Dracula himself is a fabulous creation, not at all like the perfumed fop or melancholy poet of popular conception. Stoker’s vampire does not think like us; cunning, yes, but almost animalistic, relying more on instinct than rationality.
Maybe that’s why I enjoyed rereading it so much: it reminded me that this is how vampires and vampire stories are meant to be – terrifying, horrifying, violent. This beast is disgusting, amoral and predatory. He hunts, he feeds, he kills. That’s it.
Dracula is not cool, sexy or sensitive. He’ll never be a teenage girl’s ideal sweetheart. He’s not funny or kooky or ‘just different.’ He’s bad to the bone, and Dracula is a visceral, draining and overwhelming horror novel … which is the way it should be.