"Learn from me, if not by my precepts, then by my example, how dangerous is the pursuit of knowledge and how much happier is that man who believes his native town to be the world than he who aspires to be greater than his nature will allow"
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A warning that lands like a confession: knowledge can enlarge you, but it can also unhouse you. In this line, Wollstonecraft stages a paradox that feels almost cruel coming from a major advocate for women’s education. The voice isn’t the triumphant rationalist; it’s someone tallying the costs of overreaching in a world designed to punish the ambitious, especially if they’re not granted the social protections of “great men.”
The phrasing does double work. “Learn from me” positions the speaker as a living exhibit, not an abstract lecturer. If her “precepts” fail to persuade, her “example” will: it’s a kind of rhetorical blackmail, implying scars the reader can’t see but should fear. That move also smuggles in a feminist subtext. In Wollstonecraft’s era, the “pursuit of knowledge” wasn’t a neutral hobby for a woman; it could mean social exile, economic precarity, moral suspicion. The sentence’s wistful contrast between the contented provincial (“native town to be the world”) and the striver (“greater than his nature will allow”) reads as both critique and camouflage: she names a culturally approved happiness (smallness, acceptance) even as her own life argues it’s a narrow bargain.
“Nature” is the loaded term. On the surface, it endorses limits. Underneath, it interrogates who gets to define them. The danger she signals isn’t knowledge itself, but the collision between awakening and a society that insists your aspirations are unnatural.
The phrasing does double work. “Learn from me” positions the speaker as a living exhibit, not an abstract lecturer. If her “precepts” fail to persuade, her “example” will: it’s a kind of rhetorical blackmail, implying scars the reader can’t see but should fear. That move also smuggles in a feminist subtext. In Wollstonecraft’s era, the “pursuit of knowledge” wasn’t a neutral hobby for a woman; it could mean social exile, economic precarity, moral suspicion. The sentence’s wistful contrast between the contented provincial (“native town to be the world”) and the striver (“greater than his nature will allow”) reads as both critique and camouflage: she names a culturally approved happiness (smallness, acceptance) even as her own life argues it’s a narrow bargain.
“Nature” is the loaded term. On the surface, it endorses limits. Underneath, it interrogates who gets to define them. The danger she signals isn’t knowledge itself, but the collision between awakening and a society that insists your aspirations are unnatural.
Quote Details
| Topic | Wisdom |
|---|---|
| Source | Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus — Mary Shelley, 1818. (Victor Frankenstein's reflection commonly given in Chapter 4 in many editions: 'Learn from me... how dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge...') |
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