I recently finished Cleopatra and Frankenstein by Coco Mellors, and honestly, it wasn’t quite what I was hoping for. I was drawn in by the premise of an American woman in her twenties, Cleopatra, meeting a much older British man, Frankenstein, and their whirlwind, often complicated relationship. It promised to be a deep dive into love, identity, and self-discovery, which sounded fascinating to me.
However, as I read, I found myself growing increasingly frustrated. The characters just didn’t connect with me the way I thought they would. Cleopatra felt underdeveloped and erratic at times, and her actions left me feeling confused more often than not. Frankenstein, too, seemed like a character that could have been more nuanced, but instead, he came off as emotionally distant in a way that didn’t resonate with me. The dynamic between them was meant to be complex and layered, but instead, it often felt strained, and I couldn’t get past the sense that the relationship, for all its drama, just wasn’t compelling enough to hold my attention.
The writing style was another factor that threw me off. It was certainly descriptive, but I didn’t find it engaging enough to pull me into the world of the characters. There were moments when I could see how the book was trying to explore deeper themes about love, loneliness, and personal growth, but the execution just didn’t work for me. The novel often felt like it was trying too hard to be profound, and as a result, it came across as more pretentious than poignant.
I wanted to love Cleopatra and Frankenstein, but the emotional depth I expected was just lacking, and by the end, I found myself not caring about what happened to the characters. Overall, it was a disappointing read, and I’m left wondering if I missed something everyone else seemed to connect with, but for me, it didn’t quite hit the mark.