Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. I cannot comprehend how much ass this novel kicks. Neither can you. It is futile to even try.

IT WAS ON A dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless... thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.

I just finished the book last night, and I am 110% satisfied. It was like being in a blunt session with Roger Waters, Jerry Garcia, and Jimi Hendrix. Only good things can come from reading this book. Buy it. Now.