Kaylin Insyarath

My childhood was filled with nothing but stories. They came in all shapes and sizes, through movies and television, but the most significant form of stories came to me through books. Fairy tales to be exact. I read about girls in red hoods and houses made out of candy and giant beanstalks and while in the back of my mind somewhere, my six year old self knew that what I was reading couldn’t possibly happen, it didn’t stop me from searching for comfort and solace as well as imagination in these stories that seemed so absurd to my older peers.

Somewhere along the lines of my vibrant youth and my collection of storybooks I came across one about a green monster brought to life by a mad scientist. To be more direct, Frankenstein was first presented to me as a fairy tale. It was a story that didn’t hold much depth, one that I found myself dismissing after just one read. After that, the story of Frankenstein was sprinkled across the societal aspects of my young life as my classmates painted their faces green for Halloween and the television shows that played before 9:30, made references. A monster and a mad scientist. That’s all this story was to me…until now.

After reading Mary Shelley’s original story, I found myself reveling in the vulnerability of it all. The authenticity that makes itself so apparent within the story is refreshing as Mary Shelley draws from the most painful experiences of her life. I favor the stories that seem as if it is a teleplay from the writer’s mind itself. As I look onto the paperback book that sits next to me right now, I know now that it is not the story of a mad scientist and a monster but rather a story of a man longing for friendship just as we all do and of a creature that is the most human character of all. The story stands before us as one that is undisguised and the passion that is found within the pages is what makes this novel one that seems more real than any other fairy tale I could come across.