Mary Shelley's, Frankenstein. I'm not even a horror fan, but wow, talk about a letdown. This may or may not be a result of Young Frankenstein being one of my top comedies. I watched Everybody Loves Raymond because a part of me hoped Peter Boyle would go into a few bars of "Puttin' on the Ritz" every now and then.
But back to the book. I think once I realized that my whole life up until high school freshmen English was a lie because I thought Frankenstein was the monster or creation or whatever you want to call it, I lost all faith in the "Gothic horror." I do, however, feel that pretentious pride now whenever I hear someone else refer to the creation as Frankenstein as opposed to Frankenstein's creation.
The only other part of this book I remember was the word "ignominious." We had to create a long, 50 word contextual clue vocabulary list while reading this book and that was one I picked. I later used it in my opening statement when I defended the monster for his wimpy killings in the class debate. We (rightfully) lost, but I got a sticker on my assignment anyway for good vocab use. I miss the stickers. There's a lack of stickers in the adult world. And that's a disappointment too.