Frankenstein

by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

Now all was blasted; instead of that serenity of conscience which allowed me to look back upon the past with self-satisfaction, and from thence to gather promise of new hopes, I was seized by remorse and the sense of guilt, which hurried me away to a hell of intense tortures such as no language can describe.

So much self pity in this section of the book. A man creates another living being, abandons it out of fear and disgust of his creation, and then sulks forever at the consequences of his actions. I fear this has dead beat dad written all over it.

Before, I looked upon the accounts of vice and injustice that I read in books or heard from others as tales of ancient days or imaginary evils; at least they were remote and more familiar to reason than to the imagination; but now misery has come home, and men appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other's blood.

This is exactly how I’ve felt the last couple of years of broadcasted genocide and monstrous freaks winning the highest offices in the world.