The Casebook of Victor Frankenstein by Peter Ackroyd

Having been very impressed with Ackroyd's non-fiction and supremely confused by his post-modern masterpiece Hawksmoor, I decided that the combination of Ackroyd and the Romantics could not possibly go wrong. Unfortunately, I was mistaken. To give the novel its due, it's fast-paced, frequently exciting, well-researched, at times scary, and will have every fan of the Romantics congratulating themselves on knowing what all the references point to. But I wouldn't go so far as to say that Ackroyd conveys much to us except for the fact that he knows the equivalent of a good university course on the Romantics. And maybe not even a full-year one. Basically, this is a re-write of Frankenstein, transplanted to London (of course Ackroyd cannot leave London alone) and given a psychological twist. Shelley and Byron are there. Victor Frankenstein is weird as fuck. But what was the point? It really doesn't give us anything that the original didn't. There's a fun twist at the end, but was it really all worth it? The theme of doubles isn't made interesting and frightening enough. Victor is a dead boring character. The ending is a bit predictable. Shelley faints a lot. Also, I am highly annoyed at the unflattering portrayal of my darling Byron. Overall, like the series on the Romantics that Ackroyd did for the BBC, this novel is really surface stuff and doesn't engage with anything really intriguing, but it's quite alright for a fun read.