This is a so-called “classic” which was written in 1818. I am more of a contemporary fiction kind of girl and this book certainly has not changed my mind. I read it for a book club, otherwise I would not have got through the first few chapters. But, admittedly, once I had begun this strange and meandering tale I did want to find out how it all ended.
The story begins with an unnecessary character who finds the protagonist in a right old state. We then switch to Frankenstein’s story, to the monster’s point of view, then back to Frankenstein’s point of view, then back to the first character. We get rather more back story than I feel we need on both the first bloke and on Frankenstein himself, and almost nothing at all on how he creates the monster.
The poor old monster goes on a killing spree then tries to blackmail Frankenstein in to making him a friend. Frankenstein cannot make his mind up what to do, but we certainly go through his anguish with him, pages and pages of anguish that I scanned over.
This book is all over the place and full of waffle. I have read some, if not very many, books from this period and I do not think it is a symptom of it’s age, but just poor writing. The gothic horror legend Mary Shelley is not very good, is my conclusion and humble opinion.