I could write essays on Frankenstein. I could likely write books on Frankenstein. For February I’ve decided to talk about some classic horror novels and where better to begin than Frankenstein.

Here is my most recent take after my most recent reading of Frankenstein:

I feel bad for Captain Robert Walton. Here he is, lonely, an innocent, just doing some minor vanity expedition-ing to the North Pole. He’s a scientist, probably not a colonizer even if he is British, and he’s lonely. He’s real, real lonely. He’s been on this ship a while. His men are losing faith. His sister probably thinks he’s a loser. He just wanted to be a writer. He just wanted a friend. He just wanted to go to the North Pole so he could say he did something worthwhile with his life.
And then there he is! A friend appears! Walton’s prayers for companionship at the edge of nowhere miraculously —oh wait, It’s Victor Frankenstein.

Victor Frankenstein then spends, like, forever telling Walton all of the minutia of his life and crimes with such a minimal level of empathy or remorse except for the consequences Victor has received that you just want to quietly slip Walton a book on narcissistic abuse. Just as a head’s up.

Victor Frankenstein, who isn’t a doctor. He’s a med student who fucks around and finds out, yet somehow still thinks the world is unfair to him specifically.

And then! He dies! And Walton is just sitting there, having had the ultimate vicarious trauma experience, alone once again. And he thinks to himself, well, that was something. Ravings of a mad man I hope —oh, nope, there’s Adam burning Victor’s body that he stole. It was all real. Well damn.

I feel bad for Captain Robert Walton.