Frankenstein Laboratory Quotes

Latour’s entreaty to “love your monsters” has become a rallying cry in certain green circles, particularly among those most determined to find climate solutions that adhere to market logic. And the idea that our task is to become more responsible Dr. Frankensteins, ones who don’t flee our creations like deadbeat dads, is unquestionably appealing. But it’s a terribly poor metaphor for geoengineering. First, “the monster” we are being asked to love is not some mutant creature of the laboratory but the earth itself. We did not create it; it created—and sustains—us. The earth is not our prisoner, our patient, our machine, or, indeed, our monster. It is our entire world. And the solution to global warming is not to fix the world, it is to fix ourselves.

The story of Frankenstein, the man created in a laboratory, could be symbolic of these events. It was written by Mary Shelley, the wife of the famous poet. He and she were high initiates of the secret society network which has hoarded and suppressed this knowledge since ancient times.

I can look into making our own fuel,” Paige said. “I read an article about it a while ago.” “There’s the mad scientist again,” Anna laughed. “I’m not a mad scientist,” Paige protested, but she pushed her glasses further up her nose and it only added to the image of her in a laboratory splicing up Frankenstein’s monster. “Whatever you say,” Tara teased.

I leaned over the bed to kiss his forehead. I was entirely unprepared when Victor titled his head up and met my lips with his own. A charge passed between us, and I gasped, pulling away. It reminded me too much of the one I had received in his horrible laboratory. Victor looked amused. 'Why Elizabeth. Have you forgotten how to kiss me?

These men developed a kind of Freudian-Marxism, or “Freudo-Marxism,” integrating the extraordinarily bad but influential twentieth-century ideas of Sigmund Freud with the extraordinarily bad but influential nineteenth-century teachings of Karl Marx. This was no match made in heaven. The noxious Marx had conjured up the most toxic ideas of the nineteenth century, whereas the neurotic Freud had cooked up the most infantile ideas of the twentieth century. Swirling the insipid ideas of those two ideological-psychological basket cases into a single malevolent witch’s brew was bound to uncork a barrel of mischief. The Frankfurt School was the laboratory and the distillery for their concoction, and the children of the 1960s would be their twitching guinea pigs and guzzling alcoholics. The flower-children, the hippies, the Yippies, the Woodstock generation, the Haight-Asbury LSD dancers, the sex-lib kids would all drink deep from the magic chalice, intoxicated by lofty dreams (more like hallucinations and bad acid-trips) of fundamental transformation of the culture, country, and world. And a generation or two still later, they would become the nutty professors who mixed the Kool-Aid for the millennials who would merrily redefine everything from marriage to sexuality to gender, wittingly or not serving the Frankenstein monster of cultural Marxism by doing so.