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Angelmonsterby Veronica Bennett
Synopses & Reviews
Veronica Bennett's lush reimagining of the life of Mary Shelley — on the eve of her authorship of the classic gothic novel Frankenstein — is a gripping story of love and obsession.
In the spring of 1814, poet Percy Shelley enters the life of young Mary
Godwin like an angel of deliverance. Seduced by his radical and romantic
ideas, she flees with him and her stepsister to Europe, where they forge a hardscrabble life while mingling with other free-spirited artists and poets. Frowned on by family and society, persecuted by gossip, and plagued by jealousy, Mary becomes haunted by freakish imaginings and hideous visions. As tragedy strikes, not once but time and again, Mary begins to realize that her dreams have become nightmares, and her angel . . . a monster. Now the time has finally come for the young woman who would become Mary Shelley to set her monster free.
"Captures all the bliss and folly of Mary Shelleys disastrous surrender to love, and the sorrowful steps by which she became the author of
Frankenstein." — NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW
In 1814, poet Percy Shelley enters the life of young Mary Godwin like an angel of deliverance. Seduced by his radical and romantic ideas, she flees with him to Europe, where they mingle with other free-spirited artists and poets. Frowned on by family and society, Mary becomes haunted by hideous visions — and as tragedy strikes, she realizes her dreams have become nightmares, and her angel . . . a monster. Has the time come for Mary Shelley to set her monster free?
Bennett's lush reimagining of the life of Mary Shelley--on the eve of her authorship of the classic gothic novel "Frankenstein"--is a gripping story of passionate young love, poetic history, and the most enduring horror story of our time.
About the Author
George was still watching me. Boldly I looked back at him. Despite his superiority of title, wealth, sex, and age, the words of an eighteen-year-old girl in a sprigged cotton dress had impressed him.
"I have a better idea than cards," he said.
His gaze — penetrating, intelligent, accustomed to his own superiority — never left my face. None of us spoke. George sat forward in his chair. "Shall we all follow Marys excellent example," he suggested, "and spend this evening in the company of spirits?"
"Capital idea!" exclaimed Polidori. Then, with a frown, "But what do you actually mean, George?"
"I mean ghost stories," said George. "Let us each tell one, here in the darkness, with the storm raging outside."
My heart was on fire. Many things I had not understood before had linked themselves effortlessly together. Nightmarish visions, dreams that had dogged me day and night for years. The power and glory of the storm. The idea that a scientist might make a creature more monstrous than any God has devised. The earth-shattering possibility that life itself could lie in the ferocity of those sky-sparks that even now crackled their way across the heavens.
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