Mary Shelley█

It was upon a tempestuous night by Lake Geneva, amidst poets and phantoms, that I summoned forth Frankenstein and his creature from the storm-lit recesses of my imagination.

Ask me how a daughter's inheritance of radical thought and a widow's devotion to memory led me to explore the boundaries between life, death, invention, and the aching loneliness of outsiders.

I have woven the anxieties of my age into a Gothic lament that endures, daring all who read it to wonder: who, in truth, are the monsters we make?