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I recently finished reading Mary Shelley's Frankenstein and I have to say I was awestruck. Previous to the reading, likely because of a lifetime of movie-watching, I was a torch-carrying, pitchfork-yeilding villager. All I ever knew of Frankenstein's monster was his savage, murdering ways; which could only be arrested by burning. I suppose this is the trap we fall into when we watch rather than read.
Shelley's novel does indeed show a violent, murdering monster but as the story develops I found myself tearful over the tenderness and lonliness of this involuntary being. I would even go so far as to say that by the end of the story I felt more compassion for the "monster" than for Dr. Frankenstein. I put quotation marks around monster for this reason: as I read this story I began to wonder who the real monster was - creature or creator.
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