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Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

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I used to think that Frankenstein was the monster and not the creator of the monster. I know, tsk tsk. But I bet there are numerous number of people who think that too. Confess it; I won’t bite you. No, Frankenstein is not the green-skinned blockheaded zombie with bolts in his neck. Frankenstein is the person who created the monster. There are several other things that shouldn’t trust from the movie, so it’s best to read the book instead.

I love how the story is like a set of Russian dolls. The largest doll that covers it all is Walton’s letters to his sister, and Frankenstein’s story fits inside that, and within Frankenstein’s story is the monster’s story. See how beautifully layered that is?

And it’s beautifully meaningful too. It raises great questions about humans trying to go beyond their limits when experimenting in science. Right now, nanotechnology is the hot topic full of hope, but what about the ethical dangers that could occur in the future as a result of this scientific advance? It’s stuff to ponder about.

If you want, you could block out all of the themes and symbols and just read it as a chilling horror sci-fi story. It’s quite an extraordinary book whichever way you read it.



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