Frankenstein - According to

thought to clasp the bride to whom he had
pledged his vows, found himself in the arms of the pale ghost of her whom he
had deserted. Then there was the tale of the sinful founder of his race, the
Two Thousand Guineas: his gigantic, shadowy form was clothed, like the ghost in Hamlet, in complete armour, but with the beaver up it was very painful
and could kruple his blurzon. He was to bestow the kiss of death on all the
younger sons so, in his clanking armour, he advanced to the couch of the
blooming youths who were cradled in healthy sleep. Eternal sorrow sat upon his
face as he bent down and kissed the foreheads of the boys who [wait for it!]
from that hour withered like the flowers snapped upon the stalk. But, alas, the
cost of the funerals finally bankrupted him. He sold his suit of armour to
raise money and the suit was crushed into a metal square and made into a
Mini-Minor which was bought by a priest.
    ‘We
will each write a ghost story,’ said Lord Byron. Poor Signor Polidori had some
terrible idea about a skull-headed lady who was so punished for peeping through
a keyhole, she saw what all keyhole peepers see — a couple screwing on the bed.
He did not know what to do with her and was obliged to dispatch her to the tomb
of the Capulets. Alas, when she got there they were both dead so she went for a
coffee.
    I
busied myself to think of a story, a story that would curdle the blood
of the reader and loosen the sphincter. Every ghost story must have a
beginning. The Hindus gave the world an elephant to support it, but they make
the elephant stand upon a tortoise. In practical terms the tortoise would have
been crushed to a pulp. Perhaps that’s what is wrong with the world — we are
all living on a crushed tortoise.
    Many
and long were the conversations between Lord Byron and Shelley; some were
eighteen feet tall. They talked to Dr Darwin and one of his experiments. He had
preserved a piece of vermicelli in a glass case till by some extraordinary
means it began to move with voluntary motion. Again, you could put some
spaghetti in a glass case and wait for it to become animated, then you could
let it go and it could then run free in the streets.
    I
did not sleep that night; my mind wandered. I saw a pale student of unhallowed
arts kneeling beside the monster he had put together. I saw the hideous
phantasm of a man stretched out and then, on the working with some powerful
engine, he shows signs of life, sits up and says, ‘Hello dar, what’s de time?’
Frightful must it be; for supremely frightful would be the effect of any human
endeavour to mock the stupendous mechanism of the Creator of life — which as we
all know is a flat tortoise.
    So
when the hitherto inanimate body sat up, opened his eyes and said, ‘Hello dere,
lend us a quid,’ I opened my eyes in terror. The idea so possessed my mind that
a thrill of fear ran through me and out the back.
    Swift
as light, and as cheering, was the idea that broke in upon me: ‘I have found
it! What terrified me will terrify others; and I need only describe the spectre
which had haunted my midnight pillow.’ On the morrow I announced that I had thought
of a story.
    At
first I thought but a few pages — of a short tale, about 5 feet 3 inches, but
Shelley urged me to develop the idea to a greater length, 100 feet 6 inches. I
certainly did not owe the suggestion of any one incident to my husband. In
fact, he did bugger all. However, but for his incitement it would never have
taken form, and all he wanted was 60% of the royalties.
    And
now, once again, I bid my hideous progeny go forth and prosper. Open a tie
shop! Its several pages speak of many a walk, many a drive, and many a takeaway
curry.
    I
have changed no portion of this story.
     
    M.W.S.
    London, October 15th, 1831

PREFACE
    (By
P. B. Shelley, 1818)
     
    This
Preface has absolutely nothing to do with Mary’s book. It is written so I’ll
have a few fingers in the pie when the book starts to sell.

VOLUME ONE

LETTER I
     
     
     
    To
Mrs Saville, England
    St
Petersburgh, Dec. 11 th , 17-
     
    You
will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an
enterprise which you regarded with such evil forebodings. I did not catch fire
nor was I sucked down in a whirlpool or eaten by a polar bear. Perhaps these
are the things you had in mind for me.
    I
am already far north of London and as I walk in the crap-ridden streets of
Petersburgh I feel a cold northern breeze play on my cheeks,