Frankenstein

So I read this in high school and I guess I was drunk because I don't really remember.  Ok, I probably wasn't actually drunk, but I still didn't recall the book well enough to felt like I'd read it.  Upon this second reading, I was entranced at first- the language was beautiful, the story captivating, and I enjoyed the connection between the characters.  As it progressed, however, I found my feelings oscillating between love and annoyance.  Why?  SOOOOOOOO much BITCHING.

Yeah, that's right.  Dr. Frankenstein was kind of a whiny little bitch.  Sure, he had a right to some melancholy, but geeeeeeeeeez.  After a while I wanted to choke him myself.  Now, to be fair, Mary Shelley did an incredible job with 7/8ths of the book (and she was only 19 at the time of its writing).  The story truly was lovely and my heart broke for "the fiend" that was so unloved and reviled, by all, and especially, by his creator.  His story, as told to Dr. Frankenstein, was so piteous.  I cried for him and yet, the vengeful evilness that was born from it?  I'm gonna go ahead and go with wowzers.

Was it worth my time?  Sure.  It was very good, but it brought back my remembrances of how I persistently felt about reading for myself (until the last 6 months or so, truly)- I ALMOST loved it, but not really.