Well... this started out great - the beautiful writing, the dark atmosphere and the building of mystery hooked me for a few chapters.

After about a third of the book however, I realised what a huge, self-centered dick the protagonist is. I have never read a book with so much whining, self pity and the absolute worst handling of consequences for a problem you have created yourself. This man goes out of his way to explain that he is the victim in every situation - to a degree that is so ridiculous that I had to read some scenes twice. At least all that wailing was contrasted with over-the-top romantic descriptions of landscapes.

I don't want to discredit the book - overall, the concept of the misunderstood monster was handled quite beautifully and I can understand why this story had such an impact on literature. However, I think it says enough that the most horrific thing in this book for me was whiny Frankenstein and not his creation. I also want to mark that there would've been a lot more room for strong female characters - usually I don't critizise classic literature for that but since Shelley's mother was such a known feminist, I was a bit baffled by all those damsels in distress.