Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley's 1818 novel, Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus, in addition to spawning a mess of monster movies (most of which were gawdawful and a couple of which were fairly good), was something of a warning about what a well-meaning scientist can produce when he has no clear idea of what the outcome of his experiment might be.

Forget the movies. Read the novel. One helluva good read, by the way.

Don Firth