Frankenstein and Philosophy

by Michaud, Nicolas

  These writings awaken his ambition: “Under the guidance of my new preceptors I entered with the greatest diligence into the search of the philosopher’s stone and the elixir of life” (pp. 298–99). It’s because of such overly ambitious, and to a certain extent also unnecessary and harmful, knowledge we can gain from books that Rousseau declares: “I hate books; they merely teach us to talk of what we do not know.” He recommends that children should read only one single book: Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe (pp. 161–62). He considers it useful because it teaches us how to survive in nature.

  The purpose of Rousseau’s philosophy is to highlight man’s dependency on nature. Therefore, the foremost task is to educate man in alignment with nature: It’s the only thing he can’t influence or change. Rousseau’s views couldn’t be more contrary to Victor’s quest to master life and death, which is an attempt to conquer nature. Although Rousseau belongs to the leading thinkers of the Enlightenment, he was a harsh critic of their belief in progress. His ideas on education and his optimistic view on man were revolutionary, but his expectations concerning the beneficial effects on culture and scientific progress on human nature were rather wary. (Given the horrible outcomes of Victor’s little project, it isn’t difficult to imagine a triumphant Rousseau knowingly shaking his head: ‘Told you.’).

  Rousseau’s philosophy represents an alternative to Dr. Frankenstein’s. Victor coolly pursues his questionable research only to be shocked and repelled by its consequences. Rather than employing pure (and as Victor’s example illustrates, cold) reason, man should follow his heart and compassion. What modern science has achieved is quite nice, but we shouldn’t forget that it takes more than science to raise responsible children. . . . it takes compassion and perhaps even some philosophy.

  _________________

  1Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Émile: Or, Treatise on Education (Prometheus, 2003), p. 1.

  2Jean-Jacques Rousseau, The Social Contract (Prometheus, 1988), p. 1.

  11

  When Creations Go Bad

  SKYLER KING

  Imagine . . .

  Smoke permeates the air like ink released in water. Fire, like a raging, undiscovered river, swallows and bombards everything in sight. Screams, infant-like screams, bludgeon the volcanic air—that horrendous sound plays upon your cheeks. It grates your ears. The heinous cackling of the fire drowns out the sound of the buildings mourning while their ashen tears are blown from their facades like pixie dust. In an instant, you see yourself as those breaking, relenting buildings: where once you stood strong and seemingly indomitable, now waves of emotion and circumstance ruthlessly submerge you in the inescapable, crippling fury of inferno.

  The town—your town—quickly evaporates.

  Everything you worked so hard to accomplish, the safety you worked so hard to maintain and create—gone. Disintegrated. Consumed, like the town, in a flash of angry fire.

  As you stand on the street, devastated by the upheaval of your entire community, you detect movement in the distance. You turn, cautiously, and notice a freakish, monstrous figure ambling forth from amidst the flames.

  That abomination caused the destruction of your world. That detestable creature, bathing in the maelstrom of inferno, is a fully self-aware and self-evolving android created and planted into society by your reclusive neighbor.

  Well, you think, my neighbor always wanted to replicate Victor Frankenstein’s experiment—and I guess he did. His heartless monster, like Victor’s, has ruined us all, inexorably destroying everything in its path. I heard that blasted android complaining about “experiencing emotions and love” just last week. Now look what happened. For this, that hermit neighbor of mine undoubtedly deserves the same fate as this town.

  While the few remaining buildings finally succumb to the tyranny of the android’s flames, your conscience whispers, “But does he deserve to share that fate?”

  Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places

  Immediately, you probably think, “Of course that bumbling idiot deserves to burn, just like the town!” However, think about your gut reaction for a moment. What factors went into arriving at that conclusion? Are you certain that your neighbor cannot be exonerated in any way? Are you certain that he undeniably deserves to die because he, like Victor Frankenstein, decided to become a mad scientist and create something monstrous and potentially dangerous? From a rigid absolutist perspective, the answer to these questions is undoubtedly yes. But is that fair?

  Many people familiar with some version of Frankenstein like to blame Victor for all the terrible acts committed by his monster—much like you would probably blame your neighbor in this scenario. Their reasoning? “If Victor would’ve listened to the creature instead of ignoring him,” they say, “then all those people wouldn’t have died and the monster wouldn’t have been a ‘monster,’ per se.” Essentially, the majority of Franken-fans and critics think that the monster’s condition exponentially worsened as a result of Victor’s neglect.

  Ah, but that thought raises more questions! Why is it Victor’s fault—or even your neighbor’s fault? Why can’t it be the monster’s fault? Perhaps one of the biggest reasons for avoiding placing blame on the monster, in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, is that the monster is oppressively lost in terms of its identity, its social expectations, and its place in the world. These questions or personal struggles of the monster are, from a psychological perspective, generally paramount for any sense of self-efficacy and self-worth.

  According to the psychologist Abraham Maslow (1908–1970), all humans (and we can assume re-animated humans too) innately possess a hierarchy of needs; this hierarchy of needs forms its foundation at the basic psychological and physiological factors requisite for a comfortable and healthy life (such as safety, food, shelter, love, and sex) and moves to “higher” or more complex needs (such as prestige, planning and anticipating the future outcomes of one’s actions, and success) once the basic needs are fulfilled.

  In the monster’s case, it experienced an incredible deprivation in the basic “love need.” Victor, by refusing to acknowledge his creation and abandoning it, showed that he didn’t love it and that he thought it could only be a monster—basically, that his creation was worthless and only fit to be hated. Following Maslow’s theory, we see that fulfilling the “love need” consumed the monster’s thinking so much so that all it could do was try to gratify or satiate that “building-block need.” Since Victor refused to teach the monster to be “like its creator,” all the monster wanted was a freaky, hybrid monster-human wife to accompany it. Sounds reasonable enough—to a crazy person. Anyway, who could have presumably allayed the monster’s “love need”? . . . Victor Frankenstein. Who could’ve spared your town, presumably, by providing the android with love of some sort? . . . Your neighbor.

  So, it seems that even if the monster or android was “looking for love in all the wrong places,” Victor and your neighbor could at the very least have lessened the monster’s suffering and made it feel welcomed into the world—which means, so far, it appears as if your gut reaction to your psycho neighbor’s whacked-out android stands correct. It also means that it seems like the absolutist’s response of unconditional judgment is correct. Don’t officially seal your neighbor’s fate just yet, though.

  The Android Did It! It Was Just a Power Play! (Maybe)

  A bigger issue than psychological deprivation is at work here—at least when it comes to addressing the universal problem of Shelley’s Frankenstein. By blaming Victor for the monster’s actions, whether it be because of not fulfilling basic needs for a healthy individual or animosity towards it in general, we assume that the monster bears no moral responsibility—or, if we do assume any moral responsibility, we think that the harm caused by Victor supersedes what little moral responsibility the monster possessed. Again, the reason many people don’t feel the need to assign any moral responsibility to the monster is because it didn’t really know any better—and couldn’t have known better, given Victo
r’s attitude and actions towards the monster. Remember, if you are a die-hard absolutist considering judgments of right and wrong, then maybe these questions don’t even matter. Don’t they seem important, though? Don’t they seem worth considering?

  With that said, when can one person reasonably assign moral responsibility to another sentient, thinking creature, or at least expect that creature to account for its actions? To help answer this question, let’s first look at humans. Adults don’t assign much moral responsibility to kids. In fact, the law considers children under the age of seven to be incapable of committing a crime simply because children don’t understand the permanence and full consequences of their actions. Psychologist Jean Piaget (1896–1980) would definitely stand by this cushion in the law because, according to his theory of cognitive development, children typically don’t begin developing true logic skills until they reach seven to eleven years old, which he calls the concrete operational stage.

  Furthermore, people, in general, don’t reach the pinnacle of their abilities to reason, understand, and engage the world until they reach the formal operational stage, which involves abstract reasoning and much greater problem-solving skills. Sadly, some people never reach the formal operational stage. However, Piaget suggests that people typically hit this stage around adolescence and into adulthood. Again, this is a typical or generic model; obviously, some people defy Piaget’s trajectory. Development isn’t always systematic and predictable, but his theory serves as a decent approximating tool. In the law, people who are eighteen years of age or older are fully and completely capable of understanding their actions and can rightfully incur punishment accordingly.

  Does Shelley’s portrayal of Frankenstein’s monster fit the definition of the “formal operational stage”? While the answer often seems elusive, the fact that the monster constantly says things like, “Create another one like me and I will leave you and the world alone forever,” shows that the monster realizes there is more than one way to act, that it can modify itself and its behavior at any time. Moreover, Shelley shows the monster threatening Victor, delivering on those threats, and fathoming the permanence and concept of death (because many children truly don’t comprehend death). Thus, it seems very reasonable to assume that the monster could have done otherwise, but deliberately chose to do what he did.

  This also applies to our opening scenario about your neighbor’s android. Assuming that the android is a fully self-aware and self-evolving entity, we can at least reasonably blame both the creator and the creation for the terrible and dastardly deeds that transpired. (And, if that’s true, then we must also wonder about God and who shares the blame in that instance of creator versus creation.) Since robots’ taking over the world is a growing paranoia, we should just assume that the android decided to raze the town as some sort of ruse to power, or power play, right? Well, let’s not be ridiculous. Let’s just stick with this broad and greatly disappointing assumption: while we like morality to designate “proper” answers, it, unfortunately, rarely provides easy or black-and-white scenarios. And, for that reason, perhaps an absolutist perspective doesn’t always work.

  Revolutionary Repartee, Relatively Speaking

  Excluding extreme scenarios, when it comes to normal moral reasoning, you traditionally find two prominent camps to determine whether something is right or wrong: moral absolutists and moral relativists. Moral absolutists maintain that a general principle of morally right and wrong acts applies without exception. For example, a moral absolutist might say, “Lying, of any form, is morally wrong.” So, from an absolutist perspective, even telling kids that Santa Claus brings them their presents on Christmas Eve represents an immoral act.

  Moral relativists, on the other hand, argue that multiple perspectives and paradigms should be considered before making any sort of lasting judgment. For instance, a moral relativist might think lying represents a generally wrong act, but telling kids about Santa Claus, since our culture dictates that it is acceptable to lie about Santa, does not constitute a wrong act.

  Some philosophers, however, don’t think the concept of morality even exists! They question morality incessantly and they typically think it’s an artificial convention with no permanent or lasting consequences. Perhaps the most damning assault exemplifying this dissenting voice came from a German philosopher by the name of Friedrich Nietzsche (1844–1900), who essentially claimed that morality is a sham—that it only serves to suppress those superior beings who might threaten the balance of power in society. Nietzsche went as far as asserting that morality is inherently tyrannical. If his ideas ever became widely accepted, it would completely alter the psychological landscape of humanity, for sure. So, not only did the non-black-and-white issue of morality perturb Nietzsche, but he also seemed to consider the idea of enforcing morality to be a travesty.

  Livin’ the Herd Life

  Friedrich Nietzsche, in Beyond Good and Evil, expressed some of the most audacious claims ever made against morality and God. He claimed that Christianity—because it teaches self-destruction, self-sacrifice, and self-imposed servitude—created and perpetuates a herd mentality. This herd mentality has become so ingrained and incorporated into our existence that it has become natural. He called this herd mentality slave morality, which means that people surrender their power and will to a few in command out of a sense of imperative obedience—or a compulsive need to obey someone or something.

  If such a thing as a moral injustice existed to Nietzsche, it would be accepting any sense of morality. Ironically, if we transpose Nietzsche’s beliefs onto the story of Frankenstein and the belief in God, we find that apparently no one has any moral responsibility because we’re all supposedly livin’ the herd life! We can’t blame the monster or Victor in any way! But Nietzsche wanted us to believe that God and Christianity oppressed people by robbing them of the power to truly live, which leads us, at last, to consider the concept of morality.

  Morality or No Morality: That is the Question

  A major difficulty for morality is that the idea of a moral law seems contradictory to the very nature of morality. Morality can only exist if an agent is free to choose between the morally right or morally wrong action, but a law seems to imply that we aren’t free. If Victor’s monster didn’t have a choice (hypothetically speaking)—if it literally couldn’t do anything but make Victor’s life a living hell—then the notion of moral discussions about this novel is completely pointless. However, our society thrives on unwritten rules and laws pertaining to immoral actions. Think about what this discussion means: morality is the chosen and a commandment is the forced, so asserting the existence of moral commandments contradicts the fundamental necessity and idea of morality.

  But we need morality to live together peacefully, don’t we? Otherwise people would begin killing like Victor’s monster, and burning the town to the ground like the android at the beginning of this chapter. If morality didn’t exist, everyone would start devouring their neighbors’ faces! Okay, probably not that severe, but this exaggerated theme remains incredibly common in dystopian literature. This duality, the apparent need for morality and yet the ineptitudes and conflicting nature of morality, represents the fundamental problem of morality, of moral reasoning, and of ethical discussions.

  “But does he deserve to share that fate?” your conscience demands.

  If something like morality is so confusing, troubling, and sometimes contradictory by its very nature, is it possible that the very idea is false? Some people, like Nietzsche, when asked the question, “Morality or no morality?” have responded, “That is the question,” and abandoned morality. Thankfully, morality, unlike the story of Victor’s life and the life of his deformed and loveless monster, is not entirely hopeless and destitute. Existentialist philosophers, such as Jean-Paul Sartre (1905–1980), believed that no objective foundation existed concerning our moral resolutions; each person simply decides which path is right and must accept the consequences. As ethicist James Sheppard has said, �
�Ethics is and ought to be a contentious subject.”1 For that reason, dare to do something different, something radical: dare to believe that, in ethical discussions, the notion of one correct answer might not realistically exist. Perhaps more than one solution stands equally as viable as another one. In case you were wondering, this just so happens to be a relativistic stance concerning the issue of morality.

  The Final Verdict: Guilty or Not Guilty?

  This might be a slightly harsh way of painting the dilemma here, but the difference between absolutists and relativists can sometimes be the difference between the letter of the law and the spirit of the law. The letter of the law says that no matter what happens, the punishment for everyone committing the same type of crime is always the same; the spirit of the law says that we should consider what happened, the motivations of those involved in the crimes, and whether or not the act was done under compulsion. In fact, we sort of have a relativistic paradigm built into our legal system: mens rea, a crucial concept in criminal cases, basically means “Person A must be shown to have had reasonable intent to do x as well as the knowledge that x was wrong.”

  If we apply mens rea (the ‘guilty mind’ test used in criminal trials) to Victor, his monster, and the android, then it doesn’t seem realistic to assert an absolutist morality—to assert that they’re all equally blameworthy. But perhaps it’s possible that the absolutist perspective is true. Regardless of whether or not the monster and the android were suffering from a deprivation of the basic “love need” or felt unimaginably hated, an absolutist perspective suggests that they are both guilty; an absolutist morality would also say that Victor’s guilty, too, because he brought about the deaths of several people. On the other hand, a relativistic morality would say we should consider more than mere occurrences if we are going to make a judgment.