An odd experience reading this considering how great the story is and the intriguing ideas it explores while being an awfully overwritten mess that was a slog to trudge through.Shelley explores what seems like postpartum depression via the lens of a horror novel and works in ruminations upon free will, human socialization, existentialism, and prejudice. However sandwiched between her exploration of these themes is both a lengthy travelogue an extensive periods of time in which Frankenstein does nothing but describe to the audience how hopelessly miserable he is. I would not be surprised to find that nearly a third of the pages of this novel are one of the two of these. I'd read for pages at a time of Frankenstein describing the layout of Swiss towns and mountains only to have absolutely nothing happen aside from him passing through them without event. I know Lord Byron, Percy Shelley, and Mary were all traveling through Switzerland prior to her writing this and she was surely inspired to write about the wonderful vistas they witnessed, but this is sheer, worthless fat; an indulgence on the author's part that doesn't serve the story and bores the reader to the point of forcing skimming or putting the book down. It's also hurt by the chapter-long instances of Frankenstein moaning directly to us just how woefully miserable he is, breaking the cardinal rule of show-don't-tell and causing the reader to shout "Oh just get on with it then, Victor, damn it, we haven't got all day".
I strongly considered putting the book down through the middle portion at the height of Shelley's dithering, put upon reflection it is my opinion that it presents novel questions and, more importantly, ends superbly enough to make it worth a read. I just can't help but suspect a more experienced writer than Shelley was at the time of writing Frankenstein could have turned in a far tighter story and shorn off a fair chunk of this bloated mess into the true masterpiece it's reputed to be.
⭐⭐⭐
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