Identity In Frankenstein Quotes

We make our own monsters, then fear them for what they show us about ourselves.

For better or worse, whether it is a sign of aesthetic complexity or of intellectual indecision, this novel [Frankenstein] offers equally fertile ground to those readers who like their meanings ambiguous and indeterminate and to those who prefer to discern a deeply important doctrine.

As I read, however, I applied much personally, to my own feelings and condition. I found myself similar yet at the same time strangely unlike to the beings concerning whom I read and to whose conversation I was a listener. I sympathized with and partly understood them, but I was unformed in mind; I was dependent on none and related to none. “The path of my departure was free,” and there was none to lament my annihilation. My person was hideous and my stature gigantic. What did this mean? Who was I? What was I? Whence did I come? What was my destination? —the creature in Mary Shelley's Frankenstein Very

The Frankenstein myth confronts Homo Sapiens with the fact that the last days are fast approaching. Unless some nuclear or ecological catastrophe intervenes, so goes the story, the pace of technological development will soon lead to the replacement of Homo Sapiens by completely different beings who posses not only different physiques, but also very different cognitive and emotional worlds. This is something most Sapiens find extremely disconcerting. We like to believe that in the future people just like us will travel from planet to planet in fast spaceships. We don't like to contemplate the possibility that in the future, beings with emotions and identities like ours will no longer exist, and our place will be taken by alien life forms whose abilities dwarf our own.

Fire and sword laid waste the Earth. Darkness stalked the land. From the ashes of defeat and the smoke of despair, the people of Earth, searching for a future, plundered the past. It was the time of the Great Concoction, when the world was remade. In the thirty-first century of Our Lord, the Europe of the past rose again in the shape of Europa. In Europa, history was reborn. The geologic upheavals of Europa's formation resulted in an acute psychic backlash, manifested in periodic shifts in reality and embodied hallucinations. Spatial dimensions became mercurial in their behaviour. Entire counties could be crammed into a field. These anomalies were exacerbated by advances in psionics which produced dream worlds that were as close to the notion of a real supernatural as makes no odds. Spectres, poltergeists, fallen angels, unfallen angels, trolls, hobgoblins, vampires, werewolves and suchlike entities sprang into pseudo-being. It was upon this ontological quicksand that the Dominions of Europa were founded, recreations of ancient European countries, each containing several time periods. Within each of these historical eras there existed a small percentage of 'Reprises'; clones of famous figures from history artificially encoded with the appropriate personality matrix. These Reprises were prone to severe identity confusion. Yet more acute was the confusion of the fictional Reprises, clones of actors who became identified with particular roles: in these cases, it was not the actor's personality that was encoded into clone-body, but the role he played. By the thirty-third century, Europa was plunging into chaos. Reality unravelled. It was a time of heroes, whimsical worlds, blood and thunder, and general Byronic excess. Dark powers arose. Fearful villagers locked their shutters at night. Fire and sword laid waste the Earth. Darkness stalked... Excerpt from The Tenebrous Testaments of the House of Rue. chapter XIV. volume CLXVII [From Count (Baron) Dracula and Baron (Count) Frankenstein]

I live daily with the consequences of medicine’s definition of my identity as an emotional disorder. Through the filter of this official pathologization, the sounds that come out of my mouth can be summarily dismissed as the confused ranting of a diseased mind.

I am a cultural Frankenstein

Tomorrow the One Who Has No Name, he mused, might become He Who Has No Identity, and then He Who Has No Body, and then He Who Can't Be Caught and Thrown in Jail.

Cyberspace or the Abyss of social media has no hiding place that technology cannot find anyone who seeks to hide their identity... so be careful what you say it may hunt and haunt you forever in the real world.

How to Find Authentic Old Gmail Accounts for Sale Telegram: helpdigitalshopusa WhatsApp: +1 (929) 688-3343 Let's be brutally honest. The market for "old Gmail accounts" is a digital flea market where 95% of the stalls are selling counterfeit goods. The word "authentic" is thrown around so much it's become meaningless. What you're looking for isn't just an old username and password; you're hunting for a digital identity with a believable history—an account that doesn't just have an old creation date, but has lived a digital life that convinces Google's algorithms it was made by a real person. Finding this isn't about luck. It's about a methodical process of elimination, a keen eye for detail, and a healthy dose of skepticism. This guide is your field manual. Part 1: Redefining "Authentic" – What Are You Actually Hunting For? An "authentic" old Gmail account isn't defined by its age alone. It's defined by its digital footprint. You're looking for an asset that exhibits these traits: A Coherent History: The account's creation IP, its occasional login IPs, and its recovery phone number should all point to a consistent geographic location (e.g., the United States). An account created with a US IP, warmed with German IPs, and verified with an Indian VOIP number is a Frankenstein's monster that will be spotted instantly. Organic "Warming" Patterns: An authentic account wasn't just created and left in a database. It was logged into periodically. The best sellers simulate a real user: logging in from the same city or state, leaving the session open for a while, maybe watching a YouTube video, and then going dormant again. This creates a heartbeat of activity that looks human. Real-World Verification: The phone number used for verification (PVA) is from a real, US-based mobile carrier (Verizon, AT&T, T-Mobile). This is the bedrock of authenticity. VOIP numbers (Google Voice, TextNow) are the hallmark of mass-produced, low-quality accounts. Complete Ownership: This is the ultimate test. "Authentic" means you are given full control, which includes the login credentials for the recovery email address. Without this, you are merely renting the account until the original owner decides to take it back or it gets locked. Part 2: The Hunting Grounds – Where to Even Look Your first decision is where to search. The venue often determines the quality of the game. Tier 1: The Managed Game Reserves (Safest for Beginners) These are platforms with rules, wardens, and a system that somewhat protects the hunter. The Marketplace: SEOClerks.net How it Works: A large marketplace with hundreds of sellers. Its power is in its escrow system and public reviews. How to Hunt Here: Ignore the "Authentic" claims in the listing titles. Use the search filter and sort by "Top Rated." Your real tool is the Q&A section and reviews. Dig into the comments. Look for phrases like: "recovery email provided," "accounts have login history," "US numbers work." This is your intelligence. Tier 2: The Private Hunting Clubs (For the Experienced) These are spaces where access is granted based on reputation. The Forum: BlackHatWorld.com How it Works: A massive forum where sellers build their reputation over years. Their sales thread is their legacy. How to Hunt Here: Do not look at the star rating alone. You must read the sales thread. Look for a thread that is years old. A long history is a powerful signal.

The Night When Fear Strays by Stewart Stafford Each Hallowtide, all monstrous shapes do quail, No balm for wounded wretches feeling frail, Spectators as charlatan mortals filch frights, Appropriated skins on haunted nights. With bonfire’s glow ablaze in dauntless eyes, Children’s fun quelled by strangest sighs, A hulking shape, once fierce, wails tainted, Its fearful gaze in phantom mists attainted. Small, tender hands caressed its sodden fur, A trembling growl betrayed its lonesome blur, “Peace, gentle shade, what sorrow stirs unfed?” “November’s dawn shall call me home,” it said. Their kindly-shared oat cakes eased its pangs, A webbed claw from veiled night to munching fangs, It feasted with a hunger born of striven years alone, Stroked the child’s cheek for the kindness shown. When parents called, it whispered, soft and torn, “At midnight’s knell, this thicket heralds morn— Go, kindred babes, I’ll linger in this glade. Each Halloween, I’ll mourn my fear remade.” © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.