Happy Halloween

Frankenstein is one of my favorite classic stories. Not the television versions but the story by Mary Shelley. She may not have intended to write a story that reveals our great need for love, acceptance, and redemption, but that is what I get from the story. If you haven’t read it because you think it’s a monster story, give it a try and let me know what you think afterwards. This morning I had a little fun with it and made a card for my friends and family. Enjoy!

What are your thoughts on the classic book Frankenstein?

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Comments

  1. I am teaching Frankenstein now. I am approaching it through the lens of Keats’ “Ode to a Grecian Urn.” the discussions have been fascinating.

    Ode on a Grecian Urn
      
    THOU still unravish’d bride of quietness,  
      Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,  
    Sylvan historian, who canst thus express  
      A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:  
    What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape          5
      Of deities or mortals, or of both,  
        In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?  
      What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?  
    What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?  
        What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?   10
     
    Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard  
      Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;  
    Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,  
      Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:  
    Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave   15
      Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;  
        Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,  
    Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;  
        She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,  
      For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!   20
     
    Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed  
      Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;  
    And, happy melodist, unwearièd,  
      For ever piping songs for ever new;  
    More happy love! more happy, happy love!   25
      For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,  
        For ever panting, and for ever young;  
    All breathing human passion far above,  
      That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,  
        A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.   30
     
    Who are these coming to the sacrifice?  
      To what green altar, O mysterious priest,  
    Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,  
      And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?  
    What little town by river or sea-shore,   35
      Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,  
        Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?  
    And, little town, thy streets for evermore  
      Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell  
        Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.   40
     
    O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede  
      Of marble men and maidens overwrought,  
    With forest branches and the trodden weed;  
      Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought  
    As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!   45
      When old age shall this generation waste,  
        Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe  
      Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,  
    ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all  
        Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’   50

    S. Thomas Summers
    Author of Private Hercules McGraw: Poems of the American Civil War
     

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