Scan barcode
A review by e333mily
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
5.0
Years ago I studied this book with my favourite English teacher, the one who introduced me to the romantic poets & philosophy. It was a small Extension English class—just me and my friend—and our teacher would buy us hot chips from the corner shop and we’d sit on top of the desks with our legs criss-crossed and discuss the sublime & galvanism & tabula rasa.
I can’t overstate how formative those few hours each week were, how much they shaped me into who I am. I don’t think I would love this text anywhere near as much as I do, if I hadn’t spent hour upon hour discussing it with a teacher I really admired, who valued my thoughts & taught me to value them as well.
There is so much I could say about this book (god knows I’ve written numerous essays) but at the end of the day isn’t it just about feeling absolutely gut-wrenchingly scream-into-the-night-sky lonely? Lonely like a motherless creature with a body held together by threads. (And that’s not even getting into the layers upon layers of grief & loss & hurt experienced by Mary, losing her mother, losing her child, did you know she kept Percy Shelley’s heart in her desk drawer after he died, wrapped in poetry?)
Which is all to say that I love this book, and I love remembering the first time I read it, and I love Mary Shelley & I love Frankenstein’s creature (I wish I could give him a hug and sit down and read Paradise Lost with him, or else with Mary).
-
“Once I falsely hoped to meet with beings who, pardoning my outward form, would love me for the excellent qualities which I was capable of unfolding... I cannot believe that I am the same creature whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and transcendent visions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it is even so; the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that enemy of God and man had friends and associates in his desolation; I am alone.”
I can’t overstate how formative those few hours each week were, how much they shaped me into who I am. I don’t think I would love this text anywhere near as much as I do, if I hadn’t spent hour upon hour discussing it with a teacher I really admired, who valued my thoughts & taught me to value them as well.
There is so much I could say about this book (god knows I’ve written numerous essays) but at the end of the day isn’t it just about feeling absolutely gut-wrenchingly scream-into-the-night-sky lonely? Lonely like a motherless creature with a body held together by threads. (And that’s not even getting into the layers upon layers of grief & loss & hurt experienced by Mary, losing her mother, losing her child, did you know she kept Percy Shelley’s heart in her desk drawer after he died, wrapped in poetry?)
Which is all to say that I love this book, and I love remembering the first time I read it, and I love Mary Shelley & I love Frankenstein’s creature (I wish I could give him a hug and sit down and read Paradise Lost with him, or else with Mary).
-
“Once I falsely hoped to meet with beings who, pardoning my outward form, would love me for the excellent qualities which I was capable of unfolding... I cannot believe that I am the same creature whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and transcendent visions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it is even so; the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that enemy of God and man had friends and associates in his desolation; I am alone.”