"'Abhorred monster! fiend that thou art! the tortures of hell are too mild a vengeance for thy crimes. Wretched devil! you reproach me with your creation; come on, then, that I may extinguish the spark which I so negligently bestowed.' / He easily eluded me..." -- Page 68
I don't like Victor that much anymore. He's mean to poor Franky (as I affectionately call him), and he's a loser. He charges at his creation, "impelled by all the feelings which can arm one being against the existence of another", and misses horribly. I'm empathize much more with Franky, because his longings seem at least genuine and with reason. His creator shunned him already upon creation, and he has no friend; he's abhorrent, an abomination. His sadness and self-pity is well founded, whereas Victor just whines about his supposed fate without taking any steps to change or prevent it. Victor has the love of his family which he has abused, while Franky has never had the love of anyone. Poor guy. On a slightly unrelated note, I think the fact that Victor refuses to tell Walton the secret of life is a total cop out on the part of Mary Shelley, so we're back on bad terms again. Make something up, at least the lightning thing! Sheesh.
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