Cue the Spooky Music

I just finished reading Frankenstein.

The book is not like any of the movie versions I watched. It is darker, more sinister. It explores the depths of human separation. If it had not been written in what, for me, was a more campy style I might not have survived it. It was often painful to stand by, helpless, while the characters made foolish and self-destructive decisions.

I'm ready to move on to a lighter read.

Next on my list is The Little Paris Bookshop by Nina George.

I've been wanting to read it for a couple of years, ever since I began noticing it displayed prominently on the shelves of my favorite independent bookstores. But I never bought it. I decided to wait until I could pick it up at one of my favorite used bookstores. I like the idea of used bookstores, and for much of what I want to read that's my preferred source. I like the idea of printing fewer books and sharing more of the copies already available. I do tend to buy poetry books at a traditional bookstore. I hang on to them for years. Most fiction I read and pass along. With poetry I plumb the depths again and again, tracing a spiral experience with them. With fiction, I tend to either devour or savor and then move on after I've digested it.

Notice I stopped talking about Frankenstein too quickly. 

I spent much of the day talking about it. To myself. I'd have been just as happy to have discussed the book with a conversation partner, but I did not happen to have one today. 

Some thoughts about it:

It's extraordinary that it was written by a nineteen-year-old. And by a woman in the early 1800s.

The book takes me into reflections about the "fall" story in Genesis 2 and 3. The hunger for knowledge beyond one's ability to handle the consequences is key in this story. Frankenstein did not give much thought to the potential consequences of his actions. And once he realized what he had unleashed, he indulged himself in way too much denial and self-pity and way too little action or collaboration with others. And blame? The pages are filled with blame instead of personal responsibility. 

I can't remember the last time I read something that had so much wanton destruction in it. Neither Frankenstein nor the monster gave any thought to much of anything beyond their feelings of the moment. I am not lacking in compassion around their suffering. I also spent 213 pages wincing and shuddering at the choices each of them made. 

For Victor, who possessed a brilliant mind, there was very little discernment. And for the monster, well, he's a monster. A monster created by his own reactions to the fear and rejection he encountered because of his appearance. 


I have no comment about a solution to the dilemma created. Any reasonable solution would probably have negated any kind of interesting story. And there would have been no movies. 

I think the real story here is not that someone was able to solve the mysteries of animating lifeless flesh, but rather the journey of the human soul through its own shadow and projections. Frankenstein's monster is a mirror of its creator's inner world. Hunger that cannot be met. And wild raging through a landscape of self-destruction. The irony of self-destruction is that it usually is not limited to the self. You end up destroying everyone around you as well. 

Of course, there is so much more to this book than the few bits and pieces I chew on in this post. That's it's brilliance, ultimately. You can talk about this one forever.

I expect The Little Paris Bookshop to be memorable, and easily forgettable when I crack the next book on the list.




The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice created to harness three months for thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Sounds like an unusual Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are.