Frankenstein, from Prometheus to Epimetheus

Frankenstein takes place at the beginning of the 19th century, in a world largely shaped by Christian religion, and where Science begins to gain momentum. Like the myth of Icarus, the novel tells the story of a scientist attempting to equal God by creating life. This attempt fails and results in monstrosity. Written in the second half of the 19th century, the work questions the scientific endeavor within the context of Victorian thought, deeply marked by religiosity and reserve. The question of God is inseparable from Mary Shelley's historical context. Yet, strangely, the narrative never mentions God, nor any divine punishment or vengeance. God is not even introduced at the beginning of the novel as an entity to be equaled. Is His presence therefore fundamental to understanding the story?

If we transpose an atheistic reading of the work to contemporary society, the analysis changes radically. The historical and contextual references in the book are indeed quite vague, apart from a few specific dates, and struggle to anchor the story firmly in the culture of the time. The central question is no longer about competing with God, but about placing oneself in His position. The scientist is no longer Prometheus, but Epimetheus. Where Prometheus thinks before acting, analyzing and anticipating to reach divine status, Epimetheus reflects afterward. He acts on impulse, then wonders whether the consequences are acceptable.

This is the crux of the problem. The scientist did not question his actions beyond immediate creation. He did not inquire into the identity of his creature, its needs, or its prospects. Did he even perceive it as a living being? He seeks to create life but finds himself terrified by what he has engendered. But is the creation itself evil? The creature? Or his own lack of preparation? The Doctor prefers to blame the monster rather than examine his own behavior. Although he modifies his attitude throughout the narrative, he never manages to recognize the humanity of the Beast. He obeys her only under duress. At this stage, one might wonder if it is already too late, given that each has become entrenched in a fixed vision of the other. Indeed, toward the end, the creature demonstrates greater lucidity and humanity than the scientist: learning of the Doctor's death, she announces her intention to disappear and end her own days. She understands of her own accord her incompatibility with the world and the weight of the experiment's failure.

In a truly divine approach, the scientist would have reflected on all these aspects. Even without definitive answers, since this was an unprecedented situation, asking these questions would have allowed him to foresee and anticipate certain scenarios: learning speech and reading, managing the gaze of others, presenting his creation to the world, and so on. In the novel, he prefers to flee before the abyss and the colossal work that remains. For, at the creature's awakening, the Doctor's project is unfinished. If the project had been limited to the mere creation of life, he should at least have planned a way to stop it at one stage or another. The overall project should have included the social integration of the creation.

This is the entire situation of the book: the scientist acts, creates the monster, then fears it and flees. The creature is left alone, forced to elevate and adapt herself. The entire plot stems from this. The Beast must learn to understand the world in which she evolves. She makes mistakes, does not possess the same reference points as humans. But throughout the narrative, her humanity emerges. The creature's inner narrative is that of awakening and learning about the world, as it might be experienced by any child or conscious creation. It is an initiatory journey. We find the stages of humanity: learning speech, becoming aware of oneself through the gaze of others, until reaching the need for intimate interaction and the desire to find a counterpart. In this sense, it is the fable of the natural man, a living being developing without the control or framework of society.

Is the monster fundamentally evil? Is he not simply in a state of frustration, an emotion children learn to manage? His wickedness seems to result from a conflict between his intellectual and adaptive capacities, vastly overdeveloped, and an emotional maturity born of security and exchange, which is, for its part, far below normal. Ultimately, he follows the same developmental stages as a child, but with childish maturity and far greater capacity for action.

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