For the better part of a year I’ve been teaching high school literature. For non-teachers, people who teach literature have access to large closets of books from which to choose for their classes. Sometimes they can dig into engaging books of their choosing, and other times the departments might decide on The Crucible. It’s like the wardrobe from Narnia, but it leads to a kingdom of knowledge or pain, depending on your perspective. Frankenstein by Mary Shelley is in those closets. Realistically, it’s almost certainly reserved for the AP classes. However, somewhere I like to think there’s a rogue literature class, probably helmed by Mr. Escalante from Stand and Deliver. They’re being rewarded by the patient, well-told dread and gothic stench that also has romantic sensibilities.
Facebook
Twitter
Youtube