So, Frankenstein is another one of those books I've been meaning to read forever, but never quite got around to. I'm about halfway through it now. It's a pretty easy read, even in spite of its often needless verbosity. I'm... enjoying it, actually, I guess, even though the plot is not particularly engaging, and the style is rather unremarkable. Maybe I'm just so delighted to have a break from reading about Julien Sorel's tedious exploits that almost anything seems enjoyable... Ahem.
But apart from all that: Dude. Seriously. This is one hell of an eloquent and erudite two-year old monster. The thing is making offhanded references to Paradise Lost. What.
Frankly, if I were Mr. Frankenstein, I would be much less terrified by the fact that my gigantic, livid, misbegotten undead beastie was thundering toward me in a desolate place than by the fact that this thing's first words to me, rather than "Uuuuurgh," or even "Daddy," were, "I expected this reception." Followed by an outpouring of carefully enunciated entreaties sprinkled with biblical allusions. And angst.
Oy, Shelley. I'm sorry, mam'selle, but you -- are a silly person.
(The quote in the title, by the way, is not from Frankenstein. It's from a Russian folktale called "The Jester," which, alarmingly, is actually far much more sensible than this maddening "science" which the preface of Frankenstein boasts as "not of impossible occurence"...)