Lower your veils, ladies, it's another death anniversary (
she writes with glee!) On February 1, 1851
Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, the author of
Frankenstein, died from a brain tumor at the age of 53. Lest you think- oh! too young! - be assured that Shelley lived life to the fullest and experienced more than most of us ever will in her 53 years.
I don't have the time or energy to even scratch the surface of Shelley's tragically romantic life. Living in a time of strict moral codes provided courtesy of Victorian Society, Shelley and her posse seemed to break every one of them. Just reading her Wikipedia entry will exhaust you. She was fantastic. (
Sometimes I think the Victorians made up all the rules just for the excitement of breaking them.)
All of this brings me to
Frankenstein: Or, The Modern Prometheus. If you haven't read the actual book, chances are you know the story. Shelley wrote the book after being given the challenge to write a ghost story while sitting round the fire with her then lover Percy Shelley, Lord Byron, and a few other bohemian friends. It is almost too perfect.
Read her biography, watch a movie, pick up a copy of Frankenstein today, or put a bolt in your pocket for good luck. You could also support other unconventional artists by shopping on Etsy.
I feel a swoon coming on.
No comments:
Post a Comment