Frankenstein: ; Or, The Modern Prometheus

Portada
Penguin Books, Limited, 1823
A stunning new clothbound edition of Mary Shelley's infamous work of horror fiction designed by Coralie Bickford-Smith
Obsessed by creating life itself, Victor Frankenstein plunders graveyards for the material to fashion a new being, which he shocks into life by electricity. But his botched creature, rejected by Frankenstein and denied human companionship, sets out to destroy his maker and all that he holds dear. This chilling gothic tale, begun when Mary Shelley was just nineteen years old, would become the world's most famous work of horror fiction, and remains a devastating exploration of the limits of human creativity.
 

Comentarios de la gente - Escribir un comentario

Calificaciones de los usuarios

5 estrellas
170
4 estrellas
666
3 estrellas
160
2 estrellas
66
1 estrella
26

Review: Frankenstein

Crítica de los usuarios  - Goodreads

At times, I was fearful to not be immersed in this haunting and deeply tragic novel. I was very much afraid I would turn a corner or flip on a light to see a demonic monster standing in my wake. In ... Leer comentario completo

Review: Frankenstein

Crítica de los usuarios  - Goodreads

Frankenstein, I don't know what to begin this review with? Let's start with The Pace, This book is painfully slow paced,especially when the story is narrated by Frankenstein or Victor Frankenstein who ... Leer comentario completo

Los 54 comentarios »

Páginas seleccionadas

Contenido

I
v
II
39
V
61
VI
78
VII
97
VIII
114
IX
134
X
160
XV
1
XVI
16
XVII
30
XVIII
52
XIX
74
XX
89
XXI
109
XXII
128

XI
182
XII
197
XIII
213
XIV
234
XXIII
152
XXIV
179
XXV
204
XXVI
222

Otras ediciones - Ver todas

Términos y frases comunes

Pasajes populares

Página 100 - I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I F2 embraced her ; but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death ; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms ; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel.
Página 106 - What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
Página 98 - I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open ; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs. How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom, with such infinite pains and care, I had endeavoured to form?
Página 97 - IT was on a dreary night of November, that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet.
Página 248 - My imagination was vivid, yet my powers of analysis and application were intense ; by the union of these qualities I conceived the idea, and executed the creation of a man.
Página 213 - It is with considerable difficulty that I remember the original era of my being: all the events of that period appear confused and indistinct. A strange multiplicity of sensations seized me, and I saw, felt, heard, and smelt, at the same time; and it was, indeed, a long time before I learned to distinguish between the operations of my various senses.
Página 74 - But these philosophers, whose hands seem only made to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pore over the microscope or crucible, have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the recesses of nature and show how she works in her hiding-places.
Página 279 - I shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning miseries will be extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly, and exult in the agony of the torturing flames.
Página 62 - my firmest hopes of future happiness were placed on the prospect of your union. This expectation will now be the consolation of your father. Elizabeth, my love, you must supply...
Página 275 - Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all human kind sinned against me? Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his friend from his door with contumely? Why do you not execrate the rustic who sought to destroy the saviour of his child?

Acerca del autor (1823)

Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley was born in England on August 30, 1797. Her parents were two celebrated liberal thinkers, William Godwin, a social philosopher, and Mary Wollstonecraft, a women's rights advocate. Eleven days after Mary's birth, her mother died of puerperal fever. Four motherless years later, Godwin married Mary Jane Clairmont, bringing her and her two children into the same household with Mary and her half-sister, Fanny. Mary's idolization of her father, his detached and rational treatment of their bond, and her step-mother's preference for her own children created a tense and awkward home. Mary's education and free-thinking were encouraged, so it should not surprise us today that at the age of sixteen she ran off with the brilliant, nineteen-year old and unhappily married Percy Bysshe Shelley. Shelley became her ideal, but their life together was a difficult one. Traumas plagued them: Shelley's wife and Mary's half-sister both committed suicide; Mary and Shelley wed shortly after he was widowed but social disapproval forced them from England; three of their children died in infancy or childhood; and while Shelley was an aristocrat and a genius, he was also moody and had little money. Mary conceived of her magnum opus, Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus, when she was only nineteen when Lord Byron suggested they tell ghost stories at a house party. The resulting book took over two years to write and can be seen as the brilliant creation of a powerful but tormented mind. The story of Frankenstein has endured nearly two centuries and countless variations because of its timeless exploration of the tension between our quest for knowledge and our thirst for good. Shelley drowned when Mary was only 24, leaving her with an infant and debts. Mary died in 1851 at the age of 54 from a brain tumor.

Información bibliográfica