Herbert West vs. Victor Frankenstein

"Help! Keep off, you cursed little tow-head fiend - keep that damned needle away from me!" - the words of a corpse reanimated by West, a replay of the corpse's memory right before death...

Firstly, I will announce my bias clearly and without shame. Herbert West all the way. Perhaps it is unfair; That is to say, "Herbert West: Reanimator" was published in 1922, "Frankenstein" in 1818. Plus, Lovecraft was considerably older (by ten years or so?) when he wrote Reanimator than Shelley was when she wrote Frankenstein, therefore clearly making Lovecraft the more experienced writer.

But I digress.

Now, Mr. West - in humble opinion - deserves credit for his relevant education and years of research, making his story more realistic. Lovecraft included in the story his trials and errors, how his experiments evolved from small animals to fresh human corpses, his hardships in obtaining the bodies in the first place, and - for goodness sake - he was in medical school. Mr. Frankenstein studied very outdated natural philosophy (I mean, Paracelsus' alchemy kind of outdated) for years until he went to university and studied chemistry for two years.

 Think Frankenstein would have looooved this show.

Notice that Frankenstein never reveals his methods. It was like - boom! - idea. Like so: After having been at the university for only two years, it took him "days and nights of incredible labour and fatigue" to discover the cause of "generation and life." What's more, he didn't reanimate a fresh corpse; he pieced together body parts (which must have been partially rotted and therefore impossible to renew any trace of the life it once held) to create a new being.

Still, Frankenstein receives credit for actually succeeding in doing in one try what West could not do after years of hideous failures. 

West - 1. Frankenstein - 1. 

As far as the fear factor goes, Reanimator, with its chilling images of partial reanimation of corpses and the disturbing foam produced from West's incubating reptile embryos, sent shivers through me as I read. Frankenstein did not. By part four of the story, West had succeeded in bringing back from the dead three specimens. The first one initially seemed to be a complete failure, but when West and his assistant went to an adjacent room to modify the serum, an earth-shattering scream erupted from the laboratory where the supposed dead man lay. Throughout the story, the whereabouts of this first specimen remain unknown. The next semi-successful reanimation beat the crap out of West and his assistant, jumped out the window, and then proceeded to murder 14 citizens - eating some of them. The third one, thought to be dead, was buried but later clawed his way from his shallow grave and knocked on West's door. Upon opening that door, tell me that wouldn't make you just faint. 

By part six of the story, West isn't even reanimating whole bodies. He managed to bring to life a headless body, which triggered the unexpected reaction of the severed head exclaiming the last thing it spoke just before death, "Jump, Ronald, for God's sake, jump!"

West - 2. Frankenstein - 1.

Even West himself was creepy. He was one of the "quiet ones," which is always the first warning. And, as he became more and more obsessed with obtaining freshly dead bodies, he began looking at healthy, living human beings. His assistant reported that he did not like the way West was starting to look at him. Creeeper.

Frankenstein didn't quite come off to me in that way. Shelley really buttered him up with the perfect and privileged family, a beautiful love interest who never wanted anyone but him, a loyal best friend, etc. etc. She made him extremely intelligent and kind... I honestly think he was a bit of a brat. He got everything he wanted, including being the first to discover the serum to bring what was once dead back to life. This guy seriously had a big head: "A new species would bless me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so completely as I should deserve their's." 

Upon completion, Frankenstein referred to his creation as "beautiful"........ then, just seconds later, became disgusted with his "ugly" creation and ran away.

In the end, they both end up dead. But, Lovecraft, being the master of horror, keeps the atmosphere very constant to the end. Imagine your hideous zombie-like monsters that you thought were all dead - imagine them hunting you down, breaking down your wall, and tearing you apart. Disemboweling you. Parading out of your house carrying your severed head. As soon as West saw these guys, he merely accepted his fate and  silently gave himself up. That's far more chilling that going down kicking and screaming, isn't it? Shelley wasn't very consistent with the horror/Gothic feel, but she did seem to borrow from other genres, such as romance. Frankenstein's monster was a gentle and benevolent being who loved humanity (until humanity pissed him off). He didn't even kill his creator. He wept at the death of Victor Frankenstein.

For these, I shall reward both of them one point. One for consistent atmosphere, the other for mixing it up a bit.

W - 3. F - 2.

As biased as I am, I did try to be fair, but let's face it.

Valentine's Day, Horror-Style

Tomorrow, I realize, with the aid of the constant reminders in every shop or store or candy counter I enter, is Valentine's Day. I also realize that it can be an extremely touchy subject; ol' V's Day tends to be a love-hate kind of thing. You love it or you hate it, and I've been on both sides. Therefore, in order to appeal to both sides, then, I shall post and discuss here three of my favorite Gothic/Horror poems in the world - all three involving love, though none of them have a happy ending. Technically, two of them are Victorian. But. Whatever.

 But, quickly, I guess I'll squeak a tiny smidgen about my own experience with this obnoxiously red and pink holiday. Before I was 16, I absolutely hated it with a passion. So many girls were getting candies and flowers because they were pretty and popular, and I was neither (well, I wasn't the right kind of popular. I was known for my excellent grades, being the "quiet girl," and being well-behaved). Every year, I was painfully reminded that I was an - ahem - undesirable.

However, when I was 16 (something must have happened to change me from an ugly duckling to a swan), I received my first gifts from a guy (who became my first boyfriend soon after), and, every year after that, I've always had a boyfriend, or boyfriend-like figure(s), who bought me chocolate or roses. (One actually got me Super Smash Bros. Melee. The following year, I received an orange authentic - as in not made by a third party - Nintendo Gamecube Controller.) Still, nothing compares to this year. My love and I resolved to just stay in and cuddle... and play video games, which I think is far more romantic than going out to eat. So, we bought each other chocolates, bought the Special Edition Battle Royale Box Set (EFF YEAH!!), and just enjoyed each other's company all weekend.

Yep, that's us. :)

Now! On to the poems. The first one shall be Poe's Annabel Lee. 

It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of ANNABEL LEE; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love- I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsman came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me- Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we- Of many far wiser than we- And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.  This is one of my favorites because 1, I enjoy the works of Poe anyway. 2, I love the imagery it paints in my head 3, Call me whatever you like for this, I do love the way it rhymes. (No one rhymes their poetry anymore these days...) Lastly, I like the atmosphere. It shines off to me as being dreamy, haunting, and melancholy. The ending is disturbing, yes, but I like that. I also like the essence here of "undying love." Even though the speaker's darling Annabel Lee has died, he still loves her just as strongly as he had before. True love, if you will. Next, we have Porphyria's Lover by Robert Browning. The rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listened with heart fit to break. When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied, She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare, And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, Murmuring how she loved me---she Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me for ever. But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain. Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshipped me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead! Porphyria's love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said a word!  Now, this one's a tad more complex, wouldn't you agree? In comes sweet, little Porphyria from a "gay feast." Evidently, she comes from a wealthy family and cannot - according to the speaker - completely give herself to him because her pride prevents her from becoming involved with someone of lower social status. Still, passion does indeed prevail at times - as the speaker says. This is one of those times. Now, it must be pretty frustrating to be in love with someone who shies away from you just slightly because of meaningless little social divisions. So, one might understand how happy the speaker becomes when he looks into her eyes and reads her "true feelings" (More than once in this poem, the speaker claims to know how Porphyria feels.), interpreting them as "worship," or, completely giving herself to him, finally.  Immediately, he thinks of a way to preserve that moment. (After all, she might've changed her mind some day.) The speaker strangles the poor girl to death with her own hair, kisses her, and props her up on his shoulder.  You know, I'm not sure how the speaker really felt about her - perhaps he truly did love her and it was mental illness that drove him to murder. The thing I'm fairly certain of is that deep-down, passed the shallow divisions of social class, Porphyria loved him dearly and unconditionally. Why else didn't she scream or struggle? Lastly, we have another by Robert Browning. My Last Duchess.  FERRARA. That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Fr Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will't please you sit and look at her? I said ``Fr Pandolf'' by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Fr Pandolf chanced to say ``Her mantle laps ``Over my lady's wrist too much,'' or ``Paint ``Must never hope to reproduce the faint ``Half-flush that dies along her throat:'' such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart---how shall I say?---too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.  Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace---all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men,---good! but thanked Somehow---I know not how---as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech---(which I have not)---to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, ``Just this ``Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, ``Or there exceed the mark''---and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, ---E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretence Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!  What a great poem.  All three of them are great - don't get me wrong - but I fell in love with this one before the other two. Clearly, the Duke is a lunatic with some serious jealousy issues. Maybe the duchess was a tad flirty - I know flirtatiousness bothers me - but it's most certainly not a crime deserving murder! If every jealous man or woman on Earth had severe jealousy issues and enough money/power, the world would be a scary place - there'd be hit-men running all over the place! In the mean time, the poor messenger,  upon realizing that the Duke is nutty as a fruitcake, is trying to get the hell out of there. He doesn't want the Count's daughter marrying that... that monster! Notice a few parts: "Will't please you rise?" is placed right after the Duke basically confesses to having his wife killed. That could be interpreted to mean, "Oh, standing already?" It goes hand-in-hand with, "I repeat, the Count your master's known munificence is ample warrant... though his fair daughter's self... is my object. Nay we'll go together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, taming a sea-horse... which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!" Here, the Duke is saying,  "Wait, where are you going?" He essentially chases the messenger boy out, saying, "Don't forget, I want to marry the Count's daughter! Not so fast! At least look at this work of art before you go!" Great poem. Would you have interpreted it differently? Until next blog! Jasmine

The Grim Reaper

Yes.
I thought our friend the reaper would be terribly appropriate for my very first post, since his is in my background; he is literally my reaper, ha. I drew him in my art class.

However, we're not here to talk about my art skills (or the lack thereof), we are, in fact, here to discuss who this robed, scythe-wielding skeleton is.

His, or her, many names include: Angel of Death, Odin (one of my favorite Norse gods), Thanatos, Yamraj, Ankou, Śmierć, Pesta, Malak al-Mawat (this one just sounds cool, doesn't it?), Enma Daiou... The list goes on.


We can thank the Middle Ages for the male, black robe-wearing, scythe-carrying walking skeleton image that's popular today. However, imagine looking into the sky one day and instead of seeing Santa Claus shooting through the sky with his reindeer, you see Odin and his long white beard ripping amongst the stars on his mighty eight-legged horse, Slepnier. Or, perhaps you died in battle, and your soul awoke just in time to find one of Odin's beautiful (and busty) Valkyries (meaning "chooser of the slain") to take you to Valhalla, the glorious "Hall of the Slain." Grim Reaper doesn't sound too scary then, does it? Odin, the ruler of Asgard and father of Thor, can be thought of as a reaper in a way. Another bit of information, one of his other many names were "Grimnir," which means "hooded." And yes, the original Santa Claus was also a Grim Reaper - is that awesome or is that awesome? Odin as Santa today would probably look like this:

In any case, imagine the personification of Death as a bearded, winged man, or a young boy.  Now you're in Hellenic Greece, where death was viewed as inevitable and therefore not purely evil. Thanatos was seen as a bearded man or a young boy (in these beliefs, Death was male, Life was female). His job was to handover the souls of the dead to Charon, who then carried the souls on a ferry to Acheron, the land that separates the land of the living and the land of the dead. If the souls did not the pay the poor ferryman upon arrival, they were abandoned - left by the riverside for one hundred years (ouch, harsh).

But, I think Thanatos is boring. His sisters, however, are known as the Keres, the spirits of violent death: battle, disease, accident, and murder. Sporting fangs, talons, and bloody garments, they were viewed as pure evil, often displayed feeding on the blood of the dead after their soul reached Hades.


The Celtic version of the reaper was Ankou, or Arawn, also known as the "graveyard watcher." He was supposedly the last person to die in a community, even though he's always male. He is all-seeing, and tall and haggard with a wide hat and long white hair... or simply a skeleton with a revolving head. You could be comfy-cozy in your cabin, snoozing soundly when you hear the creaking of Ankou's axle just outside your window, his wagon piled high with corpses. Lovely way to go, isn't it? Also, you can't escape Ankou; when he stops at your place, it means instant death for those inside.

I could go on and on into India (Yamaraj), East Asia (Yanluo, Enma Diaou, Great King Yomna), Christianity (Four Horsemen), Islam (Azrael, or Malak al-Mawt)... And perhaps one day I will, but we should probably get on to the reaper figure in literature. This brings me to the most obvious example: The Raven.

The protagonist of Poe's The Raven depressed over his lost love, Lenore. And, just like rubbing salt in the wounds, here comes the Raven as a messenger of death, constantly reminding him that Lenore is, indeed, dead, dead, dead.

Another example would be the suit of armor in The Castle of Otranto, often referred to as the first Gothic story. In it, a  falling helmet from a giant suit of armor smashed Conrad, the only son of Manfred (who is the antagonist), on Conrad's wedding day. "...[H]e beheld his child dashed to pieces, and almost buried under an enormous helmet, a hundred times more large than any casque ever made for human being." It's not really considered a reaper, but it did come with some sort of message ("You're a terrible person, and I shall take your only son!)... and brought death right with it. This is a stretch, but one of the characters (I won't say who, in case you might want to read it sometime), does end up dying at the end.


You know, it was right hard trying to think of examples for this!


Could Dracula himself be considered a reaper? He hovered over poor Lucy every night while she hung on to life by a thread. Each night, he inched her closer and closer to death. Although Van Helsing, Dr. Seward, Quincy, and Arthur tried their hardest to protect her and keep her alive, in the end, Dracula - Death - was inescapable. 


What about Frankenstein's monster? He was basically walking Death, pieced together by the parts of various cadavers. He did his share of killing as well, haunting his creator in a way, much like reaper-figures do. 

(1974 comedy - a great movie, really - Young Frankenstein)


What do you think? Maybe some of you can come up with more examples. 


Until next blog~


Jasmine