ell, my advice is not to move to Canada halfway. As I continue to suffer from dependency on our Northern Neighbors to get so much as a cell phone or Internet access, I turned to reading and watching more television than is healthy. Modern science fiction overload.
Then, I turned back to Mary Shelley’s The Last Man, culture shock perhaps for the uninitiated and unfamiliar. When one thinks, Science Fiction, whether you call it "sci-fi," "SF," or speculative fiction, this is not the novel that comes to mind.
Readers tired of lax syntax, lazy lexicons, and the dull regularity of modern pulp fiction should find a fantastic reprieve in this gothic-romantic chronicle of the apocalypse. Due to the dense, complex nature of Shelley’s writing, those unaccustomed will find it necessary to read this book in smaller segments, as Leigh Anna and I have observed. Even my own fervor for intellectualism pales when confronted with Shelley’s narrative.
Beginning in 1818, the year of Frankenstein‘s publication, Shelley’s introduction in fact segues into a rescued narrative with mythical roots, written as it supposedly was on leaves found in the Sybil’s cave. The story they tell warns of a future unchangeable by its readers–a dreadful plague and the collapse of humanity.
More as I read further. Until next time.