Mary Shelley was nineteen years old when she wrote the defining myth of the modern world. She probably did not know she was doing this. Two hundred years later, the novel she produced in a wet summer beside a Swiss lake reads less like a Gothic romance than like a diagnosis — precise, unflinching, andContinue reading “We Are All the Monster: Frankenstein, Late Capitalism, and the Things We Made and Left to Die”
My World of Interiors 