By Mary Shelley

Reading the classics is always an interesting experience. You know the story, more or less, so you have all of these expectations in terms of enjoyment. You know it’s a classic so you not only expect it to be wonderful because everyone else loves it and it has survived in the literary consciousness for so long BUT you also feel that you should love it because well… everyone else does. Sometimes, the classics work in your favor and are truly remarkable. Other times, they suck but you have to pretend like you liked them so that people don’t open their mouths in shock and disappointment and then try to make you feel inferior for not understanding a work of genius.

For me, Frankenstein was enjoyable but I would not say that I loved it. Sometimes, it can be hard to remember that the text was written in the early 1800s- when the literary style was not exactly my favorite. I wanted the creation of the monster to be described to me in detail, I wanted to see exactly what he looked like- but instead, his creation was pretty quick in relation to the build up and the majority of the novel was dialogue or personal reflection rather than gripping plot. At times, it felt like escalating tension resulted in a sentence of climax and then page after page of reflection.

For those of us who are more familiar with Hollywood versions of this story, the novel itself seems pretty tame in contrast- with a monster who speaks eloquently and passionately about what it means to be the monstrous creation of a creator who is disgusted at the very sight of him.

I would not recommend this book to casual readers looking for a good time but that is not to say that I wouldn’t recommend it to others. For experienced or serious readers, be prepared to ponder god and religion, self-image, love, hate, revenge… all of those insanely deep concepts that form fascinating discussions in grad school discussions.

Overall, enjoyable, thought-provoking, but not the most fun read in the world.

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