Mary Shelley's Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus presents a profound inquiry into the nature of monstrosity, posing a question that echoes through literary history: who is the true monster? While the creature, a being of immense power and tragic origin, is often cast as the villain, a closer examination reveals that his monstrous acts are largely a consequence of his creator's abandonment and society's relentless prejudice. Victor Frankenstein, consumed by ambition and subsequently by fear and revulsion, becomes the architect of his own and the creature's damnation, his moral failings far outweighing the creature's reactive violence. Therefore, the true monster in Frankenstein is not the being itself, but the societal and paternal neglect that breeds its despair and rage.
Victor Frankenstein's initial act of creation marks a profound moral failure. Driven by an obsessive desire to transcend natural limits and achieve god-like power, Victor dedicates himself to "unhallowed arts" without considering the ethical implications of his endeavor. He spends sleepless nights piecing together his creation, driven by a hubristic vision of bestowing life. However, upon its animation, his reaction is not awe or paternal concern, but abject horror. He flees from his creation, leaving the newly sentient being utterly alone, a stark act of abandonment that serves as the foundational trauma. This initial rejection is crucial; it deprives the creature of any guidance, nurture, or even a name, leaving him to navigate a hostile world with no understanding of his own existence or his place within it. His first conscious memories are of isolation and abandonment, a profound psychological scar inflicted by the very being who brought him into existence.
The creature's subsequent actions, while undeniably horrific, are deeply rooted in his desperate longing for connection and his encounters with human cruelty. His early attempts at interaction are met with fear and violence, most notably his encounter with the DeLacey family. Despite his benevolent intentions and his efforts to learn human language and customs by secretly observing them, his appearance ultimately triggers panic and rejection. Old man DeLacey, though blind and thus potentially less prejudiced by appearance, is still terrified by his touch. This repeated experience of being ostracized and attacked for his form, rather than his actions, fuels his growing bitterness. His plea to Victor for a female companion, a desperate attempt to alleviate his profound loneliness, is met with Victor's horrified refusal. This refusal, driven by Victor's fear of creating another monster, is a betrayal of his creator's responsibility and seals the creature's fate, pushing him further into despair and vengeance.
Victor's own culpability escalates as he perpetuates his rejection and actively contributes to the cycle of violence. He dedicates himself to hunting his creation rather than seeking understanding or attempting to rectify his initial mistake. His narrative, when recounted to Walton, is a testament to his self-absorption; he focuses on his suffering and his pursuit of revenge, rarely expressing genuine remorse for his role in the creature's torment. He frames himself as the victim, yet it is his inaction and his subsequent pursuit that directly lead to the deaths of William, Justine, and Clerval. Each death is a direct consequence of the creature's rage, a rage born from abandonment and the denial of empathy. Even in his final moments, Victor remains consumed by hatred, his dying wish to see his creation destroyed, rather than to offer any form of reconciliation or atonement.
Ultimately, the true monstrosity lies in the failure of empathy and responsibility. Victor's ambition blinds him to the ethical demands of creation, and his fear and disgust lead him to abdicate his paternal duties. Society, represented by the villagers and the DeLaceys, mirrors Victor's prejudice, judging the creature solely on his grotesque appearance and reacting with violence and ostracism. The creature, by contrast, exhibits a capacity for learning, for empathy (as seen in his kindness to the woodcutters), and for profound sorrow. His monstrous deeds are reactive, born from a desperate need for acceptance and a soul-crushing experience of rejection. He becomes what he is forced to be: an outcast driven to extreme measures by the very people who should have offered him compassion. Shelley masterfully uses the creature's actions to expose the hypocrisy of a society that condemns outward appearances while harboring deep-seated prejudices, and a creator who prioritizes his own pride over the well-being of his creation.