This diction, like the subtitle and the epigraph, is meant to drape Frankenstein with
a seriousness of purpose not customary among popular gothic novels. To students of
British Romanticism, it is language that is characteristic of Percy Bysshe Shelley's
own practices in the prefatory matter to his poems. He frequently accentuates his
attempt to transcend through imaginative means the normative, or "ordinary," thoughts
and passions of humanity. See, for example, the first paragraph of the Preface to
"Alastor" (published in March 1816) or his explanation of the use of dramatic imagery
in the Preface to The Cenci (1820). The reader will discover that the uses of the
imagination are likewise to become a recurring theme in the novel.

With an uncanny artistry that must be considered deliberate, in this and the next
paragraph Mary Shelley internalizes within her own writing the imaginative process
by which Victor Frankenstein is first swept along by his scientific advances ("my
imagination was too much exalted," I:3:7 and note), then becomes concerned by their
obsessiveness ("[it] had taken an irresistible hold of my imagination," I:3:11 and
note), and finally finds himself haunted by his own terrifying creation ("I imagined
that the monster seized me," I:4:15). Throughout the novel, although the power of
the human imagination is universally underscored, its uses or effects are as much
deeply questioned as they are celebrated.

In her introduction Mary Shelley appears to be purposefully collapsing the customary
distinction between the curiosity of the scientist and the creative afflatus of the
writer, a design we see carried out as well in the novel itself. Following these introductory
materials, we will turn immediately, as yet a third example of the same elemental
process, to the imaginative enthusiasm with which Robert Walton foresees his polar
explorations (I:L1:2).

Mary Shelley's language here is resonant with the terms by which she describes the
educational milieu within the Frankenstein circle. Thus, it cannot be accidental that
she draws an implicit comparison between her own youthful career as a writer and that
of her most imaginative character, Henry Clerval, who is described as smitten with
a world of romance in both the 1818 (I:1:11) and 1831 (I:2:2) editions of the novel.

As in I:4:15 and note, Victor's imagination produces not a visionary paradise, but
a mental inferno.

This reticence is exactly what friendship is intended to transcend, if we take Walton's
notion of its value as a benchmark. He looks to an ideal friend "to regulate [his]
mind" (I:L2:2). Even Victor, in the revised text, conceives the value of a friend
as being "to perfectionate our weak and faulty natures" (I:L4:23). Victor's reserve,
however, negates this function of friendship, suggesting a limit to how far it is
able to surmount the barriers of what a later time might call ego-defences.

For whatever reason of self-presentation or nostalgia, Mary Shelley here magnifies
her love of and accessibility to an untrammelled natural environment. Her Scottish
experiences occupied less than two years of her early adolescence. Prior to that time
she was brought up in Somers Town, in that day located on the edge of the London metropolis,
where she could divide her interests between the countryside to the north, upon which
her father's house looked out, and the attractions of the city. Godwin's house itself
was anything but rural, maintaining an intensely urban and intellectually sophisticated
ambience throughout Mary Shelley's youth. There, as a child, she came into contact
with dozens of the principal luminaries of British culture at the beginning of the
nineteenth century. One of these was Samuel Taylor, whom she heard recite "The Rime
of the Ancient Mariner," a poem of particular resonance for Frankenstein, where it
is quoted twice—(see I:L2:6 and I:4:7)—and frequently functions allusively.

Even at this remove from the trial Victor unthinkingly puts his own claims to the
fore, reminding us of his skill as a story-teller at the expense of Justine's claims
as a victim of injustice. We cannnot forget that her very lack of eloquence has contributed
to her victimization.

We have already witnessed this physical manifestation of deep psychological conflict
in the cabin of Walton's ship, when Victor is first recovering from exposure to the
arctic elements (I:L4:10). A grieving Victor gnashes his teeth at the mere thought
of the Creature in II:1:6. When we next observe the phenomenon, it will be the Creature
who gnashes his teeth in response to the frustration of all his hopes (III:3:13 and
note). The prototype for this act is the Satan of Paradise Lost: compare VI.340.

Some critics have seen in these symptoms the transference to Victor of a mother's
postpartum physical reactions.

Victor's interruption of his story reminds us of its fictive nature and reintroduces
the problem of belief that will in numerous ways dominate the final pages of this
first volume. It also quietly prepares us for a major shift in the plot. In terms
of the novel's characterization, however, it might be read as Victor's way of reasserting
an urbane control over a narration (as well as a narrator) evidencing signs of dangerous
instability.