But these protections can go only so far. It is impossible to predict all of the consequences of our current and future scientific and technologic advances. We do not even need to speculate on the potential repercussions of, for example, the creation of a laboratory-designed self-replicating species, as we can look to unintended consequences of therapies such as the drug thalidomide, and controversies over certain gene therapies.
This tension, this acknowledgment that unintended consequences occur, is unsettling. The theory of galvanism — the idea that electricity could reanimate dead tissue — is named after researcher Luigi Galvani, who published an illustrated report, right, on what he called animal electricity. Science and technology have led to impressive improvements in health and health care.
People I love are alive today because of cancer treatments unknown decades ago. We are incredibly grateful to the medical scientists who envisioned these drugs and who did the experiments to prove their effectiveness. As an anesthesiologist, I care for patients at vulnerable times in their lives; I use science and technology to render them unconscious — and to enable them to emerge from an anesthetized state.
But, as the frontiers are pushed further and further, the unintended consequences of how science and technology are used could affect who we are as humans, the viability of our planet and how society evolves.
In terms of health, medicine and bioengineering, Frankenstein resonates far beyond defibrillation. These resonances include genetic engineering, tissue engineering, transplantation, transfusion, artificial intelligence, robotics, bioelectronics, virtual reality, cryonics, synthetic biology and neural networks. These fields are fascinating, worthy areas of exploration. Romanticism, whilst recognising the exciting potential of science, valued the importance of the natural order.
In the generation who saw unprecedented technological feats, including the invention of the steam engine and indoor plumbing, this must have seemed a particularly pertinent issue to a young Shelley. Both Frankenstein and his monster embody the dangers of unchecked scientific discovery, and the resulting destruction is a parable for regulating these advancements. Rather, it is the callousness of the creator, who cannot or will not anticipate the dangers of their invention, who is truly monstrous.
Throughout the novel, the reader is invited to bear witness to this ironic parallel. But the pursuit of technical discovery, and the dangers this poses to the natural order, finds easy parallels in modern technological advancements, particularly surrounding artificial intelligence. The 20th and 21st centuries have seen a proliferation of literature on this theme, including Phillip K.
In a parallel fable, the prodigious Victor Frankenstein places the spark of life into a creature which he does not know how to control. The brilliance of his achievement is undeniable, but the unchecked flame eventually consumes his loved ones, himself, and even his creation.
Like Prometheus, Frankenstein steals a gift from the realm of gods, which he cannot wield and is sorely punished for. Secondly, the dramatic story of the author's life brings a fascination of its own. Mary was born to intellectual parents — the feminist pioneer and novelist Mary Wollstonecraft and the political philosopher William Godwin — and she began writing the book whilst still a teenager, having travelled to war-torn Europe with her lover and eventual husband, Percy Shelley.
But there is another side to the book's remarkable success that has been ignored until now: the way that is was written. It's well-established that Frankenstein was the product of a literary double act between Mary and Percy Shelley; it has largely been assumed that the book was something of an emotional release for Mary with Percy directing and shaping her writing.
But importantly I think it also reveals the book's creation to have been a collaboration, as recognised by scholars such as Charles E Robinson, Neil Fraistat and Nora Crook. I think he contributed to her work more than she contributed to his; partly this was because he was more experienced, being older, and having more formal education as a man at that time, and she looked to him as a mentor at first. Their enduring legacies are a testament to the success of their shared dedication to literary careers, and the support and encouragement they gave one another.
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