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"But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the lovely and the helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept, and grasped to death his throat who never injured me or any other living thing. I have devoted my creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of love and admiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that irremediable ruin. There he lies, white and cold in death. You hate me; but your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard myself. I look on the hands which executed the deed; I think on the heart in which the imagination of it was conceived, and long for the moment when these hands will meet my eyes, when that imagination will haunt my thoughts no more. 去书内
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  • 用户718849 用户718849

    This confession is a harrowing self-condemnation, as the creature confronts the abyss of his actions: “murdered the lovely,” “strangled the innocent,” and destroyed his own “creator”—the man he both loathes and defines himself by. The repetition of “I have” hammers home his complicity, yet phrases like “you hate me; but your abhorrence cannot equal” reveal a soul consumed by self-loathing far deeper than external judgment. His fixation on his “hands” and “heart” as instruments of evil lays bare the horror of self-awareness: he knows he is a monster, not by nature, but by a choice born of endless suffering. The image of Frankenstein “white and cold in death” is both triumph and ruin, a final proof that vengeance devours the avenger. In these words, the creature is neither villain nor victim but a shattered mirror, reflecting the horror of a world that made monstrosity inevitable—and the inescapable cost of a humanity denied.

    2025-06-08 喜欢(0) 回复(0)

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