Frankenstein; Or, The Modern Prometheus

								

[Transcriber’s Note: This text was produced from a photo-reprint of the
1818 edition.]

                             FRANKENSTEIN;



                                  OR,



                         THE MODERN PROMETHEUS.

    IN THREE VOLUMES.

    VOL. I.



    London:



    PRINTED FOR

    LACKINGTON, HUGHES, HARDING, MAVOR, & JONES,

    FINSBURY SQUARE.



    1818.



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    Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay

    To mould me man? Did I solicit thee

    From darkness to promote me?——



                                  Paradise Lost.



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                          TO

                     WILLIAM GODWIN,

    AUTHOR OF POLITICAL JUSTICE, CALEB WILLIAMS, &c.

                      THESE VOLUMES

               Are respectfully inscribed

                           BY

                       THE AUTHOR.

PREFACE.

The event on which this fiction is founded has been supposed, by Dr.
Darwin, and some of the physiological writers of Germany, as not of
impossible occurrence. I shall not be supposed as according the remotest
degree of serious faith to such an imagination; yet, in assuming it as
the basis of a work of fancy, I have not considered myself as merely
weaving a series of supernatural terrors. The event on which the
interest of the story depends is exempt from the disadvantages of a mere
tale of spectres or enchantment. It was recommended by the novelty of
the situations which it developes; and, however impossible as a physical
fact, affords a point of view to the imagination for the delineating of
human passions more comprehensive and commanding than any which the
ordinary relations of existing events can yield.
I have thus endeavoured to preserve the truth of the elementary
principles of human nature, while I have not scrupled to innovate
upon their combinations. The Iliad, the tragic poetry of
Greece,—Shakespeare, in the Tempest and Midsummer Night’s
Dream,—and most especially Milton, in Paradise Lost, conform to this
rule; and the most humble novelist, who seeks to confer or receive
amusement from his labours, may, without presumption, apply to prose
fiction a licence, or rather a rule, from the adoption of which so many
exquisite combinations of human feeling have resulted in the highest
specimens of poetry.
The circumstance on which my story rests was suggested in casual
conversation. It was commenced, partly as a source of amusement, and
partly as an expedient for exercising any untried resources of mind.
Other motives were mingled with these, as the work proceeded. I am by no
means indifferent to the manner in which whatever moral tendencies exist
in the sentiments or characters it contains shall affect the reader; yet
my chief concern in this respect has been limited to the avoiding of the
enervating effects of the novels of the present day, and to the