I was 12 when we moved to the farm. New England is full of old brick buildings, colorful treescapes, and an air that smells of fresh rain and apple pies. These are the things I thought of; not the unmarked mass graves, unknown cave systems under our homes, nor the spirits that walk them.
Frankenstein cannot admit his sins and thus remains silent in the creature’s reign of terror. He goes back and forth blaming himself and then the creature, but are they not the same? The creature was a monster by sight, but Frankenstein was a monster by soul.