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"Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief. My work is nearly complete. Neither yours nor any man's death is needed to consummate the series of my being, and accomplish that which must be done; but it requires my own. Do not think that I shall be slow to perform this sacrifice. I shall quit your vessel on the iceraft which brought me thither, and shall seek the most northern extremity of the globe; I shall collect my funeral pile and consume to ashes this miserable frame, that its remains may afford no light to any curious and unhallowed wretch who would create such another as I have been. I shall die. I shall no longer feel the agonies which now consume me, or be the prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet unquenched. He is dead who called me into being; and when I shall be no more the very remembrance of us both will speedily vanish. I shall no longer see the sun or stars, or feel the winds play on my cheeks. Light, feeling, and sense will pass away; and in this condition must I find my happiness. Some years ago, when the images which this world affords first opened upon me, when I felt the cheering warmth of summer, and heard the rustling of the leaves and the warbling of the birds, and these were all to me, I should have wept to die; now it is my only consolation. Polluted by crimes, and torn by the bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in death? 去书内
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  • 用户718849 用户718849

    This final declaration is a tragic surrender to annihilation, as the creature—“polluted by crimes” yet driven by searing remorse—chooses death as his only “consolation.” His vow to “consume to ashes this miserable frame” rejects both his existence and the possibility of replication, a final act of defiance against the “curious wretch” (Frankenstein) who cursed him to life without belonging. The contrast between his early wonder at “sun or stars” and now craving “light… to pass away” traces his soul’s ruin: once a being capable of awe, now a husk of guilt. Phrases like “agonies which now consume me” and “feelings unsatisfied” lay bare the emptiness of vengeance—even in destroying his creator, he finds no peace, only the certainty that “remembrance of us both will vanish.” His death is not defeat but a weary assertion of agency in a world that denied him humanity from the start: a monster’s

    2025-06-08 喜欢(0) 回复(0)

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