Lessons from Literary Monsters

When I was a little kid, I had a book called The Monster at the End of this Book.  Before I was capable of

reading it myself, I wore out my parents, grandparents, babysitters, and any adult within arm's reach with pleadings to read it to me.  Sweating, crying, and clawing at the pages, the main character, Grover from Sesame Street, adamantly begs his readers to stop turning the pages because a terrifying monster threateningly awaits us at the end of the book.  The monster, of course, turns out to be Grover himself.  And when he realizes how irrational his fear has been, he heaves a huge sigh of relief.

No matter how many times this book was read to me and no matter how many times I eventually read it to myself, it never failed to delight me.  I knew it backwards and forwards; and of course I knew the final outcome.  But it didn't matter because it always made me giggle.

Years later I found myself sweating, crying, and clawing at the pages of a college syllabus for an English Literature class I was required to take.  One of the books we were mandated to read was Mary Shelley's Frankenstein.  My initial reaction was, "What???  You have got to be kidding me!"  I don't do science fiction at all; and I certainly don't read science fiction that is particularly difficult to digest; and I definitely don't do mythical or fictional creatures and monsters - unless, of course, they are harmless, furry, little blue ones based on a puppet.  Because of this novel (and the other less than desireable pieces of literature I was going to be forced to read for this class), I immediately wanted to drop the course.  After about an hour of swearing like a truck driver with my face turning red and sweat running down my neck, I decided to own up to my responsibilities.  I hit the campus bookstore and purchased my copy of Frankenstein.

Mary Shelley perfectly summed up my feelings about reading Frankenstein in the very book I began to embark upon:  "I was overcome by gloom and misery, and often reflected I had better seek death than desire to remain in a world which to me was replete with this wretchedness" (183).  Okay, maybe I am being a little overly dramatic here; but I was not feeling good about this one.  Surprisingly, however, as I began to read the book, I found my disdain for the novel to be softening.  While Dr. Frankenstein was creating a monster out of human remains, Mary Shelley was creating a believer out of me.  I was actually enjoying the book!  Frankenstein does not read like a science fiction novel at all.  Yes, the science aspect certainly has it's place in the novel; but I read it as something more than that.  I found it to be a tale about the need to belong and a desire to have a place and purpose in society and about the madness one acquires in the pursuit of success.  And I loved it!

We've all been told not to judge a book by its cover.  But in all honesty, I do it and I can't help it sometimes.  It's part of human nature.  I didn't want to read Frankenstein because I had unfairly judged it too quickly.  I had been told by fellow classmates and peers that it is a terribly boring science fiction novel, and it's impossible to read.  I allowed myself to be persuaded by other peoples' feelings thereby creating my own irrational fears about the novel.  I had feared the monster at the beginning, middle, and end of the book.  I had feared the monster that was this book.  But just like Grover from my old childhood favorite, I too realized how irrational my fears had been.  And I not only heaved a sigh of relief but also a sigh of humility.