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Once I falsely hoped to meet with beings, who, pardoning my outward form, would love me for the excellent qualities which I was capable of unfolding.
I was nourished with high thoughts of honour and devotion.
But now crime has degraded me beneath the meanest animal.
No guilt, no mischief, no malignity, no misery, can be found comparable to mine.
When I run over the frightful catalogue of my sins, I cannot believe that I am the same creature whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and transcendent visions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness.
But it is even so; the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil.
Yet even that enemy of God and man had friends and associates in his desolation; I am alone.
"You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a knowledge of my crimes and his misfortunes.
But, in the detail which he gave you of them, he could not sum up the hours and months of misery which I endured, wasting in impotent passions.
For while I destroyed his hopes, I did not satisfy my own desires.
They were for ever ardent and craving; still I desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned.
Was there no injustice in this?
Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all human kind sinned against me?
Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his friend from his door with contumely?
Why do you not execrate the rustic who sought to destroy the saviour of his child?
Nay, these are virtuous and immaculate beings!
I, the miserable and the abandoned, am an abortion, to be spurned at, and kicked, and trampled on.
Even now my blood boils at the recollection of this injustice.
"But it is true that I am a wretch.
I have murdered the lovely and the helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept, and grasped to death his throat who never injured me or any other living thing.
I have devoted my creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of love and admiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that irremediable ruin.
There he lies, white and cold in death.
You hate me; but your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard myself.
I look on the hands which executed the deed; I think on the heart in which the imagination of it was conceived, and long for the moment when these hands will meet my eyes, when that imagination will haunt my thoughts no more.
"Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief.
My work is nearly complete.
Neither yours nor any man's death is needed to consummate the series of my being, and accomplish that which must be done; but it requires my own.
Do not think that I shall be slow to perform this sacrifice.
I shall quit your vessel on the iceraft which brought me thither, and shall seek the most northern extremity of the globe; I shall collect my funeral pile, and consume to ashes this miserable frame, that its remains may afford no light to any curious and unhallowed wretch, who would create such another as I have been.
I shall die.
I shall no longer feel the agonies which now consume me, or be the prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet unquenched.
He is dead who called me into being; and when I shall be no more, the very remembrance of us both will speedily vanish.
I shall no longer see the sun or stars, or feel the winds play on my cheeks.
Light, feeling, and sense will pass away; and in this condition must I find my happiness.
Some years ago, when the images which this world affords first opened upon me, when I felt the cheering warmth of summer, and heard the rustling of the leaves and the warbling of the birds, and these were all to me, I should have wept to die; now it is my only consolation.
Polluted by crimes, and torn by the bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in death?
"Farewell!
I leave you, and in you the last of human kind whom these eyes will ever behold.
Farewell, Frankenstein!
If thou wert yet alive, and yet cherished a desire of revenge against me, it would be better satiated in my life than in my destruction.
But it was not so; thou didst seek my extinction, that I might not cause greater wretchedness; and if yet, in some mode unknown to me, thou hadst not ceased to think and feel, thou wouldst not desire against me a vengeance greater than that which I feel.
Blasted as thou wert, my agony was still superior to thine; for the bitter sting of remorse will not cease to rankle in my wounds until death shall close them for ever.
“But soon,” he cried, with sad and solemn enthusiasm, “I shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt.
Soon these burning miseries will be extinct.
I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly, and exult in the agony of the torturing flames.
The light of that conflagration will fade away; my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds.
My spirit will sleep in peace; or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus.
Farewell.”
He sprung from the cabin-window, as he said this, upon the ice-raft which lay close to the vessel.
He was soon borne away by the waves, and lost in darkness and distance.
About this digital edition
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This multilingual digital library, built by volunteers, is committed to developing a free accessible collection of publications of every kind: novels, poems, magazines, letters...
We distribute our books for free, starting from works not copyrighted or published under a free license.
You are free to use our e-books for any purpose (including commercial exploitation), under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported[2] license or, at your choice, those of the GNU FDL[3].
Wikisource is constantly looking for new members.
During the transcription and proofreading of this book, it's possible that we made some errors.
You can report them at this page[4].
The following users contributed to this book:
[The list of contributors has been omitted as requested.
]
* *
*
↑ https://en.wikisource.org
↑ https://www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0
↑ https://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html
↑ https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Wikisource:Scriptorium

Once I falsely hoped to meet with beings, who, pardoning my outward form, would love me for the excellent qualities which I was capable of unfolding.

I was nourished with high thoughts of honour and devotion.

But now crime has degraded me beneath the meanest animal.

No guilt, no mischief, no malignity, no misery, can be found comparable to mine.

When I run over the frightful catalogue of my sins, I cannot believe that I am the same creature whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and transcendent visions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness.

But it is even so; the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil.

Yet even that enemy of God and man had friends and associates in his desolation; I am alone.

"You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a knowledge of my crimes and his misfortunes.

But, in the detail which he gave you of them, he could not sum up the hours and months of misery which I endured, wasting in impotent passions.

For while I destroyed his hopes, I did not satisfy my own desires.

They were for ever ardent and craving; still I desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned.

Was there no injustice in this?

Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all human kind sinned against me?

Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his friend from his door with contumely?

Why do you not execrate the rustic who sought to destroy the saviour of his child?

Nay, these are virtuous and immaculate beings!

I, the miserable and the abandoned, am an abortion, to be spurned at, and kicked, and trampled on.

Even now my blood boils at the recollection of this injustice.

"But it is true that I am a wretch.

I have murdered the lovely and the helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept, and grasped to death his throat who never injured me or any other living thing.

I have devoted my creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of love and admiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that irremediable ruin.

There he lies, white and cold in death.

You hate me; but your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard myself.

I look on the hands which executed the deed; I think on the heart in which the imagination of it was conceived, and long for the moment when these hands will meet my eyes, when that imagination will haunt my thoughts no more.

"Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief.

My work is nearly complete.

Neither yours nor any man's death is needed to consummate the series of my being, and accomplish that which must be done; but it requires my own.

Do not think that I shall be slow to perform this sacrifice.

I shall quit your vessel on the iceraft which brought me thither, and shall seek the most northern extremity of the globe; I shall collect my funeral pile, and consume to ashes this miserable frame, that its remains may afford no light to any curious and unhallowed wretch, who would create such another as I have been.

I shall die.

I shall no longer feel the agonies which now consume me, or be the prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet unquenched.

He is dead who called me into being; and when I shall be no more, the very remembrance of us both will speedily vanish.

I shall no longer see the sun or stars, or feel the winds play on my cheeks.

Light, feeling, and sense will pass away; and in this condition must I find my happiness.

Some years ago, when the images which this world affords first opened upon me, when I felt the cheering warmth of summer, and heard the rustling of the leaves and the warbling of the birds, and these were all to me, I should have wept to die; now it is my only consolation.

Polluted by crimes, and torn by the bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in death?

"Farewell!

I leave you, and in you the last of human kind whom these eyes will ever behold.

Farewell, Frankenstein!

If thou wert yet alive, and yet cherished a desire of revenge against me, it would be better satiated in my life than in my destruction.

But it was not so; thou didst seek my extinction, that I might not cause greater wretchedness; and if yet, in some mode unknown to me, thou hadst not ceased to think and feel, thou wouldst not desire against me a vengeance greater than that which I feel.

Blasted as thou wert, my agony was still superior to thine; for the bitter sting of remorse will not cease to rankle in my wounds until death shall close them for ever.

“But soon,” he cried, with sad and solemn enthusiasm, “I shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt.

Soon these burning miseries will be extinct.

I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly, and exult in the agony of the torturing flames.

The light of that conflagration will fade away; my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds.

My spirit will sleep in peace; or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus.

Farewell.”

He sprung from the cabin-window, as he said this, upon the ice-raft which lay close to the vessel.

He was soon borne away by the waves, and lost in darkness and distance.

About this digital edition

This e-book comes from the online library Wikisource[1].

This multilingual digital library, built by volunteers, is committed to developing a free accessible collection of publications of every kind: novels, poems, magazines, letters...

We distribute our books for free, starting from works not copyrighted or published under a free license.

You are free to use our e-books for any purpose (including commercial exploitation), under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported[2] license or, at your choice, those of the GNU FDL[3].

Wikisource is constantly looking for new members.

During the transcription and proofreading of this book, it's possible that we made some errors.

You can report them at this page[4].

The following users contributed to this book:

[The list of contributors has been omitted as requested.

]

* *

*

↑ https://en.wikisource.org

↑ https://www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0

↑ https://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html

↑ https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Wikisource:Scriptorium