Frankenstein journal 1/21/11

The picture that Victor draws of his childhood is an idyllic one, despite the poverty of Beaufort and the orphaning of Elizabeth. However, the overly nostalgic tone of these passages led me to suspect that the stability and comfort of family were going to be rather short lived. Women in Frankenstein fit into few roles: the loving, sacrificial mother; the innocent, sensitive child; and the concerned, confused, abandoned lover. Throughout the novel, they are universally passive, rising only at the most extreme moments to demand action from the men around them. The language Victor uses to describe the relationship between his mother and father supports this image of women’s passivity: in reference to his mother, he says that his father “came as a protecting spirit to the poor girl, who committed herself to his care.” Elizabeth, Justine, and Caroline all fit into this mold of the passive woman, which I read as a commentary on the roles women had to deal with at the time. For example, Elizabeth stands up for Justine’s innocence, she, like Justine, is completely helpless to stop the execution, something that only Victor could do. The first few chapters were been rife with foreshadowing. Victor constantly alludes to his imminent doom; for example, he calls his interest in natural philosophy “the genius that has regulated my fate” and “the fatal impulse that led to my ruin.” Victor’s narrative is rife with nostalgia for a happier time; he dwells on the fuzzy memories of his childhood, but even in the midst of these tranquil childhood recollections, he cannot ignore the signs of the tragedy that lies in his imminent future; he sees that each event, such as the death of his mother, is nothing but “an omen, as it were, of [his] future misery.” This heavy use of foreshadowing greatly adds to the suspense of the novel, leaving the reader wondering about the nature of the awful tragedy that has caused Victor so much grief. It also lends the novel its gothic romantic feel; words like “fate,” “fatal,” and “omen” reinforce the inevitability of Victor’s tragedy, gluing it firmly to the "the future is inescapable" ideas of romanticism. After that, around when Victor creates the monster, the book's tone shifts, putting Victor irrevocably on the way to tragedy. The creation of the monster is a grotesque act, not the triumph of scientific knowledge for which Victor had hoped. His nightmares reflect his horror at what he has done and also serve to foreshadow future events in the novel. The symbol of light appears around the same time. “From the midst of this darkness,” Victor says when describing his discovery of the secret of life, “a sudden light broke in upon me—a light so brilliant and wondrous.” Light is the ultimate symbol of knowledge; it clarifies, it illuminates. Just as light can illuminate, however, so can it blind and burn - it's a metaphor for the balance of knowledge and wonder that one must maintain to ensure one's own safety, something Victor completely ignores. The theme of secrecy also manifests itself in these chapters, as Victor’s studies draw him farther and farther away from those who love and advise him. He conducts his experiments alone, following the example of the ancient alchemists, who jealously guarded their secrets, and rejecting the openness of the new sciences. Victor displays an unhealthy obsession with all of his endeavors, and the labor of creating the monster takes its toll on him. It drags him into charnel houses in search of old body parts and, even more important, isolates him from the world of open social institutions. Victor’s reaction to his creation gives the book a haunting, and even more oppressive feel; the sense that the monster is inescapable, ever present, liable to appear at any moment and wreak havoc start dominating Victor's thoughts, something that, again, glues it firmly to romanticism.

Pearl Harbor

3:27 P.M. 5 minutes left in the school day. I turn my attention from my teacher and whatever topic she’s blathering on about – Pearl Harbor, I think - and focus in on the melting remnants of a Snickers bar that some shirtless runner dropped on the sidewalk around a half hour ago. As I stare intently at the candy bar’s disturbingly rapid decomposition, I come to the same realization I had come to at least two or three times earlier since the beginning of class. “Dear God, it’s hot in here”, I quietly say to no one in particular. And it was hot. Hotter than a jalapeño pepper in the Arizona desert. I continued to stare vacantly at the now liquefied chocolate for a moment, until I heard my name being called in a manner suggesting profound irritation on the part of the caller. “Would you please tell us what the direct result of the Pearl Harbor bombing was?” my teacher asked, giving me a rather severe look. “Hundreds of dead American soldiers,” I replied confidently. The teacher sighed out of irritation. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” she said. She hates it when I make fun of the wording of her questions. “But,” she continued, “if you insist on being technical, then give us the most major indirect result.” “Oh,” I said, smirking. “Well, we were plunged into World War II, of course.” Not a minute after I finished my sentence, there was a bang and a flash of bright light from the hall. But this was no ordinary, “chemistry experiment gone horribly awry” bang or flash. This was the kind of noise and light that could only be generated by a purpose-built explosive. We were being attacked.
I could hear nothing but panic coming from all around me. It felt like time was both at a standstill and going a mile a minute simultaneously. What was nearly completely silent mere moments ago had now turned in to what I can only describe as a cacophony. Suddenly, I heard the first distinct sound I had recognized since the initial explosion. A gunshot. Before I even had the chance to ponder the real gravity of this new sound, a young man in burst in and threatened to kill us. I wondered if he was joking. He fired off two rounds, painting the back wall with viscera. He was not joking; the utter insanity of the situation had become apparent.
After what felt like an eternity, the masked gunman informed us of his motive and intent. “None of you are going to die,” he said. “Well, except for the people that I already shot...” There was a brief pause. “Anyway, it’s not you I’m after. It’s the cops,” he explained. “I only shot those people so that the cops would show up quicker. I want to die in a shoot out.” I could not believe what I just heard. At least two people have died for the sake of some lunatic’s overly-elaborate suicide attempt. I wanted to call this kid out. Hell, I had to. So I did. “Listen, you psycho,” I started. But I never finished. There was another loud bang, and everything went black. I think the guy may have yelled at me, but I can’t be sure. I had forgotten rule number one of being a hostage: never criticize your captor.