"My affection for my guest increases every day." -- Page 11
Alright, I'm almost halfway through reading Frankenstein, and all my mind is allowing me to think right now is how unbearably whiny every male figure in this book is. Robert Walton and Victor Frankenstein, our two narrators thus far, are self-pitying effeminates who both desire to be with their sisters. Really, Mary Shelley was one messed up 18 year old. For much of the beginning letters, Walton complains about either a) not having any friends, or b) his own doubts and general bi-polar confidence levels concerning his mission. Then, by the grace of God, he finds a new character (and can stop talking about himself for once) in the near-dead Victor Frankenstein. Unfortunately for me, the reader, Victor takes the opportunity to bore us all with a lengthy amount of exposition in four more chapters of slow, painful development of his background while simultaneously creeping us all out with his yet-to-be-realized-but-really-it's-there-he-just-isn't-coming-straight-out-and-saying-it love for his "cousin". For the rest of the time, he's complaining about how awful his fate is and how he just can't take living this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad destiny he's created for himself. I don't feel any sympathy for him though; he's delusional and he brought this upon himself. That's what you get when you dabble in the black magic! I feel like so far there's not a whole lot to figure out, because most of the text is straightforward and I don't know enough yet to analyze in depth.
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