There is no shortage of reviews or literary critics finding insight into Mary Shelley's Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus. However, there is something to be said about a classic gothic, some would say horror, novel as a Christmas tradition.
Now I fortunately make a tradition to reacquaint myself with Mary Shelley's finest work every Christmas. Why you might wonder would I subject myself to reading the dreariest of literary works during the most festive of seasons. Contrast is my answer to the question you might ask. Contrast; because without ugliness how do we know what is beautiful. How can we relish flowers and waterfalls if not for insects and excrement? How are we to know the light without the existence of the darkness? And how are we to treasure people and places if not for pain and heartache? Mary Shelley may leave you in a heaping mess of tears and screams but that only makes hugs more meaningful and the festivities more festive. And ever since I never shy away from dark literature because I remember the perspective and understanding it may offer me.