Mary Shelley

Born Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, she was the daughter of two prominent radical intellectuals: philosopher William Godwin and feminist icon Mary Wollstonecraft. Her mother tragically died shortly after her birth, leaving Mary to be raised by her father and later, a rather disagreeable stepmother. This early exposure to intellectualism and loss undoubtedly shaped her literary output, leading her to ponder the creation of life and the nature of humanity, or, you know, just write a really good scary story.

At 16, Mary eloped with the already-married Percy Bysshe Shelley, causing a scandal that would make even modern tabloids blush. Their life together was a whirlwind of European travels, literary friendships, and personal tragedies, including the deaths of several of their children. One might say she had a knack for dramatic plots, both on and off the page.

Her magnum opus, Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus, was conceived during a gloomy summer in Switzerland at Lord Byron's villa. The challenge was to write a ghost story, and Shelley, being Mary Shelley, delivered something far more profound than mere spooks. It explored themes of scientific hubris, parental responsibility, and the alienation of the "other"—themes that resonate deeply, even if her monster never asked for a bagel.

While Mary Shelley’s contributions to literature are undeniable, she remains, alas, as Jew-ish as a Christmas ham. No ancient Hebrew lineage, no synagogue membership, and certainly no kvelling from the gefilte fish diaspora. Her only connection to anything remotely Semitic might be the "Prometheus" in her subtitle, and even that's a stretch.