Shelley isn't merely observing that humans are imperfect—she's suggesting something more unsettling: that incompleteness is our *constitutional state*, not a temporary condition we might remedy. The phrase "unfashioned" carries the weight of her scientific imagination; we're raw material, still being shaped by experience and circumstance, perhaps indefinitely. What separates this from tired observations about human limitation is her refusal to promise we'll ever be "finished"—there's no graduation day, no final form. Consider someone learning a language in their sixties, or reconsidering a lifelong belief: Shelley would recognize these not as exceptions to our nature, but as its truest expression.