Polluted by crimes, and torn by the bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in death?

I felt emotions of gentleness and pleasure, that had long appeared dead, revive within me. Half surprised by the novelty of these sensations, I allowed myself to be borne away by them, and forgetting my solitude and deformity, dared to be happy.

Her countenance was all expression; her eyes were not dark but impenetrably deep; you seemed to discover space after space in their intellectual glance.

To examine the causes of life, we must first have recourse to death.

I cherished hope, it is true, but it vanished when my person reflected . . .

My dreams were all my own; I accounted for them to nobody; they were my refuge when annoyed - my dearest pleasure when free.

We are fashioned creatures, but half made up. - Victor Frankenstein