From the beginning, Frankenstein establishes a connection between the acquisition of knowledge, or the discovery of secrets, and evil. Walton's sister's "bad forebodings" surrounding her attempt to reach the North Pole, emphasized in the first sentence, immediately signal not only the dangers that accompany the pursuit of knowledge, irresistible to an overly ambitious romantic like Walton (and of course like Frankenstein himself), but also that Walton is a character (again like Frankenstein) who is perhaps irresistibly drawn to danger. That the reader himself is involved in this dangerous expedition into the unknown becomes clear when we are positioned as an audience to the terrible secret that Walton, as transcriber of Frankenstein's story, will reveal. It has been noted that, much like Paradise Lost, a moral exploration on which Frankenstein draws heavily, the book has exceeded the limits of its text and is now a product of criticism rather than a work of literature. Mary Shelley's description of the novel as its "hideous offspring" indicates that, regardless of the story it tells, Frankenstein as an entity is a symbol of how a secret, once revealed, or "born ”, cannot be erased, but must be able to continue – as the monster itself and its creator are all too painfully aware – whatever the consequences for its owner. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on “Why Violent Video Games Should Not Be Banned”? Get an original essay The sense of danger we feel around the disclosure of secret knowledge is accompanied by an inevitable fear of its possession. Curiosity and fear go hand in hand, of course, and the latter usually does little to eradicate the former. Frankenstein is adept at inspiring both, in his preparation of Walton for the story he is about to tell: I had decided one day that the memory of these evils must die with me; but you have convinced me to change my determination. You seek knowledge and wisdom, as I once did; and I fervently hope that the satisfaction of your desires will not be a snake to sting you, as mine was...if you wish, listen to my story. I believe that the strange incidents connected with it will offer you a view of nature, which may enlarge your faculties and your understanding... (17) As an introduction to the story of Frankenstein, the passage is charged with clues, notably the reference to the tree. of knowledge and the “snake” that accompanies it, that possession of the secret – from which the reader expects just as much as Walton – will not be beneficial. Frankenstein's unnecessary "if you are inclined" is surely fallacious, for he is well aware that he has found in Walton someone who seeks knowledge at all costs, "as I once did." Walton tells his sister that, unsurprisingly, after this seductive precursor, he is filled with the “greatest desire” to hear the story of Frankenstein. He is quick to point out that it is not simple “curiosity” that pushes him to push Frankenstein to go further in his confession, but also “a strong desire to improve his lot”. A rather dubious claim in light of the fact that he continues to refer to Frankenstein as "alien" at this point. The phrase sounds almost exactly like the one Frankenstein used after the monster begged his creator to listen to his story: “I was partly impelled by curiosity, and compassion confirmed my resolve.” »(79) Once again, “curiosity” is the dominant motivation. , with the word “compassion” ringing a distinct noteof self-justification. Critics have often explored how the narrative structure of the frame, with its Chinese box effect leading us ever closer to a powerful core of truth that we never quite reach, acts as a form of seduction. Beth Newman explains how the narration in Frankenstein 'serves to seduce the listener and to displace and sublimate a desire that cannot be satisfied directly.' A sense of the seductive quality of Frankenstein's speech is given in Walton's description of his "unparalleled eloquence," displayed by "the finest art" (15). Later, Walton gives us an image of Frankenstein as a kind of mermaid, luring men at sea to their deaths through the power of his words, encouraging the fearful crew of Walton's ship to continue their fatal quest with the belief that " these vast mountains of ice are molehills which will disappear before the resolutions of man” (181). Why then does Frankenstein perform this almost perverse act of seduction, knowing that it will only lead to heartbreak? This question can be answered once again by describing his own work as his “offspring”; the act of revelation, of sharing knowledge, is a human need as fundamental as maternal reproduction. The novel is full of characters desperate to tell their stories to others, to unburden themselves of the weight of terrible truths. Just like Frankenstein, the monster begs for someone to “listen to my story” (79), and just like Walton, Frankenstein is irresistibly compelled to listen. The need to communicate is found again and again, right down to Elizabeth's gossip in her letters to her fiancé Frankenstein, in which she is driven by her desire to reveal to indulge in lengthy descriptions of various parochial news. of course trivial, but it is one of the many devices used in the novel to emphasize the difference between the joyful speech of those who are capable of sharing everything with those they love, and the miserable tale of Frankenstein, forced to hiding secrets and hiding one's true emotions at every moment. The difference is most clearly demonstrated in the comparison between Frankenstein and his friend Henry Clerval, when they undertake their tour of European sights together. Clerval is repeatedly described as a paradigm of human existence, a being formed in the “very poetry of nature” (130). He is also, as the “Freudian” readers of the text like to point out, one of the many “doubles” who populate Frankenstein. Frankenstein makes this explicit in his assertion that "in Clerval I saw the image of my former self."(131) The implication is that Clerval is Frankenstein without knowledge. Frankenstein repeatedly characterizes all the characters in the novel without his knowledge as belonging to a childish, Arcadian vision of innocence, in contrast to his own "hell". Inherent in his sense of horror at his predicament is a sense of superiority, however terrible, towards those who cannot understand the cause of his suffering. Thus, he responds to his father's advice with a terse rejection, "although good, totally inapplicable to my case" (70). Time and again, Frankenstein is careful to emphasize that his grief is entirely his property, inaccessible to others. Robert Kiely explains the contradictory emotions that Frankenstein feels by the fact that he is a "genius", and therefore subject to a dissonance between the human need for friendship, of sharing with those he loves, and "the right of the genius to work in solitude.' The fact that higher knowledge leads to loneliness is confirmed by the events of the tale of Frankenstein. But the explanation is difficult, because it puts forward the idea thatFrankenstein gains his knowledge of the secret of human life through his inherent genius, rather than through the combination of his ambitious nature and the temptations of the evil branch of nature. science which seems to appear by chance before him. At one point, Frankenstein laments the fact that his father, after noticing that his young son had begun to stray into the path of semi-magical natural conjurers like Agrippa and Magnus, did not "bother to explain” (23) that these ideas of men were outdated and were akin to a kind of witchcraft. Given this, are we to assume that the cause of Frankenstein's downfall was simply that his genius had not been properly harnessed at an earlier stage? This is a question that the novel never fully answers. When Frankenstein details his life at the University of Ingolstadt, a possessive tone emerges once again as he emphasizes: "Only those who have lived them can conceive the attractions of science." » 33) The word "seductions", as well as the allusions to "delight and rapture" and the "peak of my desires" (34), represent the acquisition of knowledge as a sexually charged climax following an exercise of seduction, a phrase that reflects the act of disclosing one's story to Walton. Obvious parallels, which seem to act as obvious warning signs, occur again and again in Frankenstein, but, as Paul Sherwin has pointed out, this apparent genius remains the "unsung principal" of his own story. Frankenstein tells Walton to "learn from me," recognizing the "impatient" gleam in his listener's eyes and warning him: "I will not lead you, unguarded and eager as I was then, to your destruction and your infallible misery. (35) And yet, shortly thereafter, we see him urging Walton and his crew forward toward what can only be their destruction at the North Pole, using alternating bait-and-switch tactics. honor and glory and shame of being “cowards” (183). they turn away from their goal. This is to say nothing of the fact that Frankenstein constantly “guides” us by the very act of revealing his story. It would seem that, even armed with what must surely be the most effective warning against the ambitious pursuit of knowledge ever created, Frankenstein is happy to recognize and encourage in others what he calls in himself a " fatal impulse. Forbidden knowledge is of course a classic gothic touchstone, where it usually works as powerfully for the reader as it does for the character experiencing it. Caleb William's recognition of his fatal desire to learn the truth about his master's dark past might well speak to a reader of Frankenstein: "The reader will feel how quickly I advanced to the edge of the precipice. I had a confused apprehension about what I was doing, but I couldn't help it. The difference is that while the reader is able to wholeheartedly sympathize with a character like Caleb Williams, or even with a historical, romantic heroine like Emily St. Aubert in The Mysteries of Udolpho, Shelley instead distances us from understanding Frankenstein experiences and desires. The narrative framework is a key part of this, constantly reminding us that we are learning about a horror we will only ever hear in a tale, rather than from real-life experience. Charles Schug sees this as a “necessary” means of containing Frankenstein’s moral experience within the limits of fiction. But the main factor of distance is that Frankenstein is grappling, not with human emotions and secret family histories, but in a realm of quasi-natural scientific knowledge...