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Danse Macabre :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 47 из 359The inevitable result, of course, is the creation of a monster with more parts than a J.
C. Whitney automotive catalogue. Trankenstein accomplishes this creation in one long, delirious burst of activity-and it is in these scenes that Shelley offers us her most vivid prose.
On the grave robbery necessary to the task at hand: Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave or tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble, and my eyes swim with the remembrance . . . . I collected bones from charnel-houses and disturbed, with profane fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human frame . . . . I kept my workshop of filthy creation; my eyeballs were starting from their sockets in attending to the details of my employment.
On the dream which follows the completion of the experiment: I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the street of Ingolstadt.
Delighted and surprised, I embraced her, but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the graveworms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I started from my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed; when, by the dim and yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window shutters, I beheld the wretch-the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up the curtain of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks.
Victor responds to this vision as any sane man would; he runs shrieking into the night. The remainder of Shelley's story is a Shakespearean tragedy, its classical unity broken only by Ms.
Shelley's uncertainty as to where the fatal flaw lies-is it in Victor's hubris (usurping a power that belongs only to God) or in his failure to take responsibility for his creation after endowing it with the life-spark?
The monster begins its revenge against its creator by killing Frankenstein's little brother, William. We are not terribly sorry to see William go, by the way; when the monster tries to befriend the boy, William replies: "Hideous monster! Let me go. My papa is a syndic-he is M.
Frankenstein-he will punish you. You dare not keep me.
C. Whitney automotive catalogue. Trankenstein accomplishes this creation in one long, delirious burst of activity-and it is in these scenes that Shelley offers us her most vivid prose.
On the grave robbery necessary to the task at hand: Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave or tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble, and my eyes swim with the remembrance . . . . I collected bones from charnel-houses and disturbed, with profane fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human frame . . . . I kept my workshop of filthy creation; my eyeballs were starting from their sockets in attending to the details of my employment.
On the dream which follows the completion of the experiment: I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the street of Ingolstadt.
Delighted and surprised, I embraced her, but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the graveworms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I started from my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed; when, by the dim and yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window shutters, I beheld the wretch-the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up the curtain of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks.
Victor responds to this vision as any sane man would; he runs shrieking into the night. The remainder of Shelley's story is a Shakespearean tragedy, its classical unity broken only by Ms.
Shelley's uncertainty as to where the fatal flaw lies-is it in Victor's hubris (usurping a power that belongs only to God) or in his failure to take responsibility for his creation after endowing it with the life-spark?
The monster begins its revenge against its creator by killing Frankenstein's little brother, William. We are not terribly sorry to see William go, by the way; when the monster tries to befriend the boy, William replies: "Hideous monster! Let me go. My papa is a syndic-he is M.
Frankenstein-he will punish you. You dare not keep me.