on the accessible space of a page” (Birkerts 154). Clearly, hypertext fails to hold the same potency, and deliver the words as powerfully and completely, as books, because it seems so transient; in novels, the words are firmly, irrevocably printed onto the pages, while on screen, the potential to delete or edit exists at the discretion of the reader’s fingertips.

Nearly weightless though it is, the word printed on a page is a thing. The configuration of impulses on a screen is not- it is a manifestation, an indeterminate entity both particle and wave, an ectoplasmic arrival and departure. The former occupies a position in space- on a page, in a book- and is verifiably there. The latter, once dematerialized, digitalized back into storage, into memory, cannot be said to exist in quite the same way. It has potential, not locus (Birkerts 155).

Thus, the identity and existence of a novel is irrefutably established, while Patchwork Girl and other hypertexts only exist in a virtual world, easily destroyed by an errant keystroke. Hypertext is simply to transient and fleeting in its format, and this transience is transferred to the words themselves. Not only did any meaning garnered from choppy readings of Patchwork Girl fail to take hold in the reader’s mind, but the format itself distracted the reader from the actual subject. The many boxes, some in different colors (such as the “Crazy Quilt” section) similarly bewildered Birkerts.

I experienced constant interruption- the reading surface was fractured, rendered collagelike by the appearance of starred keywords and suddenly materialized menu boxes. I did not feel the exhilarating freedom I had hoped to feel. I felt, rather, an assault upon what I had unreflectingly assumed to be my reader’s prerogatives (Birkerts 162).

Birkerts describes how his very instincts as a reader were impaired; rather than feeling liberated by this revolutionary new format, he simply felt overwhelmed and confused. Reading, as traditionally defined, was obscured by brightly colored boxes, swerving arrows, and disjointed text.

The soul- or essence- of something can only find translation through the body through which it is presented. As Birkerts says, “Soul- a vast, elusive word” (Birkerts 212). Unfortunately, even the most profound and beautiful writing or observation will be stifled if the form is an ugly, muddled mess. Such is the case with Patchwork Girl; no meaning can be garnered because it’s the medium of hypertext is confusing and difficult to navigate. The medium itself is so distracting, the reader loses focus on the actual meaning. The focus becomes simply trying to figure out how to read the text, not the meaning of the words themselves. Thus, not much meaning can be discussed because the hypertextual format obstructed any ability to grasp a plot or story line. The soul is, ultimately, subsumed beneath the body; clearly, the two are inextricably intertwined. Indeed, this effect is quite tragic, given, as Birkerts observes, that “Soul is our inwardness, our self-reflectiveness, our orientation to the unknown” (Birkerts 212). Reading is usually an individual pastime, and the soul is where one retreats for the meditation and contemplativeness needed to truly absorb meaning. To strip away the soul from a piece of literature, then, is to strip away the quiet place which conveys the essence of the story.

It is interesting that, as a culture, so much emphasis is placed on outward appearances. Teenage girls are pressured into starving themselves to appear thin, and thus beautiful; high-end fashion is designed, not to feel comfortable, but to look beautiful; safety in sports cars has been sacrificed to make them visually appealing. Yet, adults constantly tell their children “outer beauty does not matter; it is what is inside that counts.” Socially, it seems, more focus is put on outer beauty; however, morally, inner beauty is paramount. This can also be said of works and art and literature; the substance is more important than the body through which it is presented. Thus, Patchwork Girl fails in the highest sense of its art: it does clearly present any point through its writing. Indeed, the focus becomes not the what, but the how. If hypertext is the future of literature, then it is a drab future indeed. However, the many shortcomings of hypertexts may deter readings and critics alike from embracing this new medium.

“The medium shapes the message and the message bears directly on who we are; it forms us” (Birkerts 145).

The body is not even experienced as whole. We never see it all, we can’t feel our liver working or messages shuttling through our spine. We patch a phantom body together out of a cacophony of sense impressions, bright and partial views.

Hypertext doesn’t know where it’s going.

“You don’t have a Soul. You are a Soul. You have a body.” –C.S. Lewis

Lewis’s definition of the human identity establishes an interesting idea; humans are the essence of themselves; the body is simply a container for the soul, and does not define the nature and personality of people. This presents an interesting dichotomy between body and soul, meaning and medium, form and function, especially when it is applied to not just humans, but works of art as well. Does the form through which the meaning is relayed affect how that meaning is interpreted? Shelley Jackson, considering the technologically dominated society of modern times, addresses this question in her hypertext Patchwork Girl, inspired by Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and other works by writers such as L. Frank Baum. Shelley’s computerized disc sent shock waves throughout the literary community, as it presented a new medium through which writers could present their works. Some, however, viewed this revolutionary new method with horror and trepidation, including critic Sven Birkens. Birkens points out the many fallacies of using hypertexts such as Shelley’s, leading to the ultimate conclusion that while hypertextual literature is an innovative idea, the obscure organization of it detracts from the overall meaning presented.

One of the most frustrating issues for readers of texts such as Patchwork Girl is the organization- or lack thereof. In Patchwork Girl, there are many different sections to click, which in turn lead the reader to somewhere completely different; this pulls the reader off the original track they were on, until they have lost comprehension of the meaning of the story. Additionally, the text can be viewed in different formats, ranging from hierarchical charts to flow charts. The same information is presented in different ways, complicating the reading even more because not only are there different sections to read, but different formats in which to read it. In Jackson’s own words, “Hypertext is schizophrenic: you can’t tell what’s the original and what’s the reference.” Furthermore, “A hypertext never seems quite finished, it isn’t clear just where it ends, it’s fuzzy at the edges, you can’t figure out what matters and what doesn’t, what’s matter and what’s void, what’s the bone and what’s the flesh, it’s all decoration or it’s all substance” (Jackson). Clearly, hypertext renders the story, and thence the meaning, confusing; there is no direction or plot to follow. Because there are so many routes to follow (none of which are clearly designated) no clear resolution is established, making the reader feel that there is no worthy point to text.

Part of this organizational chaos can be attributed to the lack of linear structure; in novels, the story is laid out in a series of pages, and a beginning, middle, and end are clearly designated. Thus, every part of the story is identified and read, and the reader ends the book with a sense of resolution. “The order of print is linear, and is bound to logic by the imperatives of syntax… Print communication requires the active engagement of the reader’s attention, for reading is fundamentally an act of translation” (Birkens 122). However, with hypertext, no clear direction is designated. “Hypertext doesn’t know where it’s going” (Jackson). The reader is presented with many sections to choose from, thus there is no sense of a beginning or end. Furthermore, the reader finds it difficult to fully commit themselves to whichever section they arbitrarily selected, because they are unsure whether or not they missed a crucial part of the story before their current reading. Indeed, one feels disconnected from the text; they are unaware of the basic plot in the story, and therefore do not feel any desire to continue reading. The responsibility of choosing the next section of the story can be overwhelming, as well. As Birkens relates, “For the effect of the hypertext environment, the ever-present awareness of possibility and the need to either make or refuse choice, was to preempt my creating any meditative space for myself (Birkens 162). Thus, the medium itself is so distracting, the reader loses focus on the actual meaning.

Despite the abstract nature of words, many readers enjoy being about to feel a concrete book in their hands and physically see the letters in print. With hypertext, however, the screen acts as a barrier between the reader and the words. According to Birkens, “Words read from a screen or written onto a screen- words which appear and disappear, even if they can be retrieved and fixed into place with a keystroke- have a different status and affect us differently from words held immobile on the accessible space of a page” (Birkens 154). Clearly, hypertext fails to hold the same potency, and deliver the words as powerfully and completely, as books, because it seems so transient; in novels, the words are firmly, irrevocably printed onto the pages, while on screen, the potential to delete or edit exists at the discretion of the reader’s fingertips.

Nearly weightless though it is, the word printed on a page is a thing. The configuration of impulses on a screen is not- it is a manifestation, an indeterminate entity both particle and wave, an ectoplasmic arrival and departure. The former occupies a position in space- on a page, in a book- and is verifiably there. The latter, once dematerialized, digitalized back into storage, into memory, cannot be said to exist in quite the same way. It has potential, not locus (Birkens 155).

The soul- or essence- of something

What I prefer about books as opposed to hypertext is that you can physically hold the book in your hands; I like that the medium through on which the words are conveyed is tangible and concrete, even though the words themselves contain abstract meanings. With a computer screen, however, I feel like there is something between me and the writing; I feel almost disconnected from the story, like I am a passive observer as opposed to an active participant, like I feel when I read books. These feelings seemed to echo Birkens’s. A word printed on a page “occupies a position in space- on a page, in a book- and is verifiably there. The latter, [hypertexy] once dematerialized, digitalized back into storage, into memory, cannot be said to exist in quite the same way” (155). Also, because the presence of the writing feels more concrete, I am able to concentrate on it with more interest, whereas with the hypertext, I get easily distracted.

Birkens’s reaction to the format of hypertext was similar to mine also; I did not appreciate the non-linear format of hypertexts, as it was difficult to follow and, to use one of Shelley Jackson’s words, “schizophrenic.” Birkens’s describes that he “experienced constant interruption- the reading surface was fractured, rendered collagelike by the appearance of starred keywords and suddenly materialized boxes… I felt, rather, an assault upon what I had unreflectingly assumed to be my reader’s prerogatives” (162). I agree; Patchwork Girl did not feel like reading, so much as explorative research; I could grasp no clear concept of the story.

I thought it was interesting to read the two contrasting views of Hayles’s and Birkens’s experiences with hypertext; while Hayles loved it and thought it would revolutionize print, Birkens’s could not grasp the concept of it and expressed that it could never replace books- indeed, he sounded fearful that society would allow that to happen. I am still trying to decide what to type up this next paper on; I believe it will be the most difficult one for me, since I have not particularly enjoyed Patchwork Girl. However, perhaps I can compare and contrast Birkens’s view of hypertext with Jackson’s and Hayles’s.

I was very confused by this first reading of “Patchwork Girl.” Most of this confusion stems, I think, from my ignorance to how to work the program. Clearly, I have not been convinced that digital media will replace books; this reading only solidified this. With books, the plotline is laid out for you, and unfolds smoothly as you turn the pages. I strongly disliked the computer reading, because I could not get any real sense of a story; I found myself feeling wary of getting too involved in whatever section I happened to be reading, because I was afraid I was in the wrong section of the tale, or that I had missed something.

I also found the program very difficult to navigate; sometimes, I would click sections on the map, and a blank screen would appear; I think that was an error, given that I doubt the author would not write anything for a section. It was also very confusing, because it seemed as though you could click anything on the screen, and it would take you to another page; this made it difficult to follow along with whatever was going on. Honestly, I am not too sure what the story is. Also, there were many different characters mentioned, besides the Patchwork Girl and Mary Shelley. I wondered who was the uncle, or Margolette; there was no explanation for who they were.

I was able to read some of it, though I’m not too sure where it was leading. I suppose the voice was of the creator, Mary Shelley. She explained that she had selected the most beautiful parts of the most beautiful people, such as movie stars; however, to keep the Patchwork Girl from becoming too vain, Shelley made her body parts of grotesque different colors. This, to me, seems like a control issue; the creator not only wants to control life, but also the Patchwork Girl’s actions and feelings once she is indeed alive.

The one part I liked was the visuals; I felt that it was appropriate for the digital media, given that so many websites and the like include pictures. As the Patchwork Girl said, “I am buried here. You can resurrect me, but only piecemeal. If you want to see the whole, you will have to sew me together yourself.” The graphic stitches and separated body parts in the pictures helped show this. Ultimately, though, I would much rather read a book and conceive the visions in my head; at least then, I would be able to grasp some sense of the story.

Frankenstein. In large, bold letters, the main character of the tale is established in the very title. A male character, whose narration dominates much of the novel, and who enjoys all the freedoms given to a man of his time simply because of his gender. It is interesting, however, that this novel was written by a woman, who was both a feminist and a radical. Knowing this, it is additionally surprising that Mary Shelley created such a secondary female character for her book, whose retiring nature seems to completely contrast Shelley’s. The main female character, Elizabeth, epitomizes every ideal quality for a woman in her time: soft-spoken, modest, and docile. In Kenneth Branagh’s film Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, however, Elizabeth assumes a much more active role, and stands apart as her own character, seeming to defy convention; in this way, the character seems to more closely resemble Mary Shelley than Elizabeth. One significant difference between this particular movie adaptation and the book clearly is the portrayal of Elizabeth, as well as the effect of her role on the story; furthermore, the movie provides an interesting connection between the heroine and Mary Shelley herself, highlighting the idea that the presentation of women is influenced by the views of society at the time.

Many female audience members may applaud the more egalitarian role Elizabeth takes in the film version. Indeed, she seems to insist standing as Victor’s equal, rather than patiently wait upon his whim. In the novel, Elizabeth is presented as a gift to Victor; his mother teases him, saying “I have a pretty present for my Victor- to-morrow he shall have it,” (44). Thus Victor assumed, “She was to be mine only,” (45). He thought he had complete possession over Elizabeth, and her status was relegated to that of a mere belonging. Furthermore, it was assumed by all members of the Frankenstein family that upon reaching the proper age, Victor and Elizabeth would marry. Indeed, his father tells him “I have always looked forward to your marriage with our dear Elizabeth” (133). Thus, Victor was always made aware that his matrimonial future lay with Elizabeth, and repeatedly alludes to it throughout the book.

Elizabeth as seen in the movie, however, was quite unrecognizable from the one in the book; she was clearly presented as her own independent individual, and did not demurely submit to Victor’s possession. Indeed, she was far more playful and flirtatious, attempting to distract Victor from his studies, a feat the more retiring literary Elizabeth would never have dared to try. Furthermore, her romantic relationship with Victor was not obviously settled since childhood. In the film, he specifically asked her to marry him before he journeyed off to school, establishing their feelings for each other for the first time. In a very passionate scene, Victor begs Elizabeth to come with him, a jarring contrast from the book; he never seems to passionately need Elizabeth in print, while in the movie he cannot bear to be parted from her. Elizabeth, even more conversely, refuses to go with him, saying she is needed at home. Clearly, Elizabeth is not simply an appendage of Victor, but is her own person and recognizes her own needs as well as her fiancé’s, and is willing to fulfill those personal needs.

Several scenes were conceived for the movie that were not at all present in the book. One such addition was Elizabeth’s method of coping with Victor’s self-alienation. In the book, Elizabeth seems to wait patiently for Victor, and when the entire family wonders at his lack of letters, it is Victor’s childhood friend Henry Clerval who goes to investigate. In the movie, however, Elizabeth passionately despairs of the lack of correspondence with her fiancé; she tears apart his letters – ones that she wrote herself to continue the appearance that he loved her- and sobs because she assumes he no longer cares for her. At encouragement from family friend and servant Justine, Elizabeth travels to England herself to discover the cause of Victor’s self-imposed ostracization. Clearly, the film version of Elizabeth lacks the feminine qualities of gentle patience and demure acceptance that the long-suffering literary Elizabeth is praised for. The film Elizabeth steps out of the bounds of what is considered womanly by making a dangerous journey by herself. Furthermore, she demands an explanation from Victor and when he tells her that he is involved in something more important than his relationship with her, she turns and leaves him, telling him goodbye; this proves that Elizabeth’s existence is not wholly wrapped up in Victor, and that she is able to assert herself by being strong enough and courageous enough to leave him when he cannot seem to reciprocate her feelings. Elizabeth also determines to leave after Victor insists their wedding must be postponed, but fails to give an explanation; she goes so far as to pack her belongings and prepare to walk out the door. However, when he promises to tell his secret, she stays; clearly, Victor bends to her in this case, rather than her simply waiting for his decision. Though Victor’s selfishness is retained in the movie, Elizabeth’s individuality allows her react differently to it.

Yet another scene included in the film sets it apart dramatically from the novel; after the creature murders Elizabeth, Victor uses the same machine that spawned the monster to resurrect her. Indeed, the manner in which she was murdered was far more gory. In the book, the monster strangled Elizabeth to death, leaving a “murderous mark of the fiend’s grasp… on her neck” (168), which is certainly gruesome enough; however, in the movie, the creature rips out Elizabeth’s heart, a horrifying, vividly bloody clip. Victor must place her head on another body, leaving her just as scarred and ugly as his creation, who thinks Elizabeth was made for him. When Elizabeth remembers Victor, notices her own scars, and realizes what has happened, she smashes a lamp over her incongruous body and burns herself to death. Thus, Elizabeth proves that while Victor may try to control both her life and death, she is the one who ultimately makes decisions for herself. By committing suicide, Elizabeth once again asserts her independence and claims her fate as her own.

Interestingly enough, the character of Elizabeth in the novel seemed to possess all the feminine qualities Mary Shelley lacked; furthermore, the Elizabeth in the film seemed to more closely mirror Mary Shelley herself than the character of Elizabeth she conceived. Mary Shelley certainly did not live according to the standards of a docile, domesticated, and obedient woman. Indeed, influenced as she was by the reputation of her feminist mother, and because she “accepted much of the radical sexual and political philosophy of her parents” (Introduction 4), Shelley lived a rather scandalous life at the time, running away with a then-married man, Percy Shelley, and conceiving dark tales, such as Frankenstein, that would have been deemed unsuitable for her supposed feminine sensibilities. In many ways, then, Shelley more closely resembled the film version of Elizabeth, in that both were independent, assertive women for their time. However, feminism has developed drastically and the treatment of woman has evolved dramatically since Shelley’s era; indeed, she was clearly ahead of her time, in that she would fit in easily with society today in terms of her feminist thoughts. What was considered unusual for a woman to want in the eighteenth century, such as the ability to vote and protections from sexual harassment and assault, is now accepted today. Elizabeth’s portrayal in the modern movie version also reflects the great strides feminism has made, and leaves readers wondering how differently the novel of Frankenstein would have played out had Shelley penned her famed tale in modern times.

Self-Evaluation: Initially, the meaning and concluding paragraph in my paper was in danger of seeming almost random, giving that the topic of it seemed abruptly introduced. However, I went back and rewrote my introduction paragraph, to bring in my idea that Elizabeth in the film is more like Mary Shelley herself from the very beginning. So here, I think I turned a weakness into a strength.

I’m a little nervous that perhaps my descriptions of the movie were not strong enough; it’s difficult to compare books to movies, because with books to books you can use quotes, but you cannot do that with visual films.

• more independent and assertive
• visits Victor, doesn’t just passively wait for him
• more passionate

vivid death

• heart ripped out
• brought back to life
• monster wants her for himself
• kills herself rather than live like that

More of a main character, less of a minor character

Prometheus: The Ancient Frankenstein

Chained to a mountain crag, awaiting the visit of an eagle, whose sharp, curved beak gouged out his immortal live everyday, Prometheus was condemned to eternal suffering. Unable to protect his loved ones from a hideous monster of his own creation, Frankenstein was forced to helplessly endure the violent deaths of his family and friends, and his own failing health as he attempted to avenge them. Save for the immense suffering heaped upon the titular characters, there seem to be few similarities; Prometheus is an ancient Greek myth attempting to explain the origin of man and knowledge, while Frankenstein is a Gothic novel written in the heyday of Romanticism; indeed, the two stories would rarely be mentioned in the same breath. However, Mary Shelley, author of Frankenstein, in the tradition of Romantic writers invoked the inspirational works of the Greeks and their universal themes by including an alternate title to Frankenstein: she also called her dark novel The Modern Prometheus. Before the reader has even absorbed the first word of the text, Shelley already acknowledges the parallel between the Greek myth and her own “hideous progeny” (Shelley Introduction), thus incorporating another work into her novel. This is perhaps the most striking example of intertextual inclusion, given that from the very beginning the reader is alerted to the general theme of the text: the desperate pursuit of knowledge, and the suffering that proceeds from such dark discoveries, which perhaps provides a comment on the inevitable tragedy of the human condition.

Frankenstein as a monster has become a cultural icon: his menacing, uncouth figure is often displayed on movie screens, either exaggerated horror films or comedic caricatures. This has distorted the paradigm with which people consider the tale of Frankenstein, the largest folly being that the name of the title has been transferred from the creator onto the creature. The true narrative in the novel, however, follows Victor Frankenstein, a young man blessed with money and amiable friends, who engineers a creature whom he subsequently abandons due to the hideousness of its feature and form. This creature, rejected by all of humankind, reacts by indulging in malicious impulses and seeks vengeance on his estranged creator by murdering everyone Frankenstein loves. After such drama has unfolded, the remainder of the novel follows Frankenstein is his fierce pursuit of revenge to kill the monster (Shelley).

Many cultures conceive a theory of origin, to explain the presence of human beings. The ancient Greeks believed Prometheus fashioned mankind from clay. However, such material left them poorly equipped for survival; therefore, Prometheus stole the sacred fire, exclusive only to the Olympian Gods, and thereby brought warmth and knowledge to the human race. For his betrayal, however, the Gods chained Prometheus to a rock, and sent an eagle to tear out his liver everyday, which regenerated every night due to his immortality. Furthermore, Zeus, the king of the gods, sent to earth a woman named Pandora, who was equipped with a box she was warned never to open. Filled with a maddening curiosity, she cracked open the jar and unleashed the scourges of humankind, such as deceit, jealousy, and old age, yet another punishment heaped upon the already tortured Prometheus (D’Aulaires).

The cause of so much misery, for both Frankenstein and Prometheus, was their creation of beings, who, once out of their creators’ control, engaged in their own independent, and ultimately destructive, actions. To gather the materials necessary to assemble his creature, Frankenstein “was forced to spend days and nights in vaults and charnel-houses” (Shelley 56). Having accomplished this, he was able to “infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing” (Shelley 60) and thus brought into existence a new being, though by unnatural means. Prometheus similarly dedicated himself to the role of creator. He “modeled man with great care” from “river clay” (D’Aulaires 71), creating a new race and new individuals. In essence, both men developed living individuals, which became the source of so much agony; this is one of the more obvious similarities between the two stories, given that one of the climactic moments in both was the creation of new beings.

Many people are unaware of the true nature of either tale; yet, a central focal point for both the main characters was to unearth knowledge, and thereby discover certain truths. Both men were gripped with an insatiable desire for knowledge, even if it violated the laws of nature. When Frankenstein, seized by an illuminating realization that allows him insight into the nature of death, begins to construct his creature, he tells of how his experiment soon morphs into an obsession. “I seemed to have lost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit” (Shelley 58) Frankenstein ceased to eat, sleep, or correspond with his family, and instead focused all his energies on the fulfillment of his ambition, so much so that his health began to suffer. As Frankenstein describes, “Every night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a most painful degree” (Shelley 60). However, none of the difficulties could obstruct Frankenstein, who admits “Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world” (Shelley 58). Clearly, Frankenstein dared to venture beyond the usual realms of academic pursuits, desiring to challenge the obscurity of death by forcing a creature from its depths, a discovery no human had ever achieved. Similarly, Prometheus allows himself to become reckless in the face of attaining knowledge humans are not privy to. Watching his creatures suffer on earth, hindered by their dull minds and weak bodies, inspired Prometheus to bestow fire upon them. He “took a glowing ember from the sacred hearth….He carried it down to earth, gave it out to mankind” (D’Aulaires 72), even though until then the gods had jealously guarded the warm flames as their own. The flames, however, transformed the humans. “A strange thing happened: as men lifted their eyes upward, their thoughts rose with it up to the heavens. They began to wonder and think and were no longer earth-bound clods” (D’Aulaires 72) Clearly, Prometheus longed to lift the mantle of ignorance that was burdening mankind, and did so with fire, ushering in the advent of knowledge. Thus, both Frankenstein and Prometheus defied the conventional boundaries of thought in pursuit of attaining forbidden knowledge, and this thirst for knowledge led to inevitable- and agonizing- suffering.

Individuals are often the victims of their own ambitions; Frankenstein and Prometheus serve to prove this in the most extreme manner. For their illicit acquirement of knowledge, they were both severely punished. Frankenstein’s monster, angered at being ostracized by the human race, vows to wreak vengeance on his negligent creator. He threatens Frankenstein, crying “your hours will pass in dread and misery…you shall repent of the injuries you inflict” (Shelley 146). Indeed, the creature fulfills his dreadful promise, as he ultimately murders each person Frankenstein loved, including his brother, best friend, and wife. Compounded with the emotional guilt that he indirectly killed many innocent, well-loved people, Frankenstein must endure physically taxing conditions as he travels through the far north to hunt his creation. He describes that he would be “overcome by hunger, sunk under exhaustion, …. parched by thirst” (Shelley 174). Thus, Frankenstein endures so much suffering that he wonders “Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest?” (Shelley 153). Clearly, Frankenstein’s life has been rendered so unbearable by his miseries and guilt, which has manifested his body completely, that he no longer wants to continue living. Prometheus is likewise punished for his treasonous spread of fire and knowledge. “Prometheus was chained to the top of the Caucasus Mountains” and “every day the eagle returned and he had to suffer again” (D’Aulaires 72). Obviously, Prometheus, like Frankenstein, was tortured painfully for his actions. Furthermore, not only were the two, who created their problems, punished, but other people were affected as well. In Frankenstein, his family and friends were killed by the monster; in Prometheus, humankind was punished by the “horde of miseries” (D’Aulaires 74). These include “Greed, Vanity, Slander, Envy” (D’Aulaires 74), which “continue to plague mankind to this very day” (D’Aulaires 77). Thus, both Frankenstein and Prometheus initiated a great deal of agony upon both themselves and other people with their dark knowledge, and the consequences reaped from this knowledge.

Interestingly enough, the Prometheus comparison is often overlooked; especially compared to the overwhelming allusions to John Milton’s Paradise Lost, an excerpt of which is included on the title page, in addition to many quotes throughout the book. Perhaps because Prometheus is merely mentioned once, and even then it is after an “or,” implying that its importance is optional. However, this subtle comparison is also rendered more influential as opposed to the direct references to other texts. Indeed, Frankenstein is dubbed The Modern Prometheus right in the title, thereby defining the nature and theme of the text before the narrative has even begun. Such a comparison hints to the reader how the story might unfold, and declares upright that Frankenstein will be a tale of suffering. By calling Frankenstein “Prometheus,” Shelley is transferring Prometheus’s qualities to Frankenstein, and, once again, Frankenstein’s character is established from the title. Shelley, by this simple option, informs the reader that Frankenstein is an intelligent man who becomes a creator, and who is subsequently punished by his unconventional and unnatural knowledge. This, in turn, adds another dimension to the novel, an entirely new facet; Frankenstein is not just a simple horror tale; rather, its themes are timeless and classic, rooted as they are in the ancient Greek culture. Frankenstein, furthermore, becomes modern because of all the new technology of the society in which he lives. Thus, Shelley takes a new approach to an age-old tale, yet the repetition of the name provides continuity.

A disturbing idea is presented in both Frankenstein and Prometheus: knowledge is dangerous, and human beings suffer for acquiring it, often in devastating ways. Indeed, the direction of humankind has always been bent towards acquiring new knowledge and discovering more about the world and the people as individuals and as a society. These two works, however, imply that knowledge has a limit and boundaries, outside of which humans cannot step without dire consequences; by violating the laws presented by nature, humans have overstepped their bounds and will subsequently be punished. This limit, this imposition, is a frightening and sobering thought, especially in today’s society, where the advent of technology has led to many revolutionary discoveries. The ultimate question posed, then, by both Frankenstein and Prometheus is will humans one day know too much and thus be able to control natural processes, and what will be the consequence if that happens? Humans can only hope that one day, they will know- or perhaps they should not want to know at all.

I hereby pledge that I did complete this paper in accordance with the Honor Code.

Sara Krome

Bibliography

D’Aulaires, Ingri and Edgar. Book of Greek Myths. New York City: Delacorte Press, 1962.

Shelley, Mary . Frankenstein or The Modern Prometheus. New York City: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2000.

Frankenstein as a monster has become a cultural icon: his menacing, uncouth figure is often displayed on movie screens, either exaggerated horror films or comedic caricatures. This has distorted the paradigm with which people consider the tale of Frankenstein, the largest folly being that the name of the title has been transferred from the creator onto the creature. The true narrative in the novel, however, follows Victor Frankenstein, a young man blessed with money and amiable friends, who engineers a creature whom he subsequently abandons due to the hideousness of its feature and form. This creature, rejected by all of humankind, reacts by indulging in malicious impulses and seeks vengeance on his estranged creator by murdering everyone Frankenstein loves. After such drama has unfolded, the remainder of the novel follows Frankenstein is his fierce pursuit of revenge to kill the monster.

Many cultures conceive a theory of origin, to explain the presence of human beings. The ancient Greeks believed Prometheus fashioned mankind from clay. However, such material left them poorly equipped for survival; therefore, Prometheus stole the sacred fire, exclusive only to the Olympian Gods, and thereby brought warmth and knowledge to the human race. For his betrayal, however, the Gods chained Prometheus to a rock, and sent an eagle to tear out his liver everyday, which regenerated every night due to his immortality. Furthermore, Zeus, the king of the gods, sent to earth a woman named Pandora, who was equipped with a box she was warned never to open. Filled with a maddening curiosity, she cracked open the jar and unleashed the scourges of humankind, such as deceit, jealousy, and old age, yet another punishment heaped upon the already tortured Prometheus.

Many people are unaware of the true nature of either tale; yet, a central focal point for both the main characters was to unearth knowledge, and thereby discover certain truths. Both men were gripped with an insatiable desire for knowledge, even if it violated the laws of nature. When Frankenstein, seized by an illuminating realization, begins to construct his creature, he tells of how his experiment soon morphs into an obsession. “I seemed to have lost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit” (Shelley 58) Frankenstein ceased to eat, sleep, or correspond with his family, and instead focused all his energies on the fulfillment of his ambition, so much so that his health began to suffer. As Frankenstein describes, “Every night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a most painful degree” (Shelley 60). However, none of the difficulties could obstruct Frankenstein, who admits “Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world” (Shelley 58). Clearly, Frankenstein dared to venture beyond the usual realms of academic pursuits, desiring to challenge the obscurity of death by forcing a creature from its depths, a discovery no human had ever achieved. Similarly, Prometheus allows himself to become reckless in the face of attaining knowledge humans are not privy to. Watching his creatures suffer on earth, hindered by their dull minds and weak bodies, inspired Prometheus to bestow fire upon them. He “took a glowing ember from the sacred hearth….He carried it down to earth, gave it out to mankind” (D’Aulaires 72), even though until then the gods had jealously guarded the warm flames as their own. The flames, however, transformed the humans. “A strange thing happened: as men lifted their eyes upward, their thoughts rose with it up to the heavens. They began to wonder and think and were no longer earth-bound clods” (D’Aulaires 72) Clearly, Prometheus longed to lift the mantle of ignorance that was burdening mankind, and did so with fire, ushering in the advent of knowledge. Thus, both Frankenstein and Prometheus defied the conventional boundaries of thought in pursuit of attaining forbidden knowledge, and this thirst for knowledge led to inevitable- and agonizing- suffering.

Individuals are often the victims of their own ambitions; Frankenstein and Prometheus serve to prove this in the most extreme manner. For their illicit acquirement of knowledge, they were both severely punished. Frankenstein’s monster, angered at being ostracized by the human race, vows to wreak vengeance on his negligent creator. He threatens Frankenstein, crying “your hours will pass in dread and misery…you shall repent of the injuries you inflict” (Shelley 146). Indeed, the creature fulfills his dreadful promise, as he ultimately murders each person Frankenstein loved, including his brother, best friend, and wife. Compounded with the emotional guilt that he indirectly killed many innocent, well-loved people, Frankenstein must endure physically taxing conditions as he travels through the far north to hunt his creation. He describes that he would be “overcome by hunger, sunk under exhaustion, …. parched by thirst” (Shelley 174). Thus, Frankenstein endures so much suffering that he wonders “Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest?” (Shelley 153). Clearly, Frankenstein’s life has been rendered so unbearable by his miseries and guilt, which has manifested his body completely, that he no longer wants to continue living. Prometheus is likewise punished for his treasonous spread of fire and knowledge. “Prometheus was chained to the top of the Caucasus Mountains” and “every day the eagle returned and he had to suffer again” (D’Aulaires 72). Obviously, Prometheus, like Frankenstein, was tortured painfully for his actions. Furthermore, not only were the two, who created their problems, punished, but other people were affected as well. In Frankenstein, his family and friends were killed by the monster; in Prometheus, humankind was punished by the “horde of miseries” (D’Aulaires 74). These include “Greed, Vanity, Slander, Envy” (D’Aulaires 74), which “continue to plague mankind to this very day” (D’Aulaires 77). Thus, both Frankenstein and Prometheus initiated a great deal of agony upon both themselves and other people with their dark knowledge, and the consequences gathered from this knowledge.