Frankenstein

Before there was science fiction, there was Mary Shelley, eighteen years old and writing the nightmare that would define a genre. Frankenstein is the founding myth of the modern age: the creature born of ambition and abandoned to consequence, the maker undone by what he makes, the question of what it means to be human rendered in flesh and horror. Nearly two centuries on, the novel reads like prophecy — urgent in the age of artificial intelligence as in the age of the steam engine. This Qom...