I am currently reading Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. Wow. Or rather: the reading of this book, quite separate from other books which have been read by myself upon occasion, although less frequently as had happened in my earlier years because of life’s obligations, not to mention increased diversions vying for my attention, keeps me quite on my mental toes.
I find I can’t follow Shelley’s train of thought without moving my lips silently as I go along … similar to when I needed to read The Canterbury Tales out loud in order to have a hope of understanding what I had been assured was the English language.
Even the story veers off in one direction only to dip and weave around to sneak back upon itself. At least I assume it will materialize behind itself by the end. I’ve already gone from a mariner’s letters to his sister to the recollection of a stranded man (Frankenstein) he came across in his voyage, who is now reciting the particulars of a third man’s (if you can call Frankenstein’s creation a “man”) experiences in the first person. It makes sense the story will retract from the creature’s discourse to the stranded man’s recollections to the original mariner’s letters. But then again, it would have made more sense to not have fractured the story or its delivery quite so thoroughly in the first place.
In other words, I’m quite enjoying it.