This October, I picked up Frankenstein for the first time, expecting an extremely creepy tale about a doctor who screams, “It’s alive!” when his villainous, ugly creature dons life.

In reality, I just read a moving piece of literature about a college dropout who faints as much as a lady in a Victorian romance novel, and a handsome, tall guy who hates for lack of love.

Thus begins my review for Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus:

This book is not scary in a “so much gore, so little time!” way. This book is more of a slow horror as Victor slowly becomes the man you meet at the beginning of the novel—a pathetic, heartbroken, old man still unable to see the folly in his actions. The whole story cries of “what should had been!” and becomes an examination of human downfall through over-ambition. One of the most interesting ways Shelley explores this is through the use of parallels, and the “nature vs. nurture” argument.

Victor, who, despite his pleasant upbringing of being loved by his parents and friends, is selfish and (spiritually) blind. The nurturing of his early years does nothing to increase his compassion for others—his nature remains the same even concerning his own creation. The moment the creature’s eyes open, Frankenstein immediately regrets the project and runs away, horrified. He leaves a giant baby out in the cold and never worries about the town’s safety (or the creature’s for that matter). Years pass with Frankenstein trying to forget his creation, and throughout the story he tells, Victor never stops to consider that he should have shown love to his creature just as his parents showed love to him. Instead, he denies responsibility for his actions, and cries, “Woe is me! Why does this always happen to me, I never did anything wrong!” whenever a fresh horror grips his family.

Then, things get crazier. You know all those films where Frankenstein’s monster is green, with bolts in his neck and dark circles under his eyes? Turns out that’s all a figment of some director’s imagination; in reality, the parts Frankenstein uses to make the monster are from “handsome” specimens. Only the creature’s eyes and height are terrifying.

And terrifying these must have been, for the townspeople run away screaming whenever the monster shows himself to any humans. The monster, then, must learn everything on his own. Because his creator abandons him at the moment of his conscious waking, the monster seeks love elsewhere, but receives none. Only after repeated rejection does he seek violence, as a way to lash out at the cruel world, and the man who created him. Due to lack of nurture, the nature of the creature turns from “mere creation” to “terrifying monster.”

And all those stereotypes that Frankenstein’s monster can’t speak? Also a lie. Not only does he learn fluent French, but he confronts Frankenstein about the nature of their situation with such eloquence that at the end of his tale, the reader starts to wonder if there are two monsters in this story.

“Why read this book if it’s such a downer, Jules?”

This is a horrifying tale, but it is also a good story. Mary Shelley weaves in parallels, atmospheric landscape, and incredible dialogue to take the reader on a journey, but brings her back with the questions the book leaves in its wake: Was Frankenstein always selfish, or could one pinpoint the moment where he rejects compassion? Is the monster absolved from his violent acts because no one ever loved him? Most importantly, does college turn you into an emaciated, academic husk?

(Totally kidding on that last one…maybe)

Anyway, if you’re ready to explore the human psyche, come to your own conclusions to these questions, or relate to a fellow sleep-deprived college student, embark on this tale of woe and literary genius…tis the season, after all.