There is a moment for me, when reading a piece of writing, when art breaches the boundary between self-expression and embodiment. Many works eventually approach this threshold. But while reading Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus by Mary Shelley, there is no such boundary—no singular moment when the work transforms from fiction into something more intimate. There is no moment of genuine embodiment because the entire novel reads like a poem of mourning, a eulogy, a confes