Sickbed reading

I might have picked the wrong book to read while SICK in bed for three days.
"FRANKENSTEIN," by MARY SHELLEY, must have seemed drenched in horror in the years following its 19th Century publication.
Modern-day readers, accustomed to greater spooks, might find the book more melancholic than sad.
"After days and nights of incredible labour and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of generation and life; nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing animation upon lifeless matter."
Victor Frankenstein brought life to the lifeless, as in the movies, but his creature was not the unthinking, moronic colossus of cinema. Instead, the creature wrought by Frankenstein's endeavors is a self-aware being immensely troubled by loneliness and the intolerance of mankind.
The real horror in "Frankenstein" are the actions of mankind, not the monster.
Perhaps that's what Shelley intended all along. In my ill state, I have not been able to fully appreciate Shelley's work.
I am slowly emerging from a chest cold that wiped me out for most of the week.
I'm hoping my enjoyment of "Frankenstein" increases as my health improves.