mercedes's Reviews (299)

This was hard to get into the rhythm of reading in the beginning, as it was my first foray into stream of consciousness writing. Once I got into it however, it was an immensely satisfying read and I'm so glad I continued with it. It soon became easy to grasp, Lily's perspective in particular was my favourite. 

I have to say that this definitely going to be a difficult one to give a rating to. The prose is beautiful and warrants 5 stars, but I think this needs a reread for me to get fully invested into the story.

I enjoyed this so much!

I was sceptical at first, because at the start it was fairly slow moving, and for a while there you wouldn't have even known that Poirot existed in the same universe that the book took place. However, once the pace sped up slightly, I settled back into a familiar rhythm reminiscent from Murder on the Orient Express of non-stop thrilling intrigue. 

One thing I like from the two Agatha Christie's I've read so far is that each and every character, no matter how minor, is full of personality, even in a short book like this. It's so easy to become invested in the lives of the characters, even if they're not necessarily likeable, because of this. 

Not only did the mystery keep me on my toes, but this book felt so cosy and warm, despite the gruesome details. Agatha Christie actually wrote this book in response to a complaint from her brother in law about her murders not featuring enough blood, and blood is definitely the emphasis in this story.

I'm excited to read more in the Hercule Poirot series, and also to read more of Christie's works in general. I could hardly put this down, I wanted to stay with this story for a good 500 more pages.

I don't know how to put my thoughts into words here other than this is the greatest book I have ever had the pleasure of reading so far. Truly a masterpiece. Before I'd even finished it I wanted to go right back and read it from the beginning!

No one can deny the hold Frankenstein has on the public consciousness, even if the knowledge of it is almost entirely understood from the 1931 film that revolutionised the monster's appearance yet oversimplified the plot of the story. So reading—even rereading—the novel can be strange. To begin with, from a contemporary point of view, we are given page after page of mostly uninteresting rambles by Walton, and yet the creation of the monster is told to us after the fact, with little detail, almost glossed over. Any suspension that can be built is through foreshadowing that all but explicitly tells us what is going to happen. It shouldn't work, and yet it does.

It's through said foreshadowing, and eventual circularity, that Walton's letters become interesting. It's through the repeated and ever-present themes within the book that the excitement, wonder, and meaning can be gained. It's hard to pick out what I love most about the book—I won't lie, everything prior to chapter 10 is a little tedious, but chapter 10 is marvellous. The creature's tale of looking in on the cottagers is just an absolute page turner for me. Mary Shelley's use of words, especially in the monster's dialogue, is breathtaking. The way she describes nature! The way that the creature speaks through Victor who speaks through Walton, and how each character parallels one another. But above all, it's the idea that knowledge is a danger that once attained is almost impossible to escape that really resonated with me on this reread.

Recently it's been playing on my mind that the constant onslaught of information I have consumed, particularly information pertaining to social justice, has served no purpose except to make me aware of the miseries in our existence. I cannot alleviate people's suffering or injustices they have faced, so what is the use of knowing about it? Is ignorance really bliss? I'm not sure that knowing all of the intricacies of bigotry and oppression have made me any more accepting than I already was of marginalised people, who before would have just been people but are now fit into neat little boxes in my mind. We further separate and alienate ourselves from others—like Victor Frankenstein. And to what end? Am I really better off for knowing every time a celebrity steps out of line, or a popular creator I've never heard of likes a problematic tweet? I don't think we have evolved far enough to be able to asborb these levels of constant mass-information sharing, and for that reason I have decided to stop browsing social media once again. Ignorance may not be bliss, but like Walton, like Frankenstein, like the creature, sometimes I feel knowledge may not always be bliss either.

The most important book I've ever read. This should be required reading for everyone.