Actor T. P. Cooke portraying Frankenstein’s monster in an 1823 theatrical production.

How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavored to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! –Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath. His hair was 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 color as the dun white sockets in which they were set, his shriveled complexion and straight black lips.

Mary Shelley, Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheus, 1818.

I probably won’t be posting tomorrow, as I have a thing going on in the evening. Silver bullets to shoot, stakes to drive through hearts, you know the sort of thing.