If one reads back from this point into the previous paragraph, it is evident that
Victor has attempted in some sense to change the subject. His first vocative, set
in the past tense of his return to his native land, is fraught with excess, even deranged,
emotion. Victor quickly displaces it with a new, contemporary, seemingly spontaneous
effusion that, being conventionally patriotic, has the virtue of concealing the all-too
bared soul of his past self and repressing its neurotic symptoms.

An old form, synonymous with county—or, in the case of Switzerland, with canton.

This nightmare, where the Creature mutates into Elizabeth and then into Victor's mother
Caroline, offers a fascinating insight into the extremity of Victor's psychological
state. It has provided psychoanalytic critics with rich material for sometimes highly
imaginative interpretations.

Coppet, a northern suburb of Geneva, and in 1816 the home of both Germaine de Staël
and August Wilhelm Schlegel.

Ordinarily in the writings of the English Romantics, and particularly in the contemporaneous
poems of Byron (Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto III) and Percy Shelley ("Mont Blanc"),
a world of never-ending process is held up as far preferable to one of known or dogmatic
limitation—in the succinct formulation of Wordsworth, "The budding rose above the
rose full blown" (The Prelude, XI.121). Here Mary Shelley quietly signals the dangers
of engaging oneself totally in such a realm of "discovery and wonder."

Mary Shelley seems to understand with acuity a phenomenon that could only have just
come into general awareness in her time. We now recognize that a paradigm shift had
occured in the previous generation, one forcing the "life sciences" into a disciplinary
partnership with the physical sciences. From that point forward all notions of distinct
animistic or quasi-magical differences separating them disappear. Furthermore, under
this conceptual format nineteenth-century scientific inquiry increasingly reduces
the processes of life themselves to merely chemical reactions.

Questions of communication that have been playing on the periphery of the novel on
several levels suddenly here move to the center in a stark form. Justine, unlike Victor
(or Walton?), does not tell her story well enough to ensure its belief.

Early nineteenth-century English anti-Catholic prejudice stressed the hierarchical
conformity of the Roman Church as against the individual self-witnessing or examination
of conscience that the growing evangelical movement especially emphasized. Yet if
this confessor is manipulative and reminds one of that staple of Gothic fiction, the
obdurate inquisitor, he seems to stand in contrast to the earlier confessor, who acted
as a kindly mender of family fences to convince her mother after the deaths of her
other children to take Justine back into her home (I:5:6). Of course, he could be
the same priest, only apparently kind in his offices, but essentially superstitious
in interpreting God's will and actively supporting firm social structures to curb
errant individual desire.

Mary Shelley contorts the plot somewhat to force this detail upon it. This is of a
piece with her concentration on individual responsibility, but it also stresses the
element of social coercion that brings about this miscarriage of justice. That Justine
will prevaricate in a situation where Victor cannot bring himself to speak the truth
once more underscores how relative is the nature of truth in this novel.

It seems never to cross Victor's mind that he might not "employ" his discovery or
even that he might collaborate with others in its practical application. As the paragraph
goes on, it is also clear that the number of options Victor considers for his discovery
is very limited. To invoke the terminology of a later day, rather than publishing
his discovery, he decides to author it.