Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus. [By M. W. Shelley.] by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room and continued a long time traversing my bedchamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. I had desired it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature. Beautiful! Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing his teeth of a pearly whiteness but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun-white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion and straight black lips. How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. It was already one in the morning the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.

With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils.

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Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus. [By M. W. Shelley.] by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley