One begins writing a story when afflicted by a desire to contribute to something. To understand the way we are born, deemed to live, and fated to die. And all through life, we continue to aspire to this effort; the ability to fuse darkness with light, to swell time and confine space.
Frankenstein by Mary Wollstonecraft is a specimen of such an undertaking. The book may be a fast-paced one, but it definitely stretches through time, in its own world of horror, desolation, and loneliness. The coalescence of horror and science fiction is a dish best served cold. And this book cultivates a deeply perceptive and heart-rending presence. The kind that goes beyond the mind of society and its assumed morality.
The most striking quality about the book is the way it is written. Unforgiving, unsullied, and completely detached from the familiar. The characters seem incredibly grounded and immersed in their thoughts and actions. And not even for a second do they feel the need to step out of such a hardened armor.
And what follows is the disastrous and inseparable relationship between Victor Frankenstein and his monster. A personality cut in two halves – driven by genius, alienation, and fear.
To read it is to feel the oppressive blow of time and the weight we carry only to conceal its inevitable influence on our lives.
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