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

There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand.

Happiness is in its highest degree the sister of goodness.

But her's was the misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that passes over the fair moon, for a while hides, but cannot tarnish its brightness.

My father was not scientific, and I was left to struggle with a child's blindness, added to a student's thirst for knowledge.

Allow me now to return to the cottagers, whose story excited in me such various feelings of indignation, delight, and wonder, but which all terminated in additional love and reverence for my protectors (for so I loved, in an innocent, half painful self-deceit, to call them).

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