so, i saw this, and the first thing that came to mind was:
'all men hate the wretched; how, then, must i be hated, who am miserable beyond all living things! yet you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature, to whom thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by the annihilation of one of us. you purpose to kill me. how dare you sport thus with life?' (102)
'how can i move thee? will no intreaties cause thee to turn a favourable eye upon thy creature, who implores thy goodness and compassion? believe me, frankenstein; i was benevolent; my soul glowed with love and humanity; but am i not alone, miserably alone? you, my creator, abhor me; what hope can i gather from your fellow-creatures, who owe me nothing? they spurn and hate me. the desert mountains and dreary glaciers are my refuge. i have wandered here many days; the caves of ice, which i only do not fear, are a dwelling to me, and the only one which man does not grudge. these bleak skies i hail, for they are kinder to me than your fellow beings. if the multitude of mankind knew of my existence, they would do as you do, and arm themselves for my destruction. shall i not then hate them who abhor me? i will keep no terms with my enemies. i am miserable, and they shall share my wretchedness. yet it is in your power to recompense me, and deliver them from an evil which it only remains for you to make so great, that not only you and your family, but thousands of others, shall be swallowed up in the whirlwinds of its rage. let your compassion be moved, and do not disdain me. listen to my tale; when you have heard that, abandon or commiserate me, as you shall judge that i deserve. but hear me. the guilty are allowed, by human laws, bloody as they are, to speak in their own defence before they are condemned. listen to me, frankenstein. you accuse me of murder, and yet you would, with a satisfied conscience, destroy your own creature. oh, praise the eternal justice of man! yet i ask you not to spare me: listen to me; and then, if you can, and if you will, destroy the work of your hands.' (103-4)
- the creature in mary shelley’s frankenstein
because that lone figure in the image immediately made me think of the creature in frankenstein. (the next thing i thought of was prometheus.)
also because i’m still not over “newton’s apple” and applying frankenstein to this is much more interesting because despair? dreams? longing for love? hello, frankenstein?!? no???
(it’s incredibly irritating that the second disc is all pre-released material. they should jazz it up and at least have them all be recordings of live performances because, other than “walk out,” nell has performed every track from those two singles.)
There’s a psychological mechanism, I’ve come to believe, that prevents most of us from imagining the moment of our own death. For if it were possible to imagine fully that instant of passing from consciousness to nonexistence, with all the attendant fear and humiliation of absolutely helplessness, it would be very hard to live, as it would be unbearably obvious that death is inscribed in everything that constitutes life, that any moment of our existence is a breath away from being the last one. We would be continuously devastated by the magnitude of that inescapable moment, so our minds wisely refuse to consider it. Still, as we mature into mortality, we gingerly dip our horror-tingling toes in the void, hoping that the mind will somehow ease itself into dying, that God or some other soothing opiate will remain available as we venture deeper into the darkness of nonbeing.
But how can you possibly ease yourself into the death of your child? For one thing, it is supposed to happen well after your own dissolution into nothingness. Your children are supposed to outlive you by several decades, in the course of which they’ll live their lives, happily devoid of the burden of your presence, eventually completing the same mortal trajectory as their parents: oblivion, denial, fear, the end. They’re supposed to handle their own mortality, and no help in that regard (other than forcing them to confront death by way of your dying) can come from you — death ain’t a science project. And even if you could imagine your child’s death, why would you?—Aleksandar Hemon, “The Aquarium,” The Book of My Lives