Steampunk: Frankenstein PDF Book by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (1818) Download or Read Online

Author: Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley | Submitted by: Maria Garcia | 1212149 Views | View Chapter List | Add a Review

Steampunk: Frankenstein PDF book by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley Read Online or Free Download in ePUB, PDF or MOBI eBooks. Published in 1818 the book become immediate popular and critical acclaim in classics, fiction books.

The main characters of Steampunk: Frankenstein novel are Elizabeth Lavenza, William Frankenstein. The book has been awarded with Booker Prize, Edgar Awards and many others.

One of the Best Works of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. published in multiple languages including English, consists of 304 pages and is available in Hardcover format for offline reading.

steampunk frankenstein pdf mary wollstonecraft shelley

Suggested PDF: Frankenstein: The 1818 Text pdf

Steampunk: Frankenstein PDF Details

Author: Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
Book Format: Hardcover
Original Title: Steampunk: Frankenstein
Number Of Pages: 304 pages
First Published in: 1818
Latest Edition: May 8th 2012
Language: English
Generes: Classics, Fiction, Horror, Science Fiction, Gothic, Fantasy, Academic, School, Literature, Novels, Literature, 19th Century,
Main Characters: Elizabeth Lavenza, William Frankenstein, Robert Walton, Henry Clerval, Alphonse Frankenstein
Formats: audible mp3, ePUB(Android), kindle, and audiobook.

The book can be easily translated to readable Russian, English, Hindi, Spanish, Chinese, Bengali, Malaysian, French, Portuguese, Indonesian, German, Arabic, Japanese and many others.

Please note that the characters, names or techniques listed in Steampunk: Frankenstein is a work of fiction and is meant for entertainment purposes only, except for biography and other cases. we do not intend to hurt the sentiments of any community, individual, sect or religion

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Alice
Great book, nicely written and thank you Books Billion for uploading

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Author’s Introduction The publishers of the Standard Novels, in selecting Frankenstein for one of their series, expressed a wish that I should furnish them with some account of the origin of the story. I am the more willing to comply, because I shall thus give a general answer to the question, so very frequently asked me—“How I, then a young girl, came to think of and to dilate upon so very hideous an idea?” It is true that I am very averse to bringing myself forward in print; but as my account will only appear as an appendage to a former production, and as it will be confined to such topics as have connexion with my authorship alone, I can scarcely accuse myself of a personal intrusion. It is not singular that, as a daughter of two persons of distinguished literary celebrity, I should very early in life have thought of writing. As a child I scribbled; and my favourite pastime during the hours given me for recreation was to “write stories.” Still, I had a dearer pleasure than this, which was the formation of castles in the air—the indulging in waking dreams—the following up trains of thought, which had for their subject the formation of a succession of imaginary incidents. My dreams were at once more fantastic and agreeable than my writings. In the latter I was a close imitator—rather doing as others had done than putting down the suggestions of my own mind. What I wrote was intended at least for one other eye—my childhood’s companion and friend; but my dreams were all my own; I accounted for them to nobody; they were my refuge when annoyed—my dearest pleasure when free. I lived principally in the country as a girl, and passed a considerable time in Scotland. I made occasional visits to the more picturesque parts; but my habitual residence was on the blank and dreary northern shores of the Tay, near Dundee. Blank and dreary on retrospection I call them; they were not so to me then. They were the eyry of freedom, and the pleasant region where unheeded I could commune with the creatures of my fancy. I wrote then—but in a most common-place style. It was beneath the trees of the grounds belonging to our house, or on the bleak sides of the woodless mountains near, that my true compositions, the airy flights of my imagination, were born and fostered. I did not make myself the heroine of my tales. Life appeared to me too common-place an affair as regarded myself. I could not figure to myself that romantic woes or wond

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