Sometimes, re-reading a book can result in a new way of looking at it.
I happened to re-read Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein at a rather incongruous time. My relatives from abroad are in town, and the last week or so have been an odd combination of raucous, fun-filled family outings and feverish late-night thumbing through the book’s pages. Perhaps that’s why my latest reading of it (I first read the book when I was a teenager, but only remember a very basic outline of it) evoked a very different set of emotions in me.
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