Download Frankenstein PDF by Mary Shelley published in 1823. You can download this book in PDF format from the link provided below.
Inside Frankenstein book
The novel editors, when deciding to publish Frankenstein for one of their series, were curious for me to tell them about the origin of the story. I accepted it very willingly, as it gives me the opportunity to answer in general the question that I am often asked. How was it that I, as a young woman, was able to think and talk about such a horrible subject. It is true that I have a total aversion to presenting myself in print, but, as my explanation will only serve as an appendix to a production previous. It will be restricted to matters exclusively related to my quality as an author. I can hardly accuse myself of a personal intrusion.
As the daughter of two personalities of notable literary celebrity, it is no surprise that I intended to write early in my life. As a child, I doodled, and my favorite pastime during recreational hours was writing stories. I had, however, even greater pleasure than this, that is, building castles in the air – allowing myself to daydream – followed by a torrent of thoughts that aimed at forming a succession of imaginary incidents. My dreams were both more fantastic and pleasant than my writings. In the latter, I had a lot of imitation – doing more what others had already done than making suggestions in my own mind. What he wrote was meant for at least someone else – my childhood companion and friend; my dreams, however, were just for me; I revealed them to no one, they were my refuge when I was bored – my dearest pleasures when I was free.
As a girl, I lived mainly in the countryside and spent a considerable amount of time in Scotland. Occasionally, I visited the most picturesque regions, although my usual residence was the clear and sad beaches of the North Tay coast, near Dundee. Looking back, I call them clear and sad; at that time, they didn’t look like that to me. They were the abode of freedom and the pleasant region where I could carelessly communicate with the creatures of my fantasy. At that time I was writing, although in the most common of styles.
It was under the trees of the fields belonging to our house, or on the bare and desolate slopes of the nearby mountains, that my true compositions and the fantastic flights of my imagination were born and flourished. I didn’t make myself a hero in my short stories. As far as I was concerned, life seemed commonplace. I could never imagine myself involved in romantic afflictions or wonderful events; however, I was not stuck with my own identity, and I could populate those hours with creations for me much more important, at that age, than my own sensations.
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