Literary Wisdom · Poetry

On the Death of Frankenstein

When I was first assigned Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, I couldn't think why that could be. Mind you, my teachers were and are exceptionally nice, but horror? The kind made up of nothing but virtually inaccessible laboratories covered in toxic fumes, containing nothing but the maddest and most unearthly fashion of men? Screams of "Aaaah!", "It's alive!", and… Continue reading On the Death of Frankenstein