[ID: The generic structure of Frankenstein can best be understood if we realize that the text marks the end (or at least obsolescence) of one genre even as it inaugurates another. Captain Walton, who initially appears to be the protagonist of the work, is in fact the hero of an old-fashioned travel narrative—a form with an ancient lineage that in Mary Shelley’s own lifetime had reached a brilliant culmination in Coleridge’s “Ancient Mariner” (1798), whose influence on the arctic sections of Frankenstein is of course pervasive. When Walton takes Victor Frankenstein aboard his ship and turns himself into the latter’s amanuensis—thus bringing to a close the prefatory letters from Walton to his sister and beginning chapter 1 of the main text—he in effect resigns the office of protagonist and hands it over to the new friend for whom he feels such a keen affinity. The affinity is real enough, for Walton and Frankenstein are both quasi-Faustian overreachers—but in crucially different ways. Walton is an explorer in an unproblematically spatial way, a discoverer of regions that may appear new and strange to the European observer but that in fact are assumed to have always existed in pretty much the condition that Walton finds. By contrast, Frankenstein—the properly science-fictional hero, whose emergence as protagonist transforms the narrative into a predominantly science- fictional one—is concerned with pushing back the frontiers not of space but of time.
This does not appear to be true in the most narrow grammatical sense; for grammatically, of course, the story of Frankenstein and his monstrous creation (like much of the best nineteenth-century science fiction, notably that of Poe and Verne) is set in an alternative present and recent past. In more substantive terms, however, the alternative time frame suggests that such an experiment as Frankenstein’s is a concrete possibility for the (near) future and thus turns the actual present—the empirical present of the reader—into a potential and historicized past. In other words, Frankenstein’s experiment and its consequences, introduced into an apparently otherwise mundane setting, constitute such a radical (or, as we shall discuss in the following section, Blochian) novelty as to reconfigure in time the surrounding world of the novel, to turn ap- parent present into potential future. Among the results, for example, is that the implicit future projected by the monster’s very existence serves (perhaps rather against the author’s conscious intentions) to estrange and undermine the almost suffocatingly bourgeois-romantic egoism of the title character. The classic travel narrative—like Walton’s—is an essentially ahistorical form that displays “timeless” wonders, often explicitly natural (the arctic seascape, for instance) though sometimes also in the form of naturalized “exotic” cultures inhabited by “people without history.” Science fiction, by contrast, engages the whole Hegelian and post-Hegelian problematic of historicity by projecting (even if implicitly, as in Frankenstein) a future significantly different from the empirical present while also in concrete continuity with it. end ID]