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kevin_shepherd 's review for:
Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus
by Mary Shelley
"It was on a dreary night of November, that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs."
I hath taken every precaution to compose my review as such, in the 19th century vernacular of which Frankenstein was first conceived. My hand and heart ever on watch to prevent artifice; or perhaps to command it. By these means and no others I gained a degree of tranquility. Indeed I, with thumb to iPhone typing out these words of praise, became the bearer of blissful countenance; the word itself I had to google, for 'countenance' hath fallen out of favor long ago. I reveled in the gothic outlay of Shelley's prose; her manner and composition ladled an eerie atmosphere, congruent to the tale at hand, over my over-active imagination. Thus I discovered that the monstrosity contained herein was many times more wretched than that of Whale and Karloff and I was taken back by the complexity of plot and the utter darkness that permeates these pages. There is a genius here that was, in conception, far ahead of its time, even if, in practice, it was very much a product of its time. To Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, I doff my cap.
I hath taken every precaution to compose my review as such, in the 19th century vernacular of which Frankenstein was first conceived. My hand and heart ever on watch to prevent artifice; or perhaps to command it. By these means and no others I gained a degree of tranquility. Indeed I, with thumb to iPhone typing out these words of praise, became the bearer of blissful countenance; the word itself I had to google, for 'countenance' hath fallen out of favor long ago. I reveled in the gothic outlay of Shelley's prose; her manner and composition ladled an eerie atmosphere, congruent to the tale at hand, over my over-active imagination. Thus I discovered that the monstrosity contained herein was many times more wretched than that of Whale and Karloff and I was taken back by the complexity of plot and the utter darkness that permeates these pages. There is a genius here that was, in conception, far ahead of its time, even if, in practice, it was very much a product of its time. To Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, I doff my cap.