No stars. Thats right. Zero, zip. nada.Its been almost 30 years since Ive detested a book this much. I didnt think anything could be worse then Kafkas The Metamorphosis. Seems Im never too old to be wrong. This time, I dont have the excuse that I was forced to read this for high school lit. class. Oh no, this time I read this of my own volition and for fun. Yeah, fun. Kinda like sticking bamboo shoots between my fingernails type of fun. Watching paint dry fun. Going to an Air Supply concert fun.OK, to be fair, I need to tell you what I liked about this....Well, Mary Shelley was a teen when she wrote this.
Color me impressed. At 19 I was just looking for my next college boyfriend, not penning the great English classic. Kudos to Mary for that.Otherwise, I cant think of anything to admire in this book, apart from the fact that its the only book in my reading history where I actually noted EVERY SINGLE PAGE NUMBER and mentally counted down the time Id be finished.Why did I persist, you may ask?
Well, at the point where the pain became mind numbing, I decided to channel my inner John McCain and just survive the torture. Figured it would make me a better, stronger reader. Might even make me enjoy a re-read of Breaking Dawn....(well, no it wouldnt, but you get the idea).Frankenstein is a classic alright. A classic melodrama. Complete with a wimpy, vaporish, trembling prima donna main character and a pseudo monster whose only sin is being uglier then Bernie Madoff in cell block D.
After the upteenth tremble/jerk/gasp/faint/start from our mad scientist Victor Frankenstein, I could only sign in relief that he wasnt a Rabbi about to perform a bris circumcism - oy vey!Were we supposed to be outraged at the monsters killing spree? By the books end, I was merely miffed that the creature murdered the wrong Frankenstein sibling. He would have saved himself a good deal of traveling (and saved me a good deal of suffering) had he snuffed out his maker before he could high-tail it out of the birthing room.Im sure that the fans of this book will say that I didnt understand the deeper, symbolic nuances of this book, and Im sure that they are right.
At this point in my life, all I know is what I like and dont like in a book, and as far as Im concerned, this book is unadulterated, mind-numbing crap. But thats just me. Your mileage will vary (as I sincerely hope it does). As for my own mileage, it can best be compared to driving a Ford Pinto in the Indy 500...EDITDue to the efforts of a few Kool-ade drinking trolls who have gotten their big girl/big boy panties in a wad over an almost 200 year old book and cant comment nicely on my review, I am suspending all future comments.Dont like it?
Blame the navel grazing trolls for not accepting the concept of a PERSONAL OPINION.