Frankenstein [or] The Modern Prometheus (1818) By Mary Shelley

"Accursed creator! Why did you form a monster so hideous that even you turned from me in disgust?"

Few books can lay claim to being as highly touted and recognised as that of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. First published in 1818, this story is considered to be one of, if not, the first science fiction book by many, and Shelley has, by proxy, become known as the mother of the science fiction genre.

Considering, for one moment, the date of its first publication, I think it cannot be understated, by any stretch of the imagination, how marvellously creative and ahead of its time this book is. Frankenstein infuses the believable grips of science and discovery, with the transfixing intrigue and ardour produced by such a shocking and tragic tale, to produce a timeless classic that has stood the test of time in magnificence.

"Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doting parents: how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials was I made, that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture? But I was doomed to live..."

Shelley has beautiful dictation, which is no doubt an immense contributor to the book's success and longevity. Her most iconic of novels is a story of tragedy and irony, of revenge and downfall.

Initially, I shall confess, I was a little lost by the opening volume, as it felt strangely irrelevant and unrelated to such a story of monstrous creation. However, this soon lead into, what I would to discover to be, a truly epic and winding story that spans the journey of one Victor Frankenstein and his acts of folly into science, happiness and vengeance.

"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."

Ultimately, this story is one that, without a doubt, gave far more to me than I admittedly expected. Such provocative emotions and misfortune, I was inevitably swept up and entranced by the horrors Shelley produced.

In many respects, this novel ventures to tell of two wretches, whose misery compounds itself in furthering the misery of the other, and dooms them both to a life of eternal solitude and agony. Yet, ironically, each one is bound to the other, with no glimmer of relent; Frankenstein and his monster.

"The fallen angel becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that enemy of God and man had friends and associates in his desolation; I am alone."