What is the Creature…and what does it look like? To understand that, we will have to deal with the Creature’s relationship to nothingness. The Creature is dead, risen from oblivion. The Creature is, we can note, nameless. He knows what his name should have been, telling his Creator: “I ought to be thy Adam; but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed” (Vol II, Chapter 2, 1818). His Creator refuses to grant him human sympathy, and thus he has no name (unless the vacuum tempt readers to fill it by using the name nearest at hand, “Frankenstein!”); he is cast out like Lucifer beyond the pale. Numerous continuations of the story from our database name the Creature “Adam,” focusing their attention on his individuality…but his origin story itself refused that to him.
When Mary Shelley attends the first play adaptation of her novel, Richard Brinsley Peake’s Presumption in 1823, she notes the actor, T.P. Cooke, who plays the Creature, is listed as playing “——–,” a blank line. The play itself is popular—“lo & behold, I found myself famous,” Shelley writes after seeing it—but the adaptation makes a hash of Shelley’s original story. Still, she enjoys herself, and the “breathless” reaction of the audience, and especially approves of listing the Creature with no name, remarking: “this nameless mode of naming the unnamable is rather good.” For all its faults, the play had hit the mark in that instance. In Whale’s preeminent 1931 film version, Boris Karloff is not listed. Instead, though the Creature is definitively listed as “The Monster,” he is played by “?,” a question mark, confounding identification. In Whale’s 1935 “Bride of Frankenstein,” “The Monster” is now “Karloff” (so famous he only needs the one name, like Frankenstein), but “The Monster’s Mate” is now listed as a question mark. The actress who plays the Bride is listed…as she plays “Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley” in the opening frame sequence as well as the new Creature, a move which opens a new line of inquiry into what to name the nameless monster. (Is the monster in drag?) What to name the Creature hangs like a question over any adaptation.
The Creature, in the book, might also be described as, in an uncanny way, bodiless–without a single frame or form that can be recognized as such. His body is a collection of disparate things stitched into a new whole, a strange amalgamation. Victor informs us that “the unhallowed damps of the grave,” “charnel houses”, the “dissecting room and the slaughter-house furnished many of my materials” (Vol. 1, Chapter III, 1831). The being is made “gigantic in stature; that is to say, about eight feet in height, and proportionally large.” No one body could furnish what was needed, and parts of many men, and animals, must make the new whole. The Creature is not an old body reawakening, a zombie, but a new thing, sui generis. What is it?What do we call it?
And the Creature is faceless. When Victor beholds the Creature upon awakening, he tells us what he sees is indescribable: “Oh! No mortal could support the horror of that countenance” (Vol 1, Chapter IV, 1831). He ran from his Creation but the Creature came to find him and “his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me.” Why can’t they be called eyes? What can they be called? Isn’t Victor the one who put them in—did he not use eyes? What should we name them instead? When Victor encounters the Creature again on the glaciers below Mont Blanc (which is “white mountain” but also contains a cross-language pun: “blank mountain,” the Creatures natural abode), he claims the “unearthly ugliness [of its countenance] rendered it almost too horrible for human eyes.” What is a face that cannot be looked at? A human face, no matter how disfigured, burned or scarred, may not meet social standards for beauty, but is just a face that may be looked on…and its wearer loved for who he or she is. So, what could Victor possibly mean? The Creature, in some sense, has no face…not one you can look at….
One of Percy Shelley’s most famous poems is called “Mont Blanc,” a poem which he described as “an attempt to imitate[…] untameable wildness and inaccessible solemnity.” The mountain is a famous site at the time for tourists to experience the sublime, the presence of the indescribable. Percy Shelley’s poem is written in 1816, at the same time Mary Shelley is composing Frankenstein. She chooses the site the two had visited on their travels that year for the same reason he does: because it raises the specter of the sublime, the aesthetic experience of overwhelming feeling and the concomitant inability of the understanding to comprehend what it apprehends. The largeness of the Creature points toward the discourse of the sublime, but its namelessness and facelessness are also sublime features–for the sublime is marked by obscurity and the unknowable. The Creature is (un)defined as sublime, outside of boundaries of the human and the monstrous; it is something which cannot be classified.
So, to return to the first question, what does it look like? How can it be shown on the stage, in book illustrations, in book covers, and on the screen? Language can avoid showing us what Victor sees, but the spectacle of illustrations and other presentations cannot hide the Creature forever from our eyes. Largeness, human deformity, and the long history of depicting monsters comes into play, but the nature of Mary Shelley’s Creature itself—its “notness”—defies final interpretation as a spectacle.
To deal with one of the most powerful categories invoked, the monstrous, we can note that in Shelley’s novel the Creature is called a monster, but not only a monster. That is only one of its many categories: creature, demon, miserable wretch, devil, and many more. The Creature comes out of, and shares Byronic characteristics with, the vampire. While there had been hints of vampiric elements in earlier works, such as in Coleridge’s poem “Christabel” in 1800, the first “vampire tale” in English literature is John Polidori’s “The Vampyre,” published in New Monthly Magazine in 1819, and in book form later that year.
Polidori’s tale is built on Byron’s unpublished vampiric “fragment” that he wrote as his entry in the famous “ghost story compact” of 1816 which had prompted Mary Shelley to come up with the idea for Frankenstein. Polidori’s story was published, both in the magazine and in its initial book runs, as written “by Lord Byron” himself, infuriating both authors and convincing Byron to append his tale, called just “Fragment of a Novel,” to Mazeppa: A Poem, also published in 1819. “Lord Ruthven,” the character of Polidori’s tale, borrowed its name from Lady Caroline Lamb’s thinly-veiled caricature of Byron in her 1816 novel Glenarvon. Her “Ruthven” is not a vampire, but might as well have been. Byron is figured, all too easily, as a monster, preying on the weak.
Mary Shelley’s now-famous Byronic novel proceeds the vampire into print. Yet the vampire helps to spread her work, first by linking it with Byron’s fame, but also by promoting the adaptation of her work into a play. Polidori’s tale would be adapted first as a French Melodrama, Le Vampire, by Charles Nodier in 1820, performed in Paris. Dramatist James Robinson Planche adapted Nodier’s play into a successful English version, The Vampyre, also in 1820, at the Lyceum English Opera House. The first stage adaptation of Frankenstein would appear at the Lyceum, Presumption!: or, the Fate of Frankenstein, by Richard Brinsely Peake in 1823, with the same actor, T.P. Cooke, that played “Lord Ruthven” in the vampire play now playing the Creature. As Douglas William Hoehn writes: “Peake and the Lyceum manager, Samuel James Arnold, could not have been unimpressed by the extraordinary success of James Robinson Planche’s The Vampire…[which] thrilled audiences not only with its macabre motifs but with several novelties in special effects and stagecraft. The adaptation of Mary Shelley’s novel was both a boost for Peake’s career and a significant step in the growing trend toward spectacular and terrifying melodramas on the London stage.” The success of the drama of The Vampyre promoted the success of Peake’s adaptation of Shelley’s novel. Peake’s success is a likely reason for the revival of The Vampire at the end of the 1823 season, with Cooke again in the starring role (Hoehn). The two are connected as “monster tales.” But the Creature is not a vampire, not that kind of monster, not fully. The Creature is related to, but resists, such categorization.
It (that blank thing) is something else, and this new kind of monster would quickly propagate and spread, like an unknown contagion with no known cure. The sensation of Peake’s version, which Mary Shelley herself saw in 1823, prompted at least five others that same year, including serious adaptations at the Coburg and Royalty theaters, and three parodies, including Frank-in-Steam; or the Modern Promise to Pay (Hoehn). H.M. Milner’s popular Frankenstein, or the Demon of Switzerland is the second version on stage and its venue, the Coburg, is larger than the Opera House. Milner would again successfully adapt the story in Frankenstein; or The Man and the Monster, which would appear at the Coburg in 1826, and declares itself “Founded principally on Mrs. Shelley’s singular Work ” (Front pages, Milner) and on the successful French drama The Magician and the Monster (Le Magicien et le Monstre), also from 1826. Frankenstein, perhaps initially staged because of the success of Polidori’s tale as a drama, appearing first in Paris, then in London, had crossed back across the Channel again for an increasing number of successful French versions of her story. These popular adaptations of her sympathetic monster predate Victor Hugo’s 1831 The Hunchback of Notre Dame, making it also a source for his important treatment of the “monster” as pitiable outcast.
When she attended Peake’s play, what kind of monster did Mary Shelley see on the stage? Shelley noted the Creature “appeared to excite a breathless eagerness in the audience” (Wolfson, 326). Peake’s 1823 play is both the first adaptation and the first to render the Creature mute. The entry of the Creature into a world outside of Shelley’s book is startling. As the playscript tells us, Frankenstein rushes from his unseen, second floor laboratory and locks the door behind him in dread. He borrows language from Shelley’s novel, when he cries:
It lives! I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open, […]. What a wretch have I formed, his legs are in proportion and I had selected his features as beautiful — beautiful! Ah, horror! his cadaverous skin scarcely covers the work of muscles and arteries beneath, his hair lustrous, black, and flowing — his teeth of pearly whiteness — but these luxuriances only form more horrible contrasts with the deformities of the monster.
Stage directions tell us
Frankenstein sinks on a chair; sudden combustion heard, and smoke issues, the door of laboratory breaks to pieces with a loud crash — red fire within. — The Monster discovered at door entrance in smoke, which evaporates — the red flame continues visible. The Monster advances forward, breaks through the balustrade or railing of gallery immediately facing the door of laboratory, jumps on the table beneath, and from thence leaps on the stage, stands in attitude before Frankenstein, who had started up in terror; they gaze for a moment at each other. (Peake, end of Act I)
How embody the combined “luxuriances” and “deformities” of the singular Creature? We have posters and illustrations from printed editions of the plays to guide us.
Here, for example, is a poster of Thomas P. Cooke, who would in his day be as famous as Boris Karloff is in ours for portraying the Creature. This is from the first production of Peake’s drama from the Summer of 1823 (Wolfson, 324):
He is shown as large. The long black hair and loose-flowing tunic we can see, but as Douglas Hoehn tells us: “The Monster’s skin was light blue, perhaps to achieve a more striking effect than that which would have been produced by the jaundice described in the novel.” According to Donald Glut, Cooke would play the Creature both in Peake’s drama and in other versions both in London and Paris for a total of three hundred and sixty-five performances by 1830 (28).
Here is a frontispiece to Milner’s 1826 adaptation Frankenstein, or the Man and the Monster:
Mr. O. Smith has the flowing locks described by Shelley’s novel, the loose-flowing clothes of earlier plays, and no disfigurements.
Peake’s play would enter, in 1823, Dick’s Standard Plays, and the cover, in a surviving edition from the mid-19th century, gives us another important look at the Creature:
The Creature is larger than life, and the clothes again loose-flowing, perhaps suggesting a lack of clothing, but deformities, even coloration, are not clear from the image. Here, it looks sweet faced, even baby faced, and the loose clothes like swaddling. But Shelley’s story, as a drama, has here become a “standard” play, one endlessly adapted in the first ten years after her novel’s publication, and a Gothic drama in the repertoire of numerous theaters in Britain, France, and America throughout the 19th century that leaves audiences, as Shelley described it, “breathless.”
Color lithographs of Cooke’s performance of the monster in Paris in full make up (from the French National Library’s Digital Library site, Gallica), give us more striking insight into what 19th-century audiences saw that startled them. The Creature here is described by contemporary viewers as both blue and/or green.
Close ups reveal a red mouth and red highlights across the eyebrows.
Here are some more lithographs with the make up on:
Perhaps most startling of all from this historic set of images, all of T.P. Cooke, is the Creature, green-hued, kidnapping a child:
The last is truly monstrous, depicting the kidnapping of a child, a moment that notably shocked its original audiences and reviewers.
In the midst of all the playwriting, the “Frankenstein story” was also adapted, unsurprisingly, into Gothic Bluebooks, cheap chapbooks for popular consumption. Here is The Monster Made by Man, published anonymously in 1825. This is the first known time the story is adapted into print. We can presume many other versions appeared throughout the period, though little survives of such material.
The creature looks like a revived corpse, the popular subject of numerous vivisection stories throughout the 19th and early 20th centuries. Again, the Creature in the book is not just a walking corpse—not what we would now call a zombie—but something new fused out of many different dead parts. Even the strangeness of “the walking dead” is not a category that can encompass Shelley’s creation.
Mary Shelley oversaw the 1831 edition of her novel in the Standard Novels Edition. The frontispiece from that more prestigious republication of her novel is a famous image of the Creature:
The Creature is again quite human, and not recognizably blue or green. The head is off centered. The emphasis is not on the Creature menacing Victor, as the monster does to its creator in the plays, or kidnapping a child, but rather the key moment Mary Shelley describes as the inspiration for the story when, in a nightmare, she claims: “I saw the pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together. I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out, and then, on the working of some powerful engine, show signs of life, and stir with an uneasy, half vital motion.” The effect on the creator is, she says, “frightful.” Here, Victor is on the run, and the Creature lies, confused, on the floor, by skulls and other paraphernalia of the laboratory of the alchemist/scientist.
Five editions of the novel Frankenstein appear in Mary Shelley’s lifetime (aside from the first in 1818, and the 1831 Standard novels editions, there is also the first foreign language edition, the French edition of 1821, and the first American edition in 1833, which is the first pirated copy, and the 1823 edition rushed into print by William Godwin, Mary Shelley’s father, to coincide with the successful play adaptation by Peake). The plays garnered fame for the novel, but for the novel itself to become famous, it must be in print. The Shelleys’ friend, writer Thomas Love Peacock, remarked, even before the first plays of the novel that the story “seems universally known and read.” The plays spread the story further in Shelley’s lifetime. But when she published the 1831 edition, Shelley sold the copyright to her work, and the novel languished for decades, even after her death in 1851. New editions of the work in the Victorian era don’t appear at all until the 1860s. And the first major edition in the Victorian era is the Routledge edition, republished five times before the end of the century…but that doesn’t appear until 1882, when reputable publishers could again reprint the work without copyright issues and the work goes into constant reprintings.
How did the story remain relevant in the fifty years between the 1831 edition overseen by Shelly and the Routledge edition? The story stayed in the cultural consciousness as a bogeyman, a monster of the horror stage and page. A cultural touchstone, the Creature loses the ambiguity and profundity of Shelley’s original creation at times. For example, we can glimpse the Creature as something that can be shoved into a “Christmas extravaganza” at the Adelphi Theatre in 1849, in Frankenstein; or The Model Man, by Robert and William Brough. The Creature is in darkness, and the portrayal, to modern eyes, has clear racial implications.
However, we can see the Creature’s asking for redress from his maker, resonates in other portrayals in the 19th century. The Creature appears in political commentary such as the 1854 “the Russian Frankenstein” by John Tenniel, “The Brummagem Frankenstein” of 1866, and Punch’s “The Irish Frankenstein” from 1882:
These images make a serious connection between the Creature and matters of race and the underclass as Shelley’s idea spreads culturally. But these are non-literary images, our main focus, and the proliferation of “Frankenstein” imagery through our culture in non-literary sources will quickly overwhelm our purposes. (I can highly recommend Frankenstein: A Cultural History by Susan Tyler Hitchcock for the strongest attempt to understand the cultural reach of Shelley’s story…but we will turn away and attempt to record the depth of her literary effect.)
The cover of the first Routledge Edition of 1882 shows us the portrayal of the Creature in the Victorian era’s most important reissue of the story:
The Creature, a giant, confronts Victor on the slopes of Chamonix. The Creature is startling, but well dressed. He is imposing and angry, looming like the mountains behind him that he comes out of…but he is not blue or green, not deformed.
The next important medium to image the Creature as we enter the 20th century is, of course, film. The Edison Kinetogram Catalog features a still of the Creature from their 1910 version of Frankenstein, directed by J. Searle Dawley. Charles Ogle plays the monster in the first film version. This draws on play make up and the film’s influence is limited as it was thought lost until a deteriorated version came out in the 1970s. A fully restored version was not made available until 2010. Still, this particular version marks the crossroads moment of adaptation into a new form, highly influenced by plays, at least at first:
The emphasis is on the deformity of the Creature, who is described in the silent movie’s title cards as the “creation of an evil mind.” In the film’s most striking special effects set piece, the creation of the Creature is shown as taking place inside a chamber Frankenstein built. An effigy was built and burned, with the film run backward to present an eerie fusing together of the body out of fire and nothingness:
The menacing Thing disappears into nothingness again through a mirror as Frankenstein banishes his evil counterpart at the end though force of will.
The most influential movie version is, of course, Boris Karloff’s Monster from James Whale’s 1931 Frankenstein:
The movie is a triumph for the direction by Whale, the acting by Karloff, and the make up by make-up director Jack Pierce. It’s the most influential image of our day, though not of all time: T.P. Cooke’s initial portrayal in 1823’s Preseumption would be the first such image, effecting all that followed it for over a hundred years. Whale’s movie is nearing ninety, and the legacy of the film shows no signs of abating, but more time needs to pass for it to be more influential…and it will never have been the first such image. Still, Karloff’s look is imitated on book covers and effects literary representations, and promotes a number of influential “midreadings” of the Creature, from the slowness of its shambling walk to the speechlessness that Peake’s version had initiated. Whale’s movie is based on Peggy Webling’s little known play adaptation, “Frankenstein: An Adventure in the Macabre” from 1927, so the Karloff movie is the direct inheritor of the century of stage adaptations of the century that proceeded it. Webling’s play is notable for directly naming the Creature “Frankenstein,” a common misnaming of the nameless.
The Creature in the movie is notably hard to kill, and returns for numerous sequels. Other versions of the story appear on film, though none so important, and nothing of note since Kenneth Branagh’s version in the 1990s. As our interest is literary, though we keep getting sidetracked, which is telling, let us turn back to the imaging of the Creature in comics, graphic novels, books covers and illustration in the rest of the twentieth century and beyond.
One result of the Whale movie’s fame is the appearance of “deluxe” editions of Shelley’s novels for the first time with fine art illustrations, proliferating new images of the Creature, such as the 1932 edition illustrated by Nino Carbe:
Here is Lynd Ward’s woodcut illustrations for a 1934 limited edition published by Harrison Smith and Robert Haas, notable for its queering of our gaze at the Creature, that which cannot be named.
A more popular representation is from Dick Briefer’s “New Adventures of Frankenstein” from 1940, based on Karloff’s version, considered the first comic adaptation (and also, historically, the first ongoing comic series centered on the horror genre):
Briefer would return in 1945 to write a more humorous ongoing series of Frankenstein adventures.
The Classic Illustrated, No 26, Frankenstein, from 1947, like Briefer’s first work, draws on Karloff as a precursor:
Strings of comics, like the monster movies, that include some version of the largely simplified “Frankenstein’s monster” in the 1950s, 60s, and 1970s, proceed a new reexamination of Shelley’s work in the 1970s largely prodded by a emergent feminism’s insistence that female writers be looked at anew. Mary Shelley’s dismissed “classic horror story” will became, over the next fifty years, simply a classic, effecting our image of the Creature. Never fully just a monster, always worrying at the borders of human and other, there will still be a notable shift back toward the more complex original in Shelley’s novel. The British author Bran Aldiss first makes the case for Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein as the origin point for science fiction itself in Billion-Year Spree, co-authored with David Wingrove in 1973. Their critical work appears at the same time as Aldiss’ treatment of Frankenstein’s characters, including the appearance of Mary Shelley herself as a character for one of the first times ever, in his Frankenstein Unbound, also published in 1973. A curiously almost “masked” Creature slyly looks sideways out at us on the cover:
Scholar James Rieger’s 1974 edition of Frankenstein marks a watershed in the return to Shelley’s original as literature. Rieger edits the 1818 edition for academic consideration for the first time. The 1831 edition, the last overseen by Shelley herself, had long been the standard text. Later critics would enter now famous arguments in academic circles over which text is better and why. The 1818 edition has been frequently reissued ever since. Before this edition by Rieger, no one even thought to wonder about the matter. On the green tinted cover, the Creature looks back almost curious at our sudden attention after such long neglect:
The first ever annotated Frankenstein edited by Leonard Wolf in 1977 continues the move to less lurid covers for editions meant to be taken more seriously by the reader. The idea that the Creature cannot be pictured, despite the temptation to do do, leads to vaguely disquieting Gothic imagery instead:
Bernie Wrightson’s graphic novel adaption from 1983, put out by Marvel Comics, shows comics themselves making a move toward respectability, and are soon to be known as “graphic novels.” Numerous graphic novel versions after Wrightson’s work show evidence of their attention to Wrightson’s Gothic excess of loving detail and the striking realism of his walking-corpse Creature:
One of the first Frankenstein-themed anthologies is The Ultimate Frankenstein from 1991. The first Frankenstein-themed collections date from the 1970s, but before the 1990s, no one thought to task other writers with writing new “Frankenstein” type stories. Over the last 25 years, these kinds of anthologies for Frankenstein have become quite common, including In the Shadow of Frankenstein (which was first The Mammoth Book of Frankenstein in 1994), The Frankenstein Omnibus (1994), Eternal Frankenstein (2016), and the wonderfully themed Daughters of Frankenstein: Lesbian Mad Scientists (2015), which takes part in an even newer trend to further emphasis and often reverse the matter of gender in the original:
Modern literary treatments of the Creature now aoften give us stylized fragments, such as in Peter Ackroyd’s The Casebook of Victor Frankenstein, 2008:
We have returned in the new millennium to contemplate again the facelessness of the thing we meet—nameless and lonely, desperate to be loved. We contemplate our own unfinished selves (“we are fashioned creatures,” Shelley writes, “half made up.”)
Mister Creecher from 2011 shows a prominent example of Frankenstein’s Creature colonizing YA literature, adapting his self-absorption to the adolescent tale of the struggle to grow up. This is certainly the point of the story’s early adaptation into comics, but now in a new currently popular category of fiction:
The most spectacular play adaptation in a long time is Nick Dear ‘s 2011 adaptation of Frankenstein, directed by Danny Boyle, in which the parts of Victor and the Creature are played with the two main actors, Benedict Cumberbatch and Johnny Lee Miller, exchanging roles on alternate nights. Serious and spectacular, the adaptation gives us a major dramatic adaptation for the modern age:
Gris Grimley’s graphic novel adaptation from 2015 presents his love of the grotesque in a new fine edition of the novel with the Creature deformed in ways that harken back to Edison’s monster from 1910, and before. The number of new versions by comic artists and beyond could be greatly expanded. But Grinley’s loving attention to Shelley’s work is characteristic of the twenty-first century’s continued, even increased, attention to Shelley’s novel on its bicentennial:
Lastly, Frankenstein in Bagdad from 2018, translated from the Arabic, gives us a look at the International scope of Shelley’s influence, with a new version of the old Creature, here as the body parts stitched together from the remnants of roadside bombs or IEDs in Iraq.
In a discussion of the Anniversary year itself, The New Yorker, in an illustration for “The Strange and Twisted Life of ‘Frankenstein’” by Jill Lepore, shows us Frankenstein’s Creature with Mary Shelley herself looking on, a characteristic move to think about the author in our age. Mary Shelley watches her Creature restitched and reformed once again for popular consumption:
After two hundred years, we did not, of course, find the Creature. Nameless, faceless, all representation must be endlessly deferred. We sometimes call the Creature “Frankenstein,” reaching for the closet thing to clothe the naked truth of it. All closure here, as the with the death of the Creature promised at the end of Shelley’s novel, must remain provisional. The last lines of the novel tell us the Creature is “lost in darkness and distance,” because it was always be so, and such an ending is a summation of the themes that terrify us in her work, our existential plight as monsters inside, unknowable even to ourselves, with names and faces that can strike us as only contingent attempts at what lies beneath.
What did Shelley see in her mind’s eye? What did you see when you read her extraordinary story, sublime in its essence? What shadow separated from Mont Blanc to accuse you? What thing hounded your dreams? What can you see? What should you?
Works Cited
Glut, Donald F. The Frankenstein Legend. Scarecrow Press, 1973.
Hoehn, Douglas William. “The First Season of Presumption!; or, The Fate of Frankenstein.”
Theatre Studies, 26-27 (1979-81), 79-88. Archived online at
http://knarf.english.upenn.edu/Articles/hoehn.html.
Milner, Henry M. Frankenstein: or The Man and the Monster. A Romantic Melo-Drama, in Two
Acts. 1826. Archived at http://knarf.english.upenn.edu/Milner/milnertp.html.
Peake, Richard Brinsley. Presumption; or, The Fate of Frankenstein. Also called Frankenstein.
A Romantic Drama, in Three Acts. Archived online at
http://knarf.english.upenn.edu/Peake/pres10.html.
Wolfson, Susan, Editor. Frankenstein: A Longman Cultural Edition. Second edition. Pearson
Longman, 2007.