Once again I have finished a Victorian-era piece of classic literature and am So Normal about it. This time it is The Island of Doctor Moreau, and can we talk about Prendick's unnamed Victorian therapist? I am not even joking:
My guy went through a year of Certified Fresh horrors, and got psychiatrich counselling afterwards; from a man who went, "Who was on the island with you? Oh. Oh. The flayed dog guy? He's still-Oh, he's not? Okay. Take a seat, buddy, let's see what we can do about that PTSD." I am enamored.











