One of the most enjoyable reasons that I dislike The Death of the Author is the idea of inspiration. While most stories are written in any language lack this exciting personal story, there’s something to be said about a writer who is so driven to write that even in the face of the dreaded writer’s block, they persevere. In some cases, the best stories are written solely to abuse counts and get paid by the word. Others are done in an altered state that allows rare creativity to take form, ultimately creating timeless art that makes you think, in a complementary way, just WHAT were they thinking?
I’ve had this experience most notably with Mary Shelley, whose life story remains one of the most engrossing tales any writer has produced. To write a novel like “Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus” by the time you’re 18 is astounding, especially given that there are rumors that it was conceived while high and after several miscarriages. So much of that only seeks to benefit the subtext, making the read much more interesting than a conventional story of isolation, reflecting a woman’s struggle to grapple with her own metaphysical being, of feeling like she isn’t worthy of being a mother. The Monster suddenly becomes something more perverse, less narcissistic, and more a universal feeling of regret. It’s why it works so beautifully.
The best part is how these stories aren’t necessary to appreciate the text, but in some ways enhances the experience. I imagine these writers at conventions being asked by ardent fans how they came up with these wondrous characters, and they just lean into the microphone and say “I’m not entirely sure. I was intoxicated at the time.” Stephen King is the master of this, having unique origins for almost every one of his novels (my favorite being the sleep-deprived origins of “Insomnia”). However, I think that the one that remains ultimately the most fascinating to me is an author who made a short story that has come to be its owns haunted allegory for a split personality, of one man’s good and evil.
Written three years after “Treasure Island,” author Robert Louis Stevenson sought to make a murder mystery with one of the greatest twists arguably in fiction, or at least the late 19th century. It is difficult to recognize the magnitude over 135 years later. In fact, one can argue that the twist is so recognizable that many will mistake it for the entirety of the plot. That’s one of the disadvantages of a novella permeating through culture, eventually receiving a cinematic representation that forever alters our perceptions. Unlike other classic literature, there’s something to be said about “Strange Case of Dr. Jekkyl and Mr. Hyde” managing to resonate even as the biggest, most crucial reveal has become its greatest selling point. Not even “Frankenstein” or Bram Stoker’s “Dracula” has permeated a plot detail this recognizable.
This becomes especially true when finally sitting down to read the story. Anyone impatiently wondering when the big reveal is will be greatly disappointed. This isn’t a first person story of a man grappling with some interior demons. While I’d personally argue that it would be fascinating to see the interior mind of this archetype, knowing what it feels like to have his body morph and change its skeletal structure. It may be too macabre for 1880s literature, but given that H.G. Wells hit this topic with “The Invisible Man” and made it work beautifully, it’s not totally out of the realm of speculation.
The approach that Stevenson goes with instead is better because of how much more unassuming any pay-off would be. Much like other crime fiction, it benefits from the idea of a detective interviewing a subject, receiving a rousing story that sparks curiosity in the reader’s mind. There must be a logical answer to this mystery. If judged without further context, the experience of reading the novella plays out like a conventional whodunnit. There’s the introduction of characters, the slow reveal that shocks you and makes you question humanity. Are you sane for being so morbidly fascinated by this grotesque story?
Logically, Dr. Jekyll is the one being questioned by the detectives. As an upstanding citizen, there’s no reason to suspect any foul play. He is milquetoast, the everyman who is just trying to survive in a world filled with heathens. But who are these heathens? Given how Penny Dreadful’s amplified the story of murderers and stranglers, it’s easy to believe that they lurk in the shadows, not existing in broad daylight. Like the concept of day and night, good and evil are complete opposites, and in this case, Mr. Hyde embodies the worst of the worst. An unseen character, a man on the lam, he’s skillfully avoided capture for so long.
What Stevenson does so swiftly is manage to misdirect the audience without anyone realizing it. Dr. Jekyll is empathetic. You care about him because every moment he’s talking there is a modesty that may reflect your own. There is no reason to suspect that he would ever do something evil. His contrast with the crimes of Mr. Hyde doesn’t line up. They’re too profane, so reflective of a man who clearly lost his way. There’s no chance that he possesses any stability, right?
Again, if you’re going in trying to get a point of view experience around the two title characters, you may be disappointed. The first half of the novella lacks any obvious sign that these two men are the same. Stevenson designed the novel as a way to explore the stark contrast between good and evil. The way that he reveals the connection remains effective 135 years later because, quite simply, it places doubt within every reader. They have spent the entire novella up to this point judging Mr. Hyde for his horrendous action, but never thinking to blame Dr. Jekyll. They have already created an implicit bias that every writer strives to have. It’s why the reveal is so incredible, even if the ultimate impact has been lost.
It is because of the second half that suddenly the novel grows from impersonal to something more contemplative. At this point, it evolves from a murder mystery to a morality tale that is unlike any others. Like “Frankenstein” before, it owes more to the empathy that it’s established for characters. By asking everyone to question what they would do in this situation and then placing doubt reflects the fallibility of mankind and does so with one of the hallmarks of genre fiction.
For those who are mostly in this for the body horror, don’t worry. It is there. Stevenson isn’t a strictly ideological writer. He knows that on some level he needs to draw in readers by creating an image so vivid that it sticks. The transformation, in particular, is one of those unthinkable premises that may be deeply rooted in fiction, but there’s a practicality to it. It’s an expressionistic take on the idea of good and evil within a person. Dr. Jekyll is attractive whereas Mr. Hyde’s body is ugly. The details are a writer’s dream where trying to convey the very obvious faults in a person’s deformities brings out some interesting decisions from Stevenson, and it’s partially why the novella works.
Sure, on some level the idea of judging an ugly person as inherently evil is juvenile and not interesting. That’s also looking from a 21st century lens, where horror has become more nuanced. Even then, for 1886 “Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” has so much cleverness on display that it plays tricks with the reader. It is more than an unkempt look or a jagged spine. It is the very idea that, honestly, whom among us aren’t capable of being evil? Once that has been established, the question ultimately becomes one of sympathy, asking us to wonder if a murderer is capable of redemption, of being seen (quite literally) as a man of upstanding integrity.
To be honest, this is the type of work that makes me jealous as a writer. It’s a concept so universal that on some level anyone could’ve come up with it. Odds are that somebody would’ve if not Stevenson. Instead, he found a way to illuminate a struggle that exists within all of us. Whatever it gets wrong about realism, it more than makes up for with a pulpy heart that shows the complexity of man in desperate need of balance. Even then, the idea that no man is good without evil is a haunting thought that contradicts a sense of purity. To do this without fully embracing a critical tone is even more impressive.
As I mentioned towards the beginning, I found the way that Stevenson wrote it to be very fascinating. While I think there’s enough in the text to already warrant that, I think bringing in outside sources once again makes the work more brilliant and, quite frankly, a bit of a miracle. Much like how Shelley wrote the story after some “mind-enhancing” techniques, Stevenson was privy to taking a bunch of opium when he wrote it predominantly in one sitting. The detail that makes this more insane is that he allegedly had previously written it but through some unfortunate circumstance, he lost it. From memory, he basically regurgitated the novel as if it was a fever dream.
Anyone who has experience with writing knows the horror stories that come with losing your draft. Considering that I’m 32, I grew up in an era where autosave didn’t exist and my computer freezing was a death sentence to the past three hours. It’s less frequent in 2021, but every now and then, whether on a computer or in handwritten notes, a moment of vulnerability will take away something that sounded so clear to me. Trying to recreate that verbatim is sure to be unsuccessful. Things will change, maybe even improve, but there’s always frustration and urgency to those drafts. There is some disconnect because the purest of intentions are lost. All that’s left is your best guess.
Now imagine doing that with one of the most influential pieces of literature in history. One could argue that at best this would be a text that is beloved for its story but not quality. Instead, the story is so fully formed that I find it downright admirable how Stevenson came away with a usable draft that influenced over a century of writers. It’s engrossing, feeling essential. It’s the type of moment that makes you believe in fate, the need for certain things to be willed into existence. I think its influence more than speaks for itself, and it’s why I find the making of the story as entertaining as anything that appears in the actual story. If you think that it’s not worth reading because you already know the ending, you are really missing out. It’s an essential work and one whose ability to persuade and challenge the reader is downright impressive. What it lacks in conventional scares it more than makes up for in something even more challenging: questioning if we’re capable of being the monsters we think we could never be.
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