It only took knowing this was a Frankenstein retelling for me to be sold on this book. I’m a simple girl with simple desires – namely to see one of my favorite novels live on in others’ imaginations and inspirations for eons. This isn’t to say it’s always done well or with good intentions, but, here, I can safely say Noah Medlock has captured so much of what succeeds in Mary Shelley’s work and made it his own.
This time instead of a mad Victor Frankenstein and his Monster battling wits across most of Europe and the Arctic and revealing past traumas, we focus on a different (yet familiar) story entirely. At Grimfern, botanist Gregor Sandys and taxidermist Simon Rievaulx live a secluded if content life. They’re perpetual “bachelors” forced to hide their love behind the glass walls of the ornate and beautiful greenhouse they call home. When Gregor’s newest experiment, a mycelium he believes may hold sentience, inspires him to push the boundaries of ethics and science, the two men find themselves at odds. Their housekeeper, a local girl named Jennifer, is likewise intrigued by the experiment – called Chloe – and the four of them come together and apart in a tenuous ecosystem formed of differing symbiotic relationships.
For those who may not be at first aware of the novel’s connection to Frankenstein, it should hopefully be obvious around the time Gregor and Simon use their collective skills to create a substrate for the fungi out of the corpse of Jennifer’s best friend. A Botanical Daughter acknowledges Shelley’s work in various ways but chooses its own direction. Here, instead of the scientist fleeing from his creation as a thoughtless God, Gregor and Simon become parents (of varying levels of affection throughout the novel). Likewise, instead of a Monster left to fend for itself and begging for affection, Chloe is freely loved and cared for, especially by Jennifer. If I were to make an argument about nature versus nurture between the two, it would probably take me months to peel the various layers of both texts.
Perhaps some of my favorite echoes of the original (and this is the last paragraph I’ll compare the two I promise) are the themes. The obvious “playing God” ideas take on a more subtle and intriguing vision when our creature is part flesh and part plant. How much sentience and autonomy do we grant plants? In our trimming, fusing, and cultivating of plant life, how much thought is actually given to ethics? The theme of the femininity of nature is also more present as our “monster” is of nature and comes from female flesh rather than an amalgamation of masculine parts. The transgressive nature of a male creating life is traded for the ‘unnatural’ family dynamic of two fathers raising a daughter. Medlock takes many of those original themes and ideas and puts them in his world in a way that feels natural.
The perspective shifts between Gregor, Simon, and Jennifer with copies of correspondence or journal entries scattered throughout to add depth. Gregor, slighted in the past by the Royal Horticultural Society, has something to prove about his love of mycology. Simon, an artist of taxidermized tableaus, understands Gregor on a level no one else does but sometimes feels neglected for plants. Jennifer, mourning the loss of her close friend, finds the position at Grimfern fascinating and Chloe more so. Together, in their observations of the experiment’s growth and changes, we come to have a multifaceted understanding of what Chloe is.
Those differences can be unsettling for readers. Is Chloe just an experiment with only the same level of function and sentience as fungi? Is she a daughter capable of learning and loving her fathers? Is she a woman desperate for autonomy and a partner? Even in the end, I’m not sure I have an exact answer. Depending on which theory I land on, the novel is either a comforting Gothic or a real terror about what, exactly, constitutes humanity and if all we are is the sum of biology firing at different levels. And I love that.
Simon is more than your average “mad scientist” and the genuine enthusiasm he has for plants is wonderful. The care and attention he puts into not just Chloe but every plant and experiment in his greenhouse is enthralling. His ongoing struggle on whether Chloe is just a creation or something more, and his desire to control her, is one of the ongoing plots. Simon, on the other hand, is the opposite – at first horrified by what they’ve done and then coming to love Chloe as the sum of her parts. His subconscious ‘exorcism’ of what disturbs him was a fun element of the book. Lastly, Jennifer…I’m still not sure whether Jennifer’s care of and feelings for Chloe are romantic or tragic – and why can’t they be both? She’s a headstrong character who isn’t afraid to speak her mind and her confidence grows as she’s allowed more freedom at Grimfern, but at what cost for her happiness?
The interesting thing about Chloe is that she doesn’t seem monstrous, and it’s through no obvious fault of her own. At first, she’s portrayed as kind of an in-utero blossoming as the fungi takes hold of the substrate and comes into its own. Her first curious movements are the same as any plant: reaching for light, water, and nutrients. It’s only as the text begins to separate her inhumanness and give her more humanity that those lines blur. She’s like an innocent child learning the world through others and her own curiosity. Sometimes it’s for the better and sometimes not. Gregor’s continual arguments about her motives seem null compared to a being who changes. Chloe isn’t a villain, but I’m not comfortable saying she’s pure good.
Beyond the existential dread of the novel, the plot contains good moments of terror or gore. From the initial dissection and build of the “substrate” to Little Shop of Horrors-esque murders or the erotic yet horrifying climax, Medlock doesn’t shy from embracing the macabre. Most of these moments aren’t formed from suspense but rather a sense of dread. As readers we see the characters making choices we may not agree with, and we are helpless to stop them. How far will we go for scientific progress? What are we willing to sacrifice to better our lives?
As this is also a historical novel, A Botanical Daughter does good work of embracing its late 19th century setting. Visitors are sometimes entertained at Grimfern, but travel is largely an unwanted luxury. The scientific ‘fads’ of the time–botany, taxidermy, photography–all have a place. Overall, Medlock doesn’t dwell too much on exposition in a way that feels out of narrative, but as readers we still learn. Most of all, perhaps, the queerness of the novel exists in the safety of its setting, a place where the characters can be themselves, and how they’ve hidden from the world as much as possible.
On that note – and without spoiling too much, I hope – I struggled at first with part of the ending. It leaned uncomfortably close to the ‘bury your gays’ trope that we’ve been negotiating with for the past twenty years. Whether it was due to the monstrous plant or tragic fate, I, at first, felt unsatisfied. Now, I’m still somewhat unsatisfied but understanding. In a world that allows for perpetual bachelors with a semi-knowing wink, that same allowance would not be granted to women. If it’s transgressive for two men to not have families of their own and instead build one to share, then it’s equally so for women to shirk that ‘responsibility’ altogether. This is an ending I’ll be wrestling with for a bit, but it feels at home with the text, its themes, and what it’s trying to convey.
Overall, A Botanical Daughter breathes new originality into a popular plot. The story and characters unfurl like a flower opening to the light, and its beauty captures the attention. Fans of Frankenstein will obviously enjoy this, but I could say the same if you’re a fan of What Moves the Dead. Readers who are wild about the literary mycology trend over the past few years can find another addition here. If you like awkwardly cute scientists, have more than three succulents in your home, and are good at holding grudges, then Gregor may be your new favorite character. If you have macabre special interests or an insatiable curiosity or like found family tropes, then this one’s for you. Find a copy of A Botanical Daughter today – it’ll grow on you.
Thank you to NetGalley and Titan Books for the advance copy.
Reading Malone 