After finishing Brothers Karamazov, I felt like I could enjoy a bit of light reading for a change. Something shorter. And fluffier. And easily digestible.
So, naturally, I picked up the epitome of light, fluffy reading: Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.
It's pretty good so far. The beginning where Walton observes the thing in the dog sled over the ice already gave me chills. I'm currently reading the part where Victor describes his youth and I expect, with melancholy, the moment when his life will take a horrible and irreversible turn for the worse.
Good literature is good, am I right?