弗兰肯斯坦英文书评

Love Created the World

After reading Frankenstein, I have a deep thought. Frankenstein gave birth to the monster, but he was then scared to serious illness after the first look of him. And the good-natured monster with that hideous face began to doubt his existence, hate himself and lost himself in the road of revenge after so many times of heart broken. Is Frankenstein wrong? I think he is. He has an extraordinary talent and enthusiasm in natural philosophy, and can even create life, but when his creature opened his eyes and gave him a big smile, he didn’t feel happy at all! “How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form?”He refused to acknowledge everything, refused to comprehend him, even refused to see him again and ran away. The essence of life is truth, goodness and beauty, even if he is not a man actually. It isn’t his fault born to be hideous, how can people cruelly kill his soul?

When the monster tells his story, even if he tells it in a peace emotion, I can fell that his heart is crying. Everyone has the right of happiness except him. No one want to comprehend him, or even talk to him just because something he can’t change, his hideous looking. Even his angel, the family he has secretly be with for over a year is afraid of him, beat him and drive him away after they saw him. He is lonely without any care, he is good without any reward. The only thing he has, is a broken heart.

When a warm heart begin to grow cold, when a bright hope begin to get dark, when the monster’s last hope, having a female creature like him, is destroyed, he turned into a cruel and ferocious person. After killed William, frame Justine, killed Clerval and Elizabeth and then Frankenstein, he found that he is not happy at all. His dying monologue gave me quite a big shock.

“ when I first sought it, it was the love of virtue, the feeling of happiness and affection with witch my own being overflowed, that I wished to be participated. But now that virtue has become to me a shadow, and that happiness and affection are turned into bitter and loading despair, in what should I seek for sympathy?

I am content to suffer alone while my sufferings shall endure; when I die, I am well satisfied that abhorrence and opprobrium should load my memory. Once my fancy was soothed with dreams of virtue, of fame, and of enjoyment. Once I falsely hoped to meet with being who, pardoning my outward form, would love me for the excellent qualities which I was capable of unfolding. I was nourished