Frankenstein; Or, The Modern Prometheus

ta muallif kitobidan iqtiboslar  Frankenstein; Or, The Modern Prometheus
Mary Shelley

Лина
Линаiqtibos olmoqda2 yil oldin
towards which I am advancing,
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Лина
Линаiqtibos olmoqda2 yil oldin
These tales excited in us a playful desire of imitation.
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Вероника П.
Вероника П.iqtibos olmoqda2 yil oldin
remembered shuddering at the mad enthusiasm that hurried me on to the creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to mind the night during which he first lived. I was unable to pursue the train of thought; a thousand feelings pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly.
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Вероника П.iqtibos olmoqda2 yil oldin
I felt as if I had committed some great crime, the consciousness of which haunted me. I was guiltless, but I had indeed drawn down a horrible curse upon my head, as mortal as that of crime.
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Вероника П.iqtibos olmoqda2 yil oldin
It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another. Our lives will not be happy, but they will be harmless, and free from the misery I now feel. Oh! my creator, make me happy; let me feel gratitude towards you for one benefit! Let me see that I excite the sympathy of some existing thing; do not deny me my request!”
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Вероника П.iqtibos olmoqda2 yil oldin
I am alone, and miserable; man will not associate with me; but one as deformed and horrible as myself would not deny herself to me. My companion must be of the same species, and have the same defects. This being you must create.”
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Вероника П.iqtibos olmoqda2 yil oldin
wished sometimes to shake off all thought and feeling; but I learned that there was but one means to overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death—a state which I feared yet did not understand.
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Despair! Who dared talk of that? The poor victim, who on the morrow was to pass the dreary boundary between life and death, felt not as I did, such deep and bitter agony.
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Вероника П.iqtibos olmoqda2 yil oldin
tortures of the accused did not equal mine; she was sustained by innocence, but the fangs of remorse tore my bosom, and would not forego their hold.
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Our father looks so sorrowful: this dreadful event seems to have revived in his mind his grief on the death of Mamma. Poor Elizabeth also is quite inconsolable.” Ernest began to weep as he said these words. “Do not,” said I, “welcome me thus; try to be more calm, that I may not be absolutely miserable the moment I enter my father’s house after so long an absence. But, tell me, how does my father support his misfortunes? and how is my poor Elizabeth?”
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