Reading Frankenstein has made me re-realize one of the things I best love about reading. That weird interconnectedness that happens between authors and books from different times that all gets centered inside you and wants to come rolling out on, like, you know a blog or something. I really haven’t felt that feeling in a long while.
So, how’d it happen? Well, like I said, I’m reading Frankenstein. Suggested to me here in my comments. In my mind, a perfect book to read as autumn falls around me and the near-arctic winter of prairie Canada quickly puts a stake in. The weird connections the internet affords must be putting me in this frame of mind. Hypertexts lead to Hyperthemes?
Anyway, the weird connections. Frankenstein joins in a theological fantasy symphony with Moby Dick and Never Let Me Go, both two books that needed Frankenstein to join them together in my mind. Madmen, false Adams, things that should not be, loss, loneliness, Giant whales that represent our hatred of God. They all share these things. Wait, alright I guess only Moby Dick has the whale. I suppose Never Let Me Go wasn’t exactly perfect then. Mr. Ishiguro? More whale next time, please.
I love that about reading though. When the gears start turning in your head and peeling back the sky. The more great books the better. The more true-weirdness that the best provide. The more whale the better.
OK, I guess the whale isn’t going to get replicated anytime soon. Are there whales in Frankenstein? Don’t spoil it for me.