Last week we studied Frankenstein in my Gothic novel class; I had read it many times before, but it is a work which never fails to profoundly disturb and move me. Still, I can't help but wonder how we came from the picture above, to this...

However much I love Boris Karloff, I can't quite imagine him, in his incoherence, getting to grips with Shelley's creature's torment: "I do know that for the sympathy of one living being, I would make peace with all. I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other."
Shelley's misunderstood and miserable Creature (he deserves the dignity of that title - it's only Victor and society who term him a monster) - to Karloff's staggering, groaning Monster. I wonder what Mary Shelley would have made of him.

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