Finally re-read Frankenstein, and I’m now left wondering, did I even read it in the first place?! I felt like I was experiencing a brand-new book, which I’m definitely not complaining about, but wow, I had no recollection of a lot of the story. Granted, I read it over 20 years ago, but still, I thought I’d remember more of such a classic.

Anyway, poor memory forgotten, the book affected me. Frankenstein made my blood boil practically every time he opened his mouth. He failed to take responsibility. Buddy, you were the cause of everything. I could go on and on about his selfishness, hubris, and obsessiveness, but he doesn’t warrant my time.

Now the monster, my heart broke for him–(even though, yes, he did murder people, though it was society’s reaction to his physical form that made him evil)–that whole year when he spied on the family, when he learned to speak and read, when he hoped that the blind man would accept him. But it never happened because the man’s son appeared and promptly started beating the monster with a stick. Argh…