"Remember that I am thy creature, I have to be thy atom, but I am rather the fallen angel whom thou driveest from joy for no misdeed, everywhere I see bliss from which I alone am irrevocably excluded. I was benevolent and good, misery made me a fiend. Make me happy and I shall again be virtuous." A quote from Mary Shelley's Frankenstein or the Modern Prometheus. Mary Shelley is the author considered the mother of science fiction and is best known for her sci-fi horror novel Frankenstein, published over 200 years ago now, back in 1818. While Edgar Allen Poe and HP Lovecraft are most often referred to as the Fathers of Modern Horror, and we have covered both of them previously, the title of the Mother of Modern Horror is most often attributed to Mary Shelley, double-billion. And impressively, Frankenstein was published a decade before Poe's first-ever book, a book of poems actually was published, and Shelley predated Lovecraft's first published works by more than a century. So she was right about a monster still very frequently reimagined today long before Modern Horror's other first parents, laying a good argument to her being the very first to write what many consider not only to be the very first sci-fi novel, but also the very first modern horror novel. But who was she? Shelley was born and landed into an influential family, the daughter of two famous writers, William Godwin and Mary Walston Craft, who there are so-called radical views were hated by some and admired by others. Thanks to being the only biological child of these two literary heavyweights, greatness was expected of Mary from the moment she was born. She would never receive a formal education, formal schooling was not deemed necessary for girls back when she was a child in England, but her father, an academic man, very open-minded man, did his best to teach her himself, and she was surrounded by books she was encouraged to read and surrounded by some of the greatest writers of her time, frequent guests of her fathers. Then, she would run off in a lope with another famous writer as a teenager, and at the age of only 18, on a dare essentially, from yet another famous writer, and frequent companion, she conceptualized the story of Frankenstein, a tale of a scientist who creates a monster out of stolen human body parts. A controversial example of science, not only rejecting but imitating God, a book initially published anonymously in part due to its controversial nature. Despite upsetting a lot of people shortly after its release, the book also steadily became more and more popular, and it's only grown more and more popular still over time. The 500 feature films have been made featuring Frankenstein and/or his monster and counting, and hundreds of additional short films, TV series, and Frankenstein's centric episodes of television have been made as well. And hundreds more comic books, graphic novels, novels, etc., have also featured Frankenstein. Truly, one of the most popular and recognizable monsters most enduring monsters of all time, right up there with vampires and werewolves. Mary is also known for her marriage to Percy Bisch Shelley, one of the most significant poets in English history. However, since the 1950s, filmmakers and writers have paid far more attention to Mary, and her cultural influence than to her husbands, who was, you know, more popular when they were both alive, considerably so. This week, we will meet the mother of modern horror. We will learn about how her upbringing with a famous father helped shape her. Her scandalous marriage, how she wrote her masterpiece Frankenstein, the creation of which can be partially attributed to a volcanic eruption of all things, and how she endured numerous personal tragedies, in this literary, historical, was Mary the first ever Goth girl monstrous addition of Time Suck. Well, happy Monday, and welcome, and welcome back to the Cult of the Curious. I'm Dan Cummins, Suck Nasty, guy who is like 99 percent sure that his wife is not trying to poison him, a human who really tries to live within their means and not overextend themselves and get desperate and motivated to do desperate, terrible things. And you are listening to Time Suck. Hail Nimrod, Hail Luciferina, praise be to Good Boy Bojangles, and Glory be to Michael Motherfuckermick Donald, as you heard last week, if you listened to all the entire episode. Still got it. Still got it. Let's find out if I've still got it by hopping into this week's tale. So here is how we are laying all of this out today. We're going to start with approximately 45 straight, beautiful minutes of ASMR lotion and oil ear massage audio. Oh, yeah. Oh, oh, yeah. It's real nice. Mmm, mmm, mmm, mmm, mmm. And then we're going to jump into that little dinosaur bone jingle. Dinosaur bones. Yeah. Yeah. One, two, see them. Dinosaur bones. Yeah. Where can we see them? And then we're going to head right back to it, push the lotion on it's skin. Mmm, mmm, mmm. Yep, yep, yep, yep. Uh-huh. And that will be a dead giveaway. Every day, a dead giveaway, that we need some more colliope, oh, I love it. It's going to be such a fun and informative episode, okay? Okay? Okay? All right, I'll stop. I'll stop, okay? I said I'll stop. So the dozens of you, they're still listening. You've earned the real story. We're going to begin with an overview of Mary Shelley's creative legacy, followed by a full timeline where fascinating life, taking some side roads into her complicated and sometimes a pretty fucked up companions. Mary Shelley's Frankenstein is largely considered, as I mentioned, the world's first science fiction novel, but it is not considered the first fictional horror novel, actually. I thought it was for some reason. It is the first good one. I would strongly argue, but not the first one. It definitely has had more stain power than any fictional horror novel that came before it. The castle of Otranto, by Horace Walpole, published decades before Frankenstein in 1764, is widely considered the world's first horror novel and first Gothic novel. And how many times has that novel been adapted into a film? Not quite 500 times, exactly one time, kind of, not exactly a feature length film. It was adapted into a 17-minute Czechoslovakian short film Machumentary, mostly known for several stop-motion animation sequences that has been seen by dozens of people since its release. It's actually been seen by thousands. And you know what? Maybe it's good. Some people absolutely love it. The stop-motion animation, you know, and the adaptation, that looks cool, very cool. This film also feels like the kind of short film, a die-hard cinephile with a annoyingly reference, often in conversation, and claimed to absolutely adore it, oh my god. Not because the actually thing is that great, but because it's super obscure, and almost no one's heard of it, but also critically claimed in the sense of being influential in a surrealist sense, and therefore knowing about it makes them seem more cinematically knowledgeable. What? Seriously? You haven't watched Jan Swank Myers, surrealist masterpiece, The Castle of Otranto? Do you hate yourself? Do you hate film? Do you hate the greatest things ever be stowed from the gods of cinema? To be indulged by mere plebes below? So what is this book about? Will prepare to be horrified? Or, I don't know, fucking bored. The first edition of The Castle of Otranto reported to be a translation of a book printed in Naples, Italy in 1529, recently we discovered in the library of an ancient Catholic family in the north of England. The book tells the story of Manfred, a prince of Otranto, Italy, a beautiful seaside town at the beginning of the story. Manfred impatiently awaits the marriage of his sickly son Conrad to the princess Isabella. Manfred subjects note his impatience. They suspect that Manfred has arranged the marriage in the hope of avoiding an ancient prophecy that has predicted his castle and his rulership of Otranto, quote, "should pass from the present family whenever the real owner should be grown too large to inhabit it." The wedding date is set for Conrad's birthday. On the day of the nuptials, however Manfred's son is nowhere to be found, then in the courtyard a servant discovers that an enormous helmet that's fallen from the sky, as enormous helmets sometimes do, and crush Conrad to death. One realizes that there's only male heirs, dead and his wife can no longer bear children. Manfred decides to marry Isabella himself. Totally. He approaches Isabella with this proposition, when she is disgusted, refuses. He sees as her, apparently intending to rape her. Fortunately, a series of supernatural events, including an appearance by the ghost of his grandfather, interesting, distract Manfred, and Isabella manages to wrestle free, as she makes her escape to the nearby church of St. Nicholas with the help of the peasants named Theodore. Manfred is confronted by his guards, who claim to have seen a giant armoured leg in the gallery. What the fuck? Later, he and his guards are joined by a group of knights seeking Isabella on behalf of her father, the Marquis of Ingenza.
In the castle grounds, the peasant Theodore bravely defends Isabella from a knight. He wounds the knight and discovers much to his dismay. That the wounded knight is actually Isabella's father, Frederick. What the fuck? Why was he attacking his daughter? Together. Theodore, Frederick and Isabella return to the castle. Frederick recovers and explains to man friend's wife, Hippolyta. How exactly he came to be in Otrondor. While away at war, Frederick had a vision warning him that his daughter was in danger. The vision directed him to a forest where he met a hermit. The hermit directed him to a gigantic sword and described with a prophecy. This is complicated. Where a helmet that suits this sword is found, with perils is thy daughter's compassed round. Alfonso's blooded loan can save the maid, and quiet along Ressa's princes' shade. That wasn't great. Manfred suddenly observing the resemblance between Theodore and the hero Alfonso. Manfred's ancestor, in theory, tries again to secure Isabella's handed marriage. This time he proposes to Frederick that they marry each other's daughters, not creepy at all. At first Frederick agrees, but he is haunted by the ghost of the hermit from the forest and ultimately decides not to go through with the double marriage. There's a lot of intervening ghosts in the story. Manfred is furious. And more so, after he learns that Pesit Thomas is meeting a lady in Alfonso's tomb, Manfred convinced that this lady is Isabella having an affair with Heodore. He sticks into the tomb and fatally stabs, not Theodore, but some other lady. In horror, Manfred realizes that he is slain not Isabella, but his own daughter Matilda. Fuck! Classic stab in the dark. Manfred sounds like a real stooge. Moments after Matilda's death, the castle wall behind Manfred Crumbles reveal a giant vision of Alfonso. This image of Alfonso declares that his grandson Theodore is the true heir of Otranto, plot twist, Manfred thereupon reveals that his grandfather Poison Alfonso and usurped his throne. What? In an attempt to atone for that wrongdoing Manfred now agrees to abdicate said throne. Okay. He was willing to rape and kill moments earlier, but now he is ready to walk away because Grandpappy Poison's somebody. This dude was all over the place. The novel ends. With Frederick offering Isabella's hand in marriage to Theodore, although he eventually agrees to marry Isabella Theodore, also mourns a loss of his true love Matilda, who is needlessly stabbed for many years. Whew, okay. I know that was just a summary and not the whole book, but I'm going to say right now. After skimming, after also skimming, the first 20 or so pages of the book, I will fucking never, ever, ever read that, unless there's a load of gunpoint into my head. There will always be way too many, way better books for me to spend my time with. No thank you, tadpole or wallpole. Based on online reviews, even people who claim to love this book almost always do so with some asterisk. Right? They make a little like, wow, I love it, ish. Most seem to fall into one of two camps. The camp of, it's good for a book, written in 1764, or the other camp as one reviewer on Goodreads wrote, "classics can teach us a great deal about things like history, culture, customs, and different literary styles. From this book, I learned that classics can also really, really suck." So who the fuck was Henry, tadpole? I mean, horse will all pull. He delves me for just a moment. He was the youngest son of the first British Prime Minister, so Robert Wallpole. He wrote the book. We just talked about. He had a really cool house built with old family money. He never earned the strawberry hillhouse, he got the revival, built in, tweaking him. London, beginning in 1749, square footage in total rooms, not publicly listed, so I don't know exactly how big it is. It's current value is listed as priceless. I would say it looks like it cost over a hundred million dollars, over a hundred million pounds to build today, on the same amount of acres, maybe even two hundred million, not kidding. No opulent, like a fairy tale castle and palace combined, big enough to get lost in. Horace, never married, never had kids, never dated publicly, said to me, "Mom is boy, only money of any consequence he ever earned came from a few almost entirely ceremonial positions that required him to do fucking jack shit, positions handed to him by daddy." He was a man-child. If I had nothing to do, you know, if I had nothing but time with no family, virtually unlimited money in my disposal, very little expected of me in the way of any kind of labor, yeah, I bet I could write that fucking book, too. Let's move on. Getting needle-see distracted by the frivolous life of Hank Striphole. He may have been a delight to be around, I don't know, but seriously, there's no horror book written before Mary Shelley's Frankenstein that holds any serious interest in it. Her book wasn't written that much later than his, it's so much fucking better. But what about science fiction? Frankenstein gets discussed as being a science fiction novel, you know, more than gets discussed being a horror, gothic horror novel. Regarding the book's claim as being the first science fiction novel, there has unsurprisingly been some debate around this. Some people go all the way back to ancient Mesopotamian text, the epic of Gilgamesh, written between 2100 BCE and 1200 BCE, and claim that was science fiction due to the protagonist quest for immortality. But most rule out any book as being sci-fi that was written before the advent of what is considered modern science in the 16th century. There's everything before that, even if it seems kind of like science fiction, more like magic fiction, right? They're leaning on magic, not science. Not science in the way we understand it now, because it didn't exist in the world, you know, in almost any sense, pretty, pretty nerdy debate, though, a popular 20th century American scientists and science communicator Carl Sagan and also 20th century Russian American scientists and wildly prolific science and science fiction writer Isaac Asimov, they both considered Johannes Kepler's 1634 novel, "Somnium" Latin for "The Dream" to have been the first sci-fi novel, a book that describes the imagined inhabitants of the moon and also accurately depict scientific facts such as the high temperature on the moon's sunlit side, solid combo of real science and fiction. But how many times has "Somnium" been adapted into a feature film? Fucking zero! Not even into a 17-minute Czech mockumentary student film situation, with a stop-motion surrealist animated sequences, okay? Okay. Seriously, we can go around and around over who wrote the first this or that. What's important to know is that most academics seem to believe that Mary Shelley's 1818 Gothic novel, Frankenstein or the Modern Prometheus, is the first science fiction story laid out in a way that we would recognize as good sci-fi today. Victor Frankenstein uses chemistry, biology, and current era theories, rather than magic, to create life, the narrative builds upon real-world experiments involving electricity and muscle stimulation, it grounds its premise in rational scientific experimentation, and the creature's capacity to learn, feel, and suffer, and dissipates modern debates surrounding AI, artificial intelligence and Android ethics. Victor sets the enduring and off-repeated archetype of the obsessive researcher, the mad scientist, whose ambition overruled any regard for societal safety. It's fucking crazy how influential this book has truly been. In her heralded story, Dr. Frankenstein's creature made out of stolen human body parts, starts off as gentle and intellectual, but becomes brutal and cruel as it is summarily rejected by its creator and society at large because mostly of its grotesque looks. Fear and hatred of the unknown. That's what she was also writing about. Grab those tortures and pitchforks and kill that monster, kill that warlock, kill that witch, burn them, kill them without ever taking the time to understand why they're different. Kill them without taking the time to prove they've done anything wrong. Kill them because they're just different. Make that snap judgment, lean into those base feelings of anger and hate that feel so emotionally satisfying. Feel that adrenaline surge, get primal, turn your fear into anger, rejection and violence. Mary Shelley, sneaking in the same kind of social commentary into that book, she wrote as a teenager over two centuries ago that myself and millions of others, Prattle on and on about today. If she was commenting on the witch hunt mentality that had predated her in Europe going back to the advent of the written word, that witch hunt mentality that we still see so many employed today, right now, in xenophobic and nationalistic and other ways, rounding around we go. In addition to the horror and science fiction, Shelley's book also references Christian theology, with the creature referring to himself as Adam, created by Frankenstein, and complaining that he's been cast out of God's love like Satan. He critiqued not just mankind, but the God that created mankind. Or she likely sought the God that is so like man because we created God, not vice versa. In October, 2025, article for the BBC, Rebecca Lawrence wrote on the meaning of Frankenstein, quote, "Frankenstein is simultaneously the first science fiction novel, agothic horror, a tragic romance, and a parable, all so into one towering body. It's central tragedies, the dangers of playing God on one hand, parental abandonment and societal rejection on the other, or as relevant today as they ever were." Before moving on, since we mostly know about Mary because of Frankenstein, let me share a quick plot summary. Victor Frankenstein, a brilliant young scientist, becomes obsessed with conquering death and secretly creates a living being from assembled human body parts, horrified by his own success. He abandons the intelligent but grotesque creature, leaving it to navigate the world alone. Rejected and abused everywhere it goes because of its appearance, the creature becomes lonely, bitter and enraged. It eventually finds a confronts victor in demands that he create a female companion, promising to disappear forever with granted one. Victor begins this dark task, but destroys the second creature before completing it, fearing the consequences of creating a new race of beings. And then, in an active revenge, the creature murders several of Victor's loved ones.
including his best friend, Henry Clerval, and his new wife Elizabeth on their wedding night. Consumed by grief and guilt, Victor devotes the rest of his life to hunting the creature across Europe and into the Arctic. The novel ends with Victor dying aboard an explorer's ship, after which the creature appears, mourns the man who created and ruined him, and declares its intention to wander into the frozen wilderness alone to die. Bringing the tragic story to an end. How much fucking better to read does that sound, than that convoluted half-baked castle of Otranto Horus Walpole bullshit? What's especially wild is that despite writing this book at such a young age, Mary was not recognized primarily as a talented author in her lifetime, but more often recognized as being the daughter of famous writers, Mary Walston Kraft and William Godwin, or as the wife of famous poet Percy Shelley. According to the Poetry Foundation, when not known as the wife of the poet Percy Blitbisch Shelley, she is recognized as the daughter of the celebrated radical writer Mary Walston Kraft and the equally well-known novelist and political philosopher William Godwin. Even the sole recognition won by her own efforts, the monster of Horde of her great novel Frankenstein is tainted by popular associations with stage and cinema versions of the monster, which have little to do with her modern Prometheus. Yet this four famed woman was also a skilled editor in critic, an influential travel writer, a literary historian, a devoted mother, and a dabbleer in verse as well as in the new genre of the short story. While at the time of initial publication, the anonymous author of Frankenstein faced criticism for writing a novel as horrifying as Frankenstein over the years, Frankenstein, in addition to being revered as an important work of fiction, has may use as an argument against slavery, against genetic engineering, and the unconstrained development of artificial intelligence, and used as an argument for empathy for the marginalized, the need for education to combat ignorant othering, and for and against unchecked scientific ambition, social responsibility, and the ethics of creation. According to that same 2025 BBC article, I already referenced, "But why was Mary's vision of science gone wrong so resonant at the time? She certainly captured the zeitgeist, the early 19th century teeter on the brink of the modern age, and although the term science existed, the concept of a scientist didn't. Great change brings fear, as Fiona Samson, author of "In Search of Mary Shelley," tells the BBC. With modernity comes a sense of anxiety about what humans can do, and particularly in anxiety about science and technology. Frankenstein fused these contemporary concerns about the possibilities of science with fiction for the very first time, with electrifying results. Far from a completely outrageous fantasy, the novel imagined what might conceivably happen if people and in particular overreaching or out of control scientists went too far. And that makes me think about a lot of the fear around AI today. And while there are aspects of artificial intelligence that are scary for sure, definitely a lot of things that scare myself, you know, things that I am very glad are being pushed back against, I do think we forget that there were also strong and valid arguments against the advent of the industrial revolution and the emergence of modern science. And yet we not only survive these changes, we have overall thrived since. For all the misery technology has brought to some, it has been a huge net positive to humanity, right? Science overall definitely has been. Less of us die of contagious diseases and common infections, thanks to science, our quality of life has been greatly extended, far less die of starvation due to famines and economic collapses, thanks to a new global economy and farming techniques made possible by technological industrial progress. Despite the fear that surrounds AI, I am confident humanity will not only survive it, but eventually also thrive in new ways, right? Thanks to its emergence. Will there be terrible growing pins and collateral damage? Of course, but it's coming whether we want it to be or not, and I believe humanity will ultimately benefit overall. Fear is something new, right? Truly believing this new creation, this new Frankenstein is going to ruin us is not a new fear at all. It's the same old fear that we've always had. Every generation without exception has had its fair share of people screaming that this is it. This is why the world ends, the sky is falling this time, not kidding, and yet we keep marching on. In part because of this Frankenstein will always remain relevant and timely. Clearly, Mary Shelley crafted a tale that has stood the test of time and still sends shivers down the spines or readers. Mary Shelley also defied the expectations for women of her time. She received an education informal as it was. She was hyper intelligent, she was exceptionally creative, she made her own career decisions and she didn't let tragedy after tragedy stop her. Charlotte Gordon, author of the Shelley biography, romantic outlaws, the extraordinary lives of Mary Walston craft and her daughter Mary Shelley, a major source this week. She wrote about both Mary and her renowned mother. Their achievements are all the more remarkable because they lived during a time when women were considered incapable of directing their own lives. Although it was a revolutionary era, Walston craft was alive during both the American and French revolutions and Shelley came of age at the height of romanticism. Most of their contemporaries consider the concept of women's rights to be absurd as absurd as the rights of chimpanzees. In fact, chimpanzees and other animals would gain legal protection in 1824, 20 years before the first law was passed that limited but did not prohibit violence against women. That is fucking wild and true. Animals were given more protection from violence than women in England and the rest of the western world actually. Most of it. You know, so many you must submit to my week ass ego patriarchal beta cuck mother fuckers in history. So much limp shame cock energy out there. Just run around the world. The weak cause plane is the strong, but that is also not what we're talking about today. I must focus I will give myself lashes from my meandry right after I push the timeline button. We dive into the remarkable and also tragic life of Mary Shelley. Shrap on those boots soldier. We're marching down a time suck timeline. Mary wallston craft godwin later Mary W. Shelly born on august 30th 1797 in London mother Mary puff baby Mary right out of her fucking power plus her baby cannon her vaginal fetus pussy pulled. Okay. That's a plan catapult and pussy to be clear still stupid childish word combo. I know. Okay. Okay. But it makes some sense in her book romantic outlaws a dual biography of Mary Shelley and her mother author Charlotte Gordon writes that the newborn Mary was quote small. In week. She was not expected to survive her mother struggled to deliver the after birth. She was so exhausted a doctor was called in to help. He cut away the placenta, but hadn't washed his hands unwittingly introducing the germs of one of the most dangerous diseases of the era child bed or a pew upper old fever will great job doctor dirty digits doctor fucking dips yet Mary will die from this fever less than two weeks after giving birth to Mary her second child. Mary's parents as I mentioned both famous loss person writers William godwin and Mary wallston craft. Let's take a moment to first meet the woman who influenced Mary throughout her lifetime despite her never getting the chance to know her. Mary wallston craft was born April 27 1759 in spittle fields east London grew up with an abusive father who spent his wealth on unsuccessful farming ventures Mary's mother died in 1780. And she later left home and set out on her own, which was not typical in 1784 Mary her sister Eliza and her best friend Fannie established a school in a Newton green. Open space in North London open space at that time based on her teaching experience. She later wrote the pamphlet thoughts on the education of daughters in 1787. After Mary's close friend Fannie died shortly after establishing that school back in 1785. She took a position as a governess for the Kingsborough family in Ireland. I'm skipping over a lot of details with all of this. There's these people had very big complex lives. Yeah, she took a position as a governess for the Kingsborough family in Ireland, but decided she was not suited for domestic work. Three years later Mary returned to London became a translator and advisor to Joseph Johnson, a publisher of so-called radical texts. And what was considered radical? Well publishing female authors for one thing damn you radical. He also published and I hope you're sitting down for this humanist atheist writings. Fuck you radicals. Fuck you for advocating for a society based primarily intellect, reason and equity. He also published works advocating for religious tolerance as opposed to an attitude of this is the state religion worship it or get fucked stupid radical. I cast an anathema upon your house, Joseph Johnson. Joey even published other radical works championing a horrible woke bullshit like the rights of slaves, the rights of Jews, the rights of women, the rights of prisoners, the rights of political dissenters, child labor chimney sweeps, abused animals and on and on. Fuck you and your DEI bullshit radicals. Everyone pick it up on the sarcasm. Is it thick enough? I hope so. Hail the radicals, right? Truly. Hail them more than just about anybody else. Damn, they're always on the right side of history. Joey J, launched the analytical review in 1788 and Mary became a regular contributor to that journal. Within four years, she published her most famous work
a vindication of the rights of a woman, uh, 70 or of woman, 1792, which counters the common belief held at that time that women were helpless adornments of a household. Pfft. Oh, cool. So I guess she was one of those broads. One who refused to submit to the righteous patriarchy. One who wanted to be seen as something more than a sexy bicycle waiting to be jumped off a sick fucking ramp into a muddled ditch. I see what's going on off a real now. In her book, Walsh and Kraft argues that society breeds, quote, gentle domestic broods and that a confined existence frustrates women and makes them tyrants over children servants. In the preface of indication, Walsh and Kraft writes, my main argument is built on this simple principle that if woman be not prepared by education to become the companion of man, she will stop the progress of knowledge and virtue for truth must be common to all. Walsh and Kraft, uh, attributed the problem of uneducated women to men and quote, a false system of education gathered from the books written on the subject by men who consider females rather as women than as human creatures. Walsh said, uh, belief so held by many today, uh, women are rational beings. Mary argued, but it appears they are not because men refused to properly educate them. Mary also argued for sexual equality between genders, uh, let's find out what kind of silly bullshit she had to say about that nonsense, uh, right after today's first of two Michio sponsor breaks. If you don't want to hear these ads ever again, please sign up to be a space centered on Patreon. Help us make multi charitable contributions. Get the catalog ad free episodes three days early and more. Now let's hear what Mary Shelley's mother Mary had to say about lady sex, uh, rather than unequivocally stating that men and women are equal, Walsh and Kraft argue that men and women are equal in God's eyes, which means they are subject to the same moral laws. Therefore she implied that women and men should be modest, noting that sexual double standards of the time were incorrect. Uh, Walsh and Kraft wrote, let it not be concluded that I wish to invert the order of things. I have already granted that from the constitution of their bodies, men seem to be designed by providence to attain a greater degree of virtue, uh, I speak collectively of the whole sex, but I see not the shadow of a reason to conclude that their virtue should differ in respect to their nature. In fact, how can they? If virtue has only one eternal standard, I must therefore, if I reason consequentially as strenuously maintain that they have the same simple direction as that there is a God. Walsh and Kraft called on men the sex and power to initiate social and political changes because at that time in history women were not able to change their situation without help. Uh, she wrote, I then would fain convince reasonable men of the importance of some of my remarks and prevail on them to weigh dispassionally the whole tenor of my observations. I appeal to their understandings and as a fellow creature claim in the name of my sex, some interest in their hearts. I entreat them to assist, uh, to emancipate their companion to make her a help meet for them. Uh, would men, but generously snap our chains and be content with rational fellowship instead of slavish obedience, uh, they would find us more observant daughters, more affectionate sisters, more faithful wives, more reasonable mothers and word better citizens. We'll hear here, uh, as you can see, Walsh and Kraft held revolutionary and controversial radical beliefs, such a radical, how dare she push for an end to double standards, how dare she be so intelligent, reasonable and eloquent, gross. All that time she spent writing that fucking shit, she could have been baking delicious cookies for children and husbands or laying still and staring off in the middle distance while her husband uses her bodies, if she's a sex doll, the fuck, uh, Walsh and Kraft also wrote Maria or the wrongs of woman, a certain that women also had strong sexual desires and it was degrading to pretend otherwise. Maria will hail Lucifina. Sounds like Miss Mary's libido was as strong and as passion as her mind and that radicalness with due respect, Mother Mary, super fucking hot. Uh, 1792 while visiting friends and friends, Mary Walsh and Kraft met Captain Gilbert Imley, an American timber merchant and adventurer with a cock as hard as his biceps and as girthy as his bare paw-like hands. I have no idea how big his dick was, but I know Mama Mary liked it. She soon became pregnant with their daughter Fanny, named after Mary's best friend, whom we met earlier. After Little Fanny was born, Little Fanny, uh, Mary wrote a critique of the French Revolution and a personal travel narrative of her time in Sweden, Norway and Denmark, her most popular book from the 1790s. I think these things were popular because, you know, it was a lot harder for people to travel than it is now. So you kind of just wrote these so you could live vicariously through somebody else's travels. Uh, but then Imley left Mary after her travels in Scandinavia. He promised to help look after his daughter, send money, etc. But then I decided to go ahead and just etch his name in the long annals of deadbeat dads instead. After leaving Mary, his name largely disappears from the records of history outside of showing up into court records for non-payment of incurred debts. So Mary, not the only person that fucking dirtbag made empty promises to and then swindled. Uh, Mary was so upset by the separation. She attempted suicide twice actually, uh, once by jumping into the Thames only to survive because a stranger jumped in a rescuer, uh, fortunately, she would find happiness again. On March 29, 1797, Mary Wallston Kraft married a much, much better man after a slow courtship turned into a passionate love affair, uh, a great man, William Godwin, founder of philosophical anarchism. We don't do agree on anarchy, but okay, I respect his arguments. Uh, a man unbothered by the fact that Mary had had a child out of wedlock e-gad with another man, a confident man, a man who valued her mind and not just what others around him considered a woman's most important virtue, which is chastity. I like it. You know what? I don't fucking care about people who get, uh, worked up about chastity because any old fucking idiot can be chased, but only a few can be exceptional and share their mind, for example, with the world as Mary did, uh, you know, pretty easy just not fuck much harder to actually do something, you know, uh, significant with your life. Uh, Godwin was most famous for two books that he published within the space of a year, 1793s, an inquiry concerning political justice, an attack on political institutions. Fuck yeah, bro. And 1794s, things as they are or the adventures of Caleb Williams, an early mystery novel that criticizes aristocratic privilege, clearly the dude was a whip smart as well, uh, guy wrote a heading on fiction book and create a fictional book full of social commentary in the same year and did so many other things. The school, the thought he developed, the philosophical anarchism focuses on intellectual criticism of authority and the legitimacy of governments. It requires individuals to act in accordance with their own judgments and to allow others the same freedom. I don't know about all that, but okay, you made some good art. In addition to being an anarchist, Godwin was a very respected writer. That novel I referenced, Caleb Williams, often considered the first detective novel, uh, this book, uh, helped pioneer crime fiction and psychological suspense. Good God. This family had no shortage of brain matter, uh, neither wallston craft nor godwin believed in the concept of marriage, extremely unconventional belief at the time, but they did see it as necessary in a society that would not always treat illegitimate children very well. Uh, so because of that, they got married in March of 1797 for the sake of the children, but they wouldn't stay married long, not because they didn't love each other, uh, but because sadly, Mary Wallston craft, as I referenced, died from complications from childbirth just six months later, September 10th, 1797, when her daughter was just 11 days old. Godwin 41 at the time was left alone to raise both Mary and Fanny, uh, good on him for raising a child that not only wasn't his, but was born to woman. He knew for, I don't know, only around a year and total, it seems, uh, the three of them now, Godwin and the girls, they lived at a place called the polygon, a block of Georgian homes in a summer's town, a district in northwest London, the polygon has since been torn down and redeveloped, uh, but the location is marked by a plaque on Wearington Street. If you're in the neighborhood, uh, infant Mary was sickly and expected to die. Actually, uh, but, uh, she grew stronger under the care of Mary Wallston craft's close friend Maria Reveley. Uh, by the time she was a month old, uh, she was still small, but now had a strong cry. For older half sister Fanny, then just three years old, tried to comfort Mary, uh, but it was difficult to soothe the baby. And of course it was because she was still basically a baby, uh, hard for one baby to console another baby. Uh, William Godwin asked his good friend, William Nicholson, an expert in physiognomy. The practice of judging a person's character, personality or mental state from their outer appearance, mostly from facial features. Now consider to fucking quack pseudoscience, uh, asked her to measure Mary's cranium or him to measure, uh, measure Mary's cranium and facial features. When she cried during the examination, leading Nicholson to report, the mouth was too much employed to be well observed. Uh, still, despite being a mouthy little squealy baby, Nicholson also saw evidence of quote considerable memory and intelligence and quick sensibility. But Mary's cranium indicated she would be petulant in resistance. Or she was hungry at that time, at that moment, or it's unlikely to be in poke-round. Uh, why do what Nicholson would have said about me, me with my little mouth and big head, but it would have predicted that I was unable to pronounce many words clearly for long periods of time consistently, and that my appearance may frighten anxious children. If I do not make tremendous efforts to look friendly, growing up, uh, Mary was a daydreamer, which served as an escape from her tent's home life, which I'll get into soon. Mary called in the life and letters of Mary Wallstonecraft as a child ice scribbled in my favorite pastime during the hours given
me for recreation was to write stories. I love it. A natural imaginative storyteller. According to author Charlotte Gordon, Mary would eventually dedicate herself to preserving her mother's legacy. As Gordon writes in romantic outlaws, this might sound like an odd proposition. How could a mother who died 10 days? Some say 11. After she gave birth, have had such an inordinate impact on her daughter. But strange though it may seem, Walsdencraft's influence on her daughter was profound. Her radical philosophy shaped Shelley, sparking her determination to be someone and to create a masterpiece in her own right. Throughout her life, Shelley read and reread her mother's books, often learning their words by heart, a large portrait of Walsdencraft hung on the wall of Mary Shelley's childhood home. The girl studied it, comparing herself to her mother and hoping to find similarities. Mary Shelley's father and his friends held up Walsdencraft as a paragon of virtue and love, praising her genius bravery, intelligence and originality. Man, that is both so beautiful and heartbreaking. How she must have long tremendously, right? To bend reality, somehow be granted the opportunity to actually meet her mother, right? How torturous. Also good on Godwin for not only keeping, you know, or not only not letting, you know, Mary's memory die, but also, you know, just working so hard to keep the memory vibrantly alive. Gordon also wrote, steeped as she was in her mother's ideas and raised by a father who never got over his loss. Mary Shelley yearned to live according to her mother's principles, to fulfill her mother's aspirations and to reclaim Walsdencraft from the shadows of history, becoming if not Walsdencraft herself than her ideal daughter. William would visit his wife's grave almost daily for many years and bring Mary along most of the time to read by her tombstone. That's a lot. As you will see soon, Mary will frequently visit Mama's grave and maybe not in the healthiest of ways all the time. Mary was eager to learn from her father who she viewed as, quote, greater and wiser and better than any other being. Well, that's awesome. Which data or what dad doesn't want to hear their kid describe in that way. Despite that, quote, though, their relationship will be pretty complicated. Still, Godwin was a, he's a badass dude, real hard worker, you know, consistently strong father adhered to a strict routine. He would wake up early, not allow any interruptions while he was writing. He would work until one p.m. sharp and eat lunch, then parent started with reading to his girls. He would normally read them children's stories such as mother goose and fables. Obviously, when they were very little occasionally chose to read the from the book Mary Walsdencraft wrote for Fanny before she died. However, despite being a good dad, Godwin also believed he was not suited for educating young children. He had been single for most of his life, not marrying until all right. He's in his 40s said to be reserved and stingy with both his time and money, not overly warm and fuzzy or affectionate, used to being a bachelor. It was common for distinguished people to visit Godwin in the afternoons, which often conflicted, of course, with what the girls wanted from him. They didn't want to have to be quiet while dad waxed philosophic with distinguished guests and not when they were little. They wanted daddy to read with them, you know, play games with them. That being said, the guest for the most part were said to be very kind to the girls. Many of them were eager to meet little Mary in particular because she was the daughter of two intellectuals. Gordon writes that Mary, quote, "seemed destined for fame." She had grown used to hearing a hush when she entered the room, an intake of breath as though she were a great dignitary. They pointed to her fine reddish hair, her large light eyes, how like her mother they said, surely her daughter would follow her footsteps. Poor little Fanny, not given the same treatment. She faded into the background during most of these visits and she grew up knowing that she was a second fiddle to her sister. Although Godwin loved her, hopefully equally, he also definitely showed favoritism to Mary and thought more of her. He described her as quick, pretty, and considerably superior to Fanny. Literally wrote considerably superior. Let me fucking tough to read if you're, you know, that sibling, reading that about your other sibling. I consider my oldest child considerably, considerably, may I emphasize that? Strongly, considerably superior to my other child. He wrote that Fanny was, quote, "slow and prone to indolence." Damn. Interesting to, you know, how two kids can grow up in the same house. Same environment and one can be so different than the other. I mean, I guess these kids, you know, don't share the same genetics exactly, but yeah. One of Godwin's frequent visitors was poet Samuel Taylor Coloridge, the founder of the Romantic Movement in England, an artistic and intellectual movement that advocated for the importance of subjectivity, imagination, and appreciation of nature and society and culture in response to the age of enlightenment and to the industrial revolution. Both scene has been comparatively cold and soulless. Coloridge, something to say. Coloridge. First visit to the Godwin house in the winter of 1799 when Mary was still a toddler. Growing up in this environment certainly helped Mary become a key novelist of the Romantic movement. Coloridge, it's strange, estranged from his wife and away from his family at this time. Most likely feeling lonely when he began to visit Godwin's home. He stayed past the girl's bedtime and kept them entertained with stories. What a wild child did they have? This comparison is not perfect, but this is like if you grew up being read bedtime stories by Tony Morrison or Margaret Atwood or JK Rowling or Stephen King. Maybe not as scary as Stephen King. Coloridge, you know, big deal in the literary world still is. Coloridge shocked. I know, I can't decide how to say his name. Shocked by how calm and quiet the girls were, they were trained to behave this way by the father. Coloridge thought they were a bit too well behaved. Mary would say that despite her high esteem for her father, he was quite stern and almost never affectionate. She later wrote in a fictional portrait of a father/daughter based on her relationship with Godwin. My father never caressed me. If he ever stroked my head or drew me on his knee, I felt a mingled alarm and the light difficult to describe. Yet strange to say, my father loved me almost to idolatry. And I knew this and repaid his affection with enthusiastic fondness, notwithstanding his reserve in my all. Coloridge told Godwin that his daughters needed a mother, a nurturing maternal influence in their lives or lives. And that's a good friend. One that can give you, you know, honest feedback. They might be tough to hear, but you know, you need to hear it. Godwin would take his advice and marry his neighbor, Mary Jane Claremont, 12 years his junior in 1801. So many women named Mary in this episode. Good God. Little Mary, not happy about new Mary. She wanted to consider her father's marriage to Mary Jane the second great tragedy of her life following her mother's passing. Maybe, maybe dad should look further than next door when it came to dating options. Mary Jane moved next door into Godwin's place. After the two got together in 1801, what a funny move just moved next door. With her two small children, she also sounded like she was desperate to marry somebody quick. She wanted to find a husband to preserve her image of respectability. Interestingly, she claimed to be a widow, but she had never actually been married. And her children had different fathers, which was so scandalous this time. Mary Jane had once left England as a teenager and spent most of her adult life abroad. Not long after she returned, she was eager to, quote, get close with William Godwin. And she learned, you know, when she learned rather that he was a widower. So she was scheming. Author Charlotte Gordon wrote that Mary Jane was quote, undeterred by trivialities such as Godwin's unappealing appearance. He was short. With the long sloping nose, she planned her approach carefully. She read his work, political justice, and studied his habits to learn more about the old widower. Well, I don't know why I only was not old. She first approached Godwin, that may. He was on his balcony and Mary Jane went to her, went into her garden, excuse me, to greet him. He appreciated her flattery when she told him how she adored him. Yes, and she had her twins pushed up and out as much as polite society allowed. Get that bosom showcased when she told him that. Godwin was especially receptive to the admiration at the time, because in addition to realizing he needed a stepmother to his girls, he had, quote, fallen into disrepute for his radical political views in 1798. All that radicalness I went over earlier. Godwin was renowned after the 1791 publication of political justice. In this work, he argued that all governments should be abolished because they infringe on mankind's natural rights. However, the French Revolution that ended in 1799 caused the shift in political views culturally. And many were like, I don't know about no government. I'd like some security. I tried a little bit less freedom for a lot more security from being a fucking attacked by people, for example. Godwin other radicals, you know, now deemed troublemakers. 1798 was the year Godwin published Mary Walson Crafts memoir, which detailed her affair and illegitimate child. He lost a lot of fans who were shocked by his acceptance of Mary Walson Crafts' relationship with other men. How dare that piece of shit radical love a woman and appreciate her after she's touched other dicks. She's tainted a chastity. She's fallen her bicycle has already been ridded out there you. Also, although Godwin was lonely, he had a hard time ingracing himself with any ladies because he was ugly. No, but he wasn't considered very attractive. And he continually announced to women he wasn't tending to court that no one would ever compare. No one would ever ever be as perfect as Mary Walson Craft. Yeah, that's probably not a great way to, you know, start off dating somebody. Here ye, I find you quite pleasant in many respects and I do seek a courtship. But know this, you are competing for second place in my heart. First place is taken and shall remain so forever.
Actually, you are competing for a third place. I have great love for one of my daughters. Probably not a lot of people gonna jump at that proposition. But Mary Jane Claremont was desperate and persistent. Over the next few weeks after introducing herself, she would appear every time God when he came outside, not by accident. I don't know, she must've been hiding behind the curtains. It's waiting for him to step outside that she pop out of their house. Oh, hey, you again. She would make her kids be ready to run outside too. And she'd introduced her children five-year-old Charles and three-year-old Jane to Mary and Fanny. Excuse me, within a month or so, the two families were gathering each evening, going on outing together by July. And then in July, God, when consummated his relationship with Mary Jane, IE, they had premarital sex and he marked the occasion with a literal X in his diary. That is kind of weird. The deed has been done. May I never forget this glorious day. X marks the spot and by a spot I do mean y'all, vagina. Mary Jane discovered she was pregnant in September. Doesn't they fuck more than once? And as we know, Godwin had changed his views on marriage. He considered it was necessary, a necessary evil in their society decided that if one of his daughters became pregnant outside of marriage, he would want the father to marry her to save her from social exile. Mary Jane appreciated the Godwin was a responsible father, professed her secret that she was actually never married, that her first love was a French soldier who had died and that her second left her with a daughter in a pile of debt she couldn't pay. One of those guys, Mary Jane actually survived three months in a debtor's prison with her two young children. When she got out, she worked as a translator because she spoke French. Her translation of the Swiss family Robinson, actually the standard English version for over a century. So she also pretty good resume. All right, Mary Jane. Mary Jane also knew the importance of marriage in their society. A practical person seeking stability, right? She knew she had to have, you know, a man's money to survive. Viewed in this light, of course, she was a skimmer. Kind of had to be her livelihood at the time dependent on. She had to mouse the feed in addition to her own. No space to be noble. Godwin was aware that Mary Jane was materialistic, but also he would write, he was relieved to be with somebody who would not challenge him the same way Mary Walson craft had as much as he adored her. The pair got married in late December without telling the children to protect her reputation. They decided to stage in legal ceremony for their friends, where Mary Jane maintained her false identity as a widow. After that was over, they went to a different church where they had the legal ceremony performed December 21, 1801. The Claremont's moved in within two weeks of that and the move brought tension to the household. Neither Mary nor Fanny wanted a second mother and they considered Mary Jane an interloper. Mary quickly grew displeased with how Godwin showed affection to his new wife, but not to his girls. And also she was displeased with how Mary Jane sometimes behaved because she could be a lot. According to author Charlotte Gordon, Mary Jane slammed doors, tore up letters, shouted the servants, slapped her children, then begged forgiveness. Okay, she also believed Godwin spoiled his girls. So she was severe to Mary and she ignored basically Fanny. And then adding to the tension, Godwin for his part, mostly ignored Mary Jane's children too, which was upsetting to little Jane, Mary Jane's daughter, too many Mary's. Too many fucking Jane's in the story. And Jane would have a complicated relationship with her step sister. Godwin made things worse by reading to Mary, but not to Jane, which drove a deeper wedge between the girls. Jane would always feel second best to Mary and Mary always viewed Jane as competition instead of assembly. According to Gordon, the differences between the two families who encosified into fixed points of hatred. The Claremont's resented Godwinian condescension. The Godwin's despise Claremont histrionics. When she was older, Mary would use Claremont as an adjective that meant selfish, self-dramatizing, and course. Mary Jane in turn would accuse Mary of being a liar. Mary Jane soon refused to allow Mary to mention her mother anymore, which is pretty fucked, but maybe there was, you know, a lot to this. She also insisted on being called Mama and was infuriated when Mary resisted that. She fired Mary in Fanny's longtime nurse Marguerite, as well as the maids and cook who cared for the girls after their mother died. She hired a governess and tutor instead, and Godwin did nothing to intervene on any of this. He passed over all child rearing to his wife, kind of washed his hands of it. Although she could clearly be cruel, Mary Jane did bring some stability and efficiency to the house. She was able to feed and close four children on a limited budget. She took them to plays and exhibitions, cared for them, when they were sick, taught the girls to sew and embroider, but never loved Godwin's children. Mary Jane will give birth to a son in June of 1802, who sadly died minutes after he was delivered. So common back then. 18 months later, she will have another son, William Jr., Mary responded to her news, saying by resisting Mary Jane and everything she did, even small things such as what to wear or how to brush her hair. Godwin grew increasingly concerned with finances and did nothing, again, to settle these conflicts in the household. He already had unstable income as a writer and his new family put further strain on his finances. Mary Jane had to occasionally buy groceries on credits and had to lie to the landlord about rent. She consistently pushed Godwin to find new ways to earn income, right? Of course she did. Most of her incentive to marry him was financial stability. Godwin though, not motivated by money as much as she was. He was motivated by creative expression. He was stubborn about venturing into other genres and refused to rush his process, meaning he ran out of his advances before he could finish various books. Then he also started to experience severe health problems. He started to black out for long periods of time, episode she called deliquium. These blackouts unsurprisingly further delayed his creative output, his doctor, Dyke Noston, with mental stress, stress worsened by the fact that his book sales were low. In 1807, Mary Jane thought she had a solution to their money problems. She declared that they were going to open up a book shop, specializing in children's literature, juvenile literature, a growing market at the time. It would also differentiate from much of the competition, differentiate them. Godwin had written some children's stories before, but was reluctant to write more though. However, that summer, he re-lented and the family moved to open the shop. They now lived at 41 Skinner Street, a ramshackle house near Newgate, prison in London, from the school room window on the top floor of their house, the girls could literally see prisoners making their final walk to the gallows to be hanged. So that's dark. Young Mary spent a lot of time by Mama's grave, also watching prisoners march toward the hangmen's news from her home and surrounded by authors. Of course, she became a celebrated Gothic writer. Mary Jane opened the shop on the ground floor and had the girls packing, unpacking, and shelving books when they were older. They waited on customers. Meanwhile, Charles had been sent to boarding school and William was still too young to be much help. Mary disliked their new home, initially, according to author Charlotte Gordon, to her Skinner Street represented the evils of life with second Mama, whereas the tranquility of the Meadows, now the polygon, symbolized Mary Wallston Crafts virtues. One good thing about the move, however, was that they were now in the heart of the publishing world. The central location of Skinner Street made it easier for Godwin's admirers to come visit him. Authors came into their bookstore frequently and Young Mary had access to seemingly infinite books. She and her father now often discussed famous authors over dinner. One of Godwin's most famous visitors was Aaron Burm. The man who fled the US in 1808, shortly after he had been Thomas Jefferson's vice president. Four years after he killed founding father Alexander Hamilton in a duel and very shortly after his conspiracy to take parts of the United States and form a new country. He was acquitted a treason for that at trial due to a lack of detailed specificity in the 1787 text of the US Constitution about alleged crimes of treason. The fiasco in a fair further destroyed his already faltering political career though. Effigies of Burm were hanged and burned throughout the country and the threat of additional charges from individual states forced him into exile overseas in Europe. Burr was a devotee of Mary Wallston Craft. He believed in the equality of men and women and encouraged his daughter, Theodora, to learn Latin, logic and math. His daughter would tragically drown sadly in a shipwreck in 1811 and the heartbroken Burr will take further interest in Godwin's curls whom he nicknamed Les goddesses. They loved Burr back called him Gamp. All the kids loved him actually. On one occasion, Fanny served him tea while eight year old Williams delivered a speech written by Mary while Jane then sang to him. After the speech and that is adorable. After spending years immersed around so many books and years of so many discussions with so many young, you know, so many authors, young Mary Shelley published her first poem in 1808, titled "Monci non-tong pa" or "The Discoveries of John Bull in a Trip to Paris" which was just 10 years old. It was published through her father's publishing company which was never profitable but published a lot of stuff. Quite the accomplishment for the young writer, the poem was an expansion of Charles dividends, song by the same name. It features comic stanzas with French and English stereotypes, Monci non-tong pa ridicules John Bull for his inability to understand French. It's often listed as a collaborative work unclear how much the book was actually written by Mary. Here's a little taste narrated by Simon Jones and produced by the New York Public Library. John Bull from England's Happy Isle to Bull to dread Miss Chance resolved to leave his friends a while and take a peep at France. He nothing new of French indeed and deemed it jabbering stuff. For English, he could write and read and thought it quite enough. Shrew John to see and not to pray to foreign parts would roam that he, their wonders, might relate when snug again at home. Again, not sure how much
Mary wrote, but you know, how cool to be part of a literary project, a published project at the age of 10 that is still read and studied over two centuries later. Now, even if it wasn't your dad's company, as Mary got older, her father expected still more of her. Mary called it, quote, God would extend his utmost care to the task of education, but many things rendered him unfit for it. His severity was confined to words, but they were pointed and humiliating. His strictness was undeviating. He was too minute in his censures, too grave and severe in his instruction. At the age of 13, Mary suffered a severe outbreak of eczema on her hands and arms and her stepmom Mary Jane sent her various doctors and off of some of their recommendations, sent her to the seaside for some fresh air, but it didn't seem to help when she returned home. Mary continued to give her stepmother the silent treatment and to fire her authority. And because of that, she was then sent to a girls boarding school in Ramsgate, about 80 miles from London, which she would leave the school, though six months later with her eczema still uncured. Then when Mary was 14, she was sent away again. Godwin decided to send her to Scotland. He'd received an invitation from William Baxter, a Scotsman who had read political justice years earlier and struck up correspondence with him. He described his remote Scottish village in his letters. Baxter was a recent widower and heard about Mary's troubles at home. So he told Godwin to send her over. Godwin had four daughters, lived with him already, was used to raising girls. He believed Mary would fit in into the fresh air, would cure her of her eczema. Godwin had never met Baxter, but agreed to send his daughter to live with him. That's a sketchy, right? Setting your fortune, your daughter to live with a dude you've never actually met. Doing that was fairly normal back then, though. Very different time. Very different time. Godwin wrote about Mary. I believe she has nothing of what is commonly called vices, and that she has considerable talent. I'm anxious that she should be brought up like a philosopher. I do not desire that she should be treated with extraordinary attention. I wish too that she should be excited to industry. She has occasionally great perseverance, but occasionally too, she shows great need to be roused. You know, Mary traveled to Scotland on June 7th, 1812 and spent the next two years there. Sometimes visiting, taking a little short visits home. And she liked it. Dude was not a creep after all. The Baxter household was peaceful, unlike what she'd experienced back in London. She later wrote about her time in Scotland. They were my area of freedom, area being like a nest. And the pleasant region where unheeded, I could commune with the creatures of my fancy. I wrote then, but in a most commonplace style, it was beneath the trees belonging to our house or on the bleak sides of the woodless mountains near that my true compositions, the airy flights of my imagination were born and fostered. The second area there, a-I-R-Y, just actually like a light, fun, frivolous, had a way with words already. Shortly after, well, I guess she was right now later. Sorry. Shortly after first Virgin Scotland, young Mary briefly met her future husband, Percy Bisch, Shelley, for the first time during a visit home, November 11th, 1812. She was now 15 and Percy was a 21 year old aristocrat who had written to William Godwin to ask if he could be Godwin's student. Let's take a bit to get to know him now, since he will be a huge figure in Mary's life. Okay? Okay. Right after our second of two, mid-show sponsor breaks. Thanks for listening to those sponsors. I hope you heard some deals you liked, and now let's meet Percy Shelley. Born on August 4th, 1792, Percy was an epic poet, probably best known for Ozamandius, a short poem about the decay of political power and the transience of human empire, probably one of the most famous sonnets in the entire English language. I'm admittedly not a huge poetry guy overall, but there are some poems that I do really love, and this is one of them. Actor Brian Cranston, a Breaking Bad, did a reading actually for the series finale of Breaking Bad Years ago, some promos, a reading of this poem, and it's so good. So let's hear it. It's not very long. I met a traveler from an antique land who said, "Too vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, half-sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown and wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command, tell that it sculptor well those passions red which yet survive. Stamped on these lifeless things. The hand that mocked them on the heart that fed, and on the pedestal these words appear. My name is Ozzy Mandius, King of Kings. Look on my works, he might be in despair." Nothing beside remains. On the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, alone in level sands, stretch far away. Love what that means, right? Essentially, this too shall pass, right? No man's ego. No man of hubris can defeat death. The world's most powerful people, its most arrogant rulers, its most vast and mighty empire shall one day be reduced to bone, and dust, and rubble. The lone and level sands stretch far away. So don't go thinkin' your hot shit, motherfucker, right? You're built out of the same stardust as everybody else, and to that same stardust you shall one day return King of Kings or not. Percy's classic anthology, verse works, such as O to the West Wind and the Mask of Anarchy, have also been heralded as well as his long-form poetry, such as Queen Mab and Alastair. He never achieved ton of fame during his lifetime, some, more than Mary, but not a lot, but recognition of his achievements and poetry grew steadily following his death. While he was alive, it seems most of his fans were fellow creatives. Percy grew up fishing and hunting in the village of Broadbridge Heath, in the English countryside. His father Timothy Shelley was a squire, a member of the nobility, and a member of parliament. His mother Elizabeth, the daughter of a very successful landowner and butcher. Dude was born into a aristocratic wealth, and he had a grandpa who was very well off. He was the oldest of seven, left home of the age of only ten to attend Sion House Academy, just ten miles west of Central London. Two years later enrolled in Eaton College in Windsor, a very famous school founded in 1440, providing education for boys aged 13 to 18. It is the largest boarding school in England with over 1,300 students, arguably the most famous boarding school in the world. When Boris Johnson became Prime Minister of England in 2019, he also became the 20th British Prime Minister to have attended Eaton, Robert Walpole, Horace's dad, who I mentioned earlier. The first Prime Minister of England also went to Eaton, Horace went there as well, as did other famous authors like George Orwell, Ian Fleming, Aldous Huxley, actors, Hugh Laurie, Tom Hiddleston, Dominic West, a very distinguished place. When young Percy hated it, he was subjected to a lot of bullying by bullies who called themselves Shelley Bates, a number of biographers and contemporaries have attributed the bullying to Shelley's aloofness, non-conformity, refusal to take part in this tradition of making younger boys basically servants to older boys, the school had hazing essentially. His peculiarities and violent rages and interest in the occult earned him the nickname of Mad Shelley, contemporaries would describe him as, you know, doing shit like giving an electric shock to a teacher, blowing up a tree stump with gunpowder and attempting to raise spirits with occult rituals. I think young Shelley and I, young Shelley and young me, I think we would have gotten along pretty well. He also studied hard, you know, what he wanted to study, like politics, philosophy, and literature. By his final year, he had gained a reputation as a classical scholar as well and a tolerated eccentric. In his last term at Eden, he wrote his first novel, The Gothic novel, Zastrasi at the age of 17, a tale of vengeance, loved by many of his fellow classmates. In the fall of 1810, when Percy was 18, he entered University College, Oxford. A few months later, he was called to the Dean's office because he and his friend Thomas Jefferson Hogg co-authored a pamphlet titled The Necessity of Atheism. It's premise that the mind cannot believe in the existence of a god was appalling to the staff, the school demanded both boys, acknowledge or deny authorship. Percy did neither. He stuck to his ideals and was expelled for them. Percy's parents were also appalled by this. They demanded he forsake his beliefs, which also included vegetarianism and sexual freedom. That piece of shit. Just submit, motherfucker. Then in August of 1811, the rebellious just turned 19 Percy alope with 16 year old Harriet Westbrook. A girl also wise beyond her years, who was well read, very intelligent, charming, whom his parents forbade him from seeing. He knew her through his sisters, I went to the same boarding school together and he pursued her shortly after breaking up with another Harriet, his cousin Harriet Grove. Somebody cousin fuckers back then. That was 100% the norm. Neither set a parents approved the wedding and both cut them off from any sort of financial help. While struggling to provide for themselves now, Percy became radicalized in his political ideas in part due to the devastation, economic and otherwise brought about due to the war with Napoleon in Europe and a part after reading William Goodwin's or Godwin's book Political Justice such a popular book at this time, amongst many intellectuals. After he and Harriet each got their allowances restored, still crazed that was like a common thing for like well to do people back there just to have an adult allowance. They moved to Ireland for a little while where Percy published some philosophical and political tracks and Harriet helped him sell them. in these works, he called for Radical Laws.
more radical shit like an end to the oppression of the Irish poor and freedom for Catholics to have religious freedom. The British office of the home secretary started to keep an eye on him after that stuff. He was labeled as subversive. In February of 1813, Percy claims strangers broke into his house and attacked him for his radical views. And then he and Harriet fled to London for their safety. Something maybe this didn't happen. He also struggled with some mental health issues and may have kind of told stories. Several months later on June 23, Harriet gave birth to the couple's first child, a girl named Eliza, but she will go by the name Ionthee. All right. Sadly, in the months that followed, the couple's relationship deteriorated. Percy didn't care for the influence of one of Harriet's sisters on her and Harry didn't care for Percy wanting an open marriage. That fair. Percy steadily becomes, in my opinion, much less likable from this point on in the biography. You know, he's started flirting with an attractive widow. He had met recently, which led to his thoughts of like an open marriage following Ionthee's birth. Percy and Harriet bounced all around the UK fleeing creditors. They owed money to looking for a home to buy, probably getting arguments of Percy, fucking other people. There's rumors of that. Pretty wild little life. Tharlyden by March of 1814, the two are living apart with Harriet trying to secure the legality of their Edinburgh elopement as a legal wedding so that her daughter, you know, will not be labeled a bastard and denied certain legal rights. And Percy is, well, mostly regretting that he had rushed into a wedding. He struck up another friendship quote unquote with another attractive single woman, Elizabeth Hitchner, schoolteacher, who'd inspire his first major poem, Queen Mab. At one point, he proposed that he and Elizabeth, how about they all live together and just kind of share everything, community, including my dick. He, I don't know if he said dick, but it's implied. He wanted a thruple. Harriet, not into the idea. I don't think Elizabeth was either. Then during this incredibly chaotic time, he walked into William Godwin's bookstore where he will soon meet young Mary Shelley. Author Charlotte Gordon described Percy as having curly brown hair in huge blue eyes. He was quote, rich, wild, and charming with the wicked sense of humor, radical political views. I feel like the radical is the word of this episode and a propensity for shocking people. Percy, who had promised to help Godwin financially and exchange for his mentorship, first charmed Mary's sisters, Fanny and Jane, before Mary returned home again after what seems like a very brief meeting between the two Mary returned to England permanently in March of 1814, and she was soon fallen love with Percy. Unfortunately for her Percy, still very much married to Harriet, and they had a child with another on the way. Meanwhile, Mary's family, well, they have other problems to deal with. In April of 1814, Godwin warned his family that their savings had been depleted, and they were now facing total and complete financial ruin. So that was a fund dinner. As a last hope, he invited Percy over to dinner in hopes of getting a loan. And he will get that loan in a big one. Percy gave and raised more than four thousand pounds in a series of continuous financial loans, grants and post-obit bonds to support William Godwin between 1814 and 1820. And that is by some accounts equivalent to millions of pounds today. Also when Percy entered the drawing room, he saw Mary for the first time. Well, well, he saw Mary like really saw Mary and fell in love with her this time because a few nights before he claimed he'd had manifestations that told him he would soon meet the female who was destined to be mine, 100%. When he saw Mary, he said he knew she was the woman from his dreams. So now, you know, he's like really into it. During dinner, she is quiet. He admires her thoughtful eyes and her gentle voice. When she does speak, he is enamored and admires the fact that she speaks like an educated woman that she is. In the days that followed, Percy and Mary saw each other when he came to dinner or when she was working at the bookstore and their attraction grew steadily. She was aware that Percy was married, but thought her father would support her decision to pursue him anyway. By June, Mary and Percy decided they wanted to meet privately, but just as friends. Yeah, right. Despite this possible, but I fucking doubted intention. The relationship deepened quickly when Mary took Percy to her mother's grave. Totally normal. There, they would often read to each other and have long philosophical conversations. So they started going to Mary's mother's grave regularly. For the first six weeks of the relationship, they allegedly maintained zero physical affection, just a lot of blue balls and a blue beam. Okay. A lot of blue balls and blue beam. All right. But then on June 27, in front of her mother's grave, perhaps over it, probably over it. Mary told Percy that she loved him and threw herself into his arms. Shelley wrote that Mary was inspired, quote, by a spirit that sees into the truth of things, the sublime and rapturous moment when she confessed herself mine, who had so long been here as in secret cannot be painted to mortal imaginations. Okay. Mary later wrote that they lay on the grass and touched each other while with the full order of love. So sounds like maybe they fucked over Mary's mother's grave. That's the rumor, truly. They were very committed to the Gothic romantic lifestyle. Nothing gets you more goth streetcred than fucking out mom's literal grave. Does it in a cemetery at night? Oh, gee, goth kids. The original goth couple. I mean, is there any other couple in history that can compete for that title? I don't think there is. All the remissing was a look, you know, black fingernail polish, black trench coat for Percy for Mary, black fishnet stockings, fishnet top with long sleeves under a shredded black cure concerti, black dock Martin boots, black lipstick, a lot of a lot of powder on her face, a lot of white powder to make it look like a corpse, both of their faces actually. Maybe he's wearing a black top hat. They both have a lot of silvery rings and necklaces. She has leather choker. They both talk frequently about death and the pointlessness of life and they're so fucking over it. I actually loved moodyness of goth kids, by the way. You're not wrong kids. Life kind of is fucked up a lot of the time and a lot of different ways. But don't let that lead you to exiting, stick around for the people watching at least. Charlotte Gordon thinks this Mary losing or thinks this rumor about Mary losing her virginity on mom's grave is unlikely, giving Mary's supposed sexual inexperience and the public setting, but I don't know. They did allude to that in their journals journals. That July, Mary and Percy announced their new romantic relationship to her father and he was actually not supportive at all. He was fucking furious. Despite the financial help he was already getting from Percy, he was mortified and banished Percy from the house. Not what they were expecting. Good on pop a bill. Percy, a gifted poet, but also a reckless romantic and self-indulgent asshole here. Percy was determined to gain back Williams respect. He set up a formal meeting with his wife, Harriet and told her this poor, very pregnant woman that they're done. When he reported this to Godwin, he again thought the man would approve and again was wrong. Godwin now personally tracked down Harriet, told her that he would argue for her case with both Percy and his daughter. Essentially, he's going to try and get his daughter to fucking leave Percy alone, try and get Percy to stop talking to his daughter and get Percy to not abandon his pregnant wife. That same day, he lectured Mary until she promised to stop encouraging Percy and that didn't go well. In the third week of July, Percy, now barged into the Godwin home with a loaded pistol and a bottle of london saying that he could not live without Mary and that if she swallowed the bottle of drugs, he would then shoot himself and they would be together forever. Jesus fucking Christ. These two are so melodramatic. Truly the world's first goth couple. Mary begged Percy to please just go home, promising she would never love anyone else. He did leave in tears. Then later that week, he swallowed a large dose of london in an attempt to die by suicide, nearly did die, but soon recovered and very quickly wrote this song. I actually fucking love that song. I love most emo songs actually. My chemical romance, oh, they're still good. Of course, Percy didn't write that, but I hope I'm guessing they know about Percy and Mary and their romance. Then still in July of 1814, Mary and Percy fled the country. They ran it off to continental Europe with Mary's step sister Jane, excuse me, a woman known most to most as Claire, Claire Mont. William Godwin will now not speak to his daughter Mary for the next three years. He'll also have to deal with rumors thanks to the substantial loans he'd already received from Percy that he had sold two of his daughters to the man. So that's fun. The trio left London by ship and toured France, Switzerland, Germany, and Holland, which was expensive. Percy's allowance barely covered it. He had given a lot of money to William. Now he and Mary struggled financially. Also during these travels, Percy encouraged Mary to write. They kept a box of early writings, which was sadly lost in Paris. It has never been found. Oh, and Mary's pregnant. If you got pregnant before they fled to Europe, so that is fun. And you might be wondering, why Mary's step sister is traveling with them? Why, why this third wheel is tagging along. Jane, again, who was going by the name of Claire probably or would soon very likely romantically involved off and on with Percy. That dirty dick motherfucker. Do was great poet, but such a selfish prick. Zero interest in showing any restraint when it came to his passions and a piece for vanity, fair, biographer, Charlotte, Gordon writes that it's hard to imagine any other reason they would invite her along to their elopement. The three would live and travel together for the next few years, all three avid diarists, confirmation of Claire and Percy's relationship, very likely documented at one point, but choice pages from both of Claire and Mary's journals were later removed either by them or their descendants. So that's suspicious. Many biographers believe the missing pages hold the answers to a sibling conflict, a conflict like
the revolving around both of them fucking Percy. For example, in 1819 Mary was so angry with her sister that she referred to her in writing only as his friend or the lady. She also wrote that Claire was sent to the English countryside. According to many, she was shipped off to have a baby fathered by Percy that she would not keep, just a rumor but one that is persisted to this day. After the couple or thrupple returned to England, Harriet requested her divorce and sued Percy for alimony and full custody of the kids as she should have. He's treated abandoned all of them. This divorce though, not granted. The couple second child, Charles, born in November of 1814. So now free to not help raise his kids outside of alimony, which is covered by family money. He didn't help make Percy decides to have another kid. Cool, cool, cool. Percy and Mary's first child, a daughter Clara, born on February 22, 1815, but born prematurely and will die on March 6th. Percy will celebrate by fucking all of Mary's other sisters and her stepmom. Just swang in that dick. Got all them pregnant too. No, I think he was actually kind of sad. 18 year old Mary, she is still so young, heartbroken and dreamed of her baby. She wrote, I awoke in the night to give it suck. It appeared to be sleeping so quietly that I would not wake it. That same year, Percy wrote a laster or the spirit of solitude, a 720 line poem now recognized as his first great work. 1815, also the year that Percy's grandfather died is very wealthy grandfather and he was left an annual allowance of a thousand pounds of fuck yeah, bro. Sorry, Gramps, you're lost. And this God's playboy is a dream. Who wants this dick next? Really hard to say what the purchasing power of a thousand pounds in 1815 would be equivalent to today. It's such a different world for what it's worth. Inflation calculators say around 115,000 pounds, but if you measure a thousand pounds by what an average worker had to earn to make that sum in 1815 compared to today, it's value scales up drastically to about a million pounds today. And that is probably more accurate in terms of what it would actually represent, not a bad allowance, not sure how much he was also getting to. So what a life, right? Dude got that every fucking year now. I didn't have to do shit for it. Percy and Mary's second child together, William, born January 24th, 1816, will survive infancy and travel with his parents. Not long after his birth, the summer of 1816 would prove to be one of the most impactful seasons of Mary's life. It was when she was struck with the inspiration for her most famous work on May 3rd that year, the shelleys, including Little William and Stepsister Claire, left for Geneva to meet Lord Byron. Lord Byron had recently left England under dress because he's a piece of shit. He had divorced his wife and abandoned his child and was accused of having multiple affairs with both men and women, including in a fair with his fucking half sister, married half sister and widely rumored that the two of them fathered or had a child together. A daughter Elizabeth, and he would never claim. Oh my God, so many of these aristocrats, such as the Generates, Claire, despite knowing about all that, became obsessed with Byron and wanted to spend time with him. That's why she persuaded Percy and Mary to go join him in Geneva. Charlotte Gordon wrote about Claire's obsession and vanity fair. Speaking of Lord Byron, he has a reputation as a ladies man for her. It's like sleeping with Mick Jagger. Byron was famous at this point, mostly from his poem Child Harold, published in four parts, beginning in 1812, made him a household name, according to him overnight. Byron later famously noted that he woke up one morning and found himself to be famous. In the days before rock bands before a hit single could make somebody famous, right, especially with ladies, it was poetry. Lord Byron, the actual first name was George, was one of the major figures of the romantic movement. Now, regarded as being among the greatest British poets to have ever lived, very similar to Percy Shelly in many ways. Born into aristocratic nobility, including the Scottish Eris mother and a noble English family lineage, unlike Shelly did not grow up and wealth initially. His father squandered his mother's fortune and left them in debt, forcing Byron to spend his early years in poverty until he unexpectedly inherited his title in a state at the age of only 10. Then he had a lot of money. As a young man, he was a fucking wild stuffed around a lot with everybody, maybe even kids, probably a pito, not kidding. I don't know if they're teaching that in your college lit class. When he was 22, he tried to literally buy a 12-year-old girl he had become infatuated with, Theresa mockery for 500 pounds, met her when he stated her family home, her mother, Tassia mockery, a widow, former British vice consul's wife. Before departing Athens, he penned maid of Athens, sealing each stands up with the Greek phrase, meaning, my life, I love you, wrote this about this little girl, too much to go into his life in the detail here. But he was basically one of the world's first famous literary bad boys. Bad boy who refused to go peep into potty, seriously, was quite naughty. He had a lot of bad boys show up in his poetry, wrote about bad boys, invented the archetype of the brooding, defiant, melancholy, protagonist, haunted by a dark past. Think of James Dean or like a young Marlon Brando. He and Percy Shelly became close friends and rented nearby properties on Lake Geneva. A lake that serves as the border between France and Switzerland near Italy, not confirmed of Percy and Byron had a romantic relationship, but they might have fucked too because everybody fucked everybody in the story. In Byron for Gordon's words, whether they're generals touched, I don't know, but they're fawning all over each other and their ideas. They enjoyed going on day trips, sailing together, having long talks, maybe sucking tether decks, I don't know. That summer, again, the summer of 1816, Byron was also joined by 21-year-old Dr. John Polidori. John had met Lord Byron by taking a job as his personal physician early in 1816 to manage his volatile physical and mental health. Byron's struggle with having a club foot, recurring bouts of malaria, eating disorders, pretty severe ones, frequently experienced bouts of dizziness, vertigo and chest spasms, likely had numerous STIs and was probably both bipolar and ADHD. So that's quite a bit. Byron and Polidori had a volatile relationship. Modern day scholar suspected Polidori really wanted to fuck Byron. Again, everybody trying to fuck everybody in the story. Polidori wrote, uh, often about Mary, perhaps a compensate for his obsession with Byron, uh, once even jumped off a balcony for her after being egg-donned by Byron, who told it to the stunt would definitely impress her. It didn't. He twisted his ankle, limped off in pain, uh, what she humiliated and she thought he was an idiot. According to Gordon, now Polidori's in love with Mary per se because really they're all in love with Byron except Mary, who's body with her six-month-old son and riding her masterpiece. Does all this feel like a particularly twisted West Anderson movie to anybody else? A bunch of really smart, young, eccentric, highly intelligent, super-fucking weird rich kids, right? Just too much free time on their hands. Uh, Mary will actually use some productive with her free time this summer. Uh, in part because the weather is shitty and she's frequently stuck inside, the summer of 1816 was unusually cold and stormy, possibly as a result of the April 1815 eruption of Mount Tambora across the world in Indonesia. The eruption of Mount Tambora killed a hundred thousand people, roughly in the immediate aftermath, now considered the deadliest volcano eruption in recorded history, uh, ruined the summer for most of the northern hemisphere. There was no warm growing season the next summer. Uh, in fact, it was known as the year without a summer. Most to Europe was blanketed by fog and frost, Europe, Asia, even North America experienced wide-ranging crop failures, famine, epidemics, even political revolts, right? People, people more likely to revolt when they're angry. Historians estimate that at least a million people starved in the aftermath of the eruption, tens of millions more would die from a global cholera pandemic. It was during these years that many European artists created some of their darkest works, including Mary Shelley. Uh, the weather was terrible during the summer, uh, in Geneva on the Swiss side of the lake. There were many days when the group was stuck inside. They often gather at Byron's rented mansion, uh, Villa, Diadati, Villa Diadati, and a chicken parmesan, nah, and Tony Manderes, uh, no, a reading poetry talking debating late into the night. And one of the many topics of conversation was whether or not human corpses could ever be reanimated. Mary who called herself a devout, but nearly silent listener, absorbed the conversation about modern medical revolutions. Meanwhile, as the summer passed, Byron became increasingly annoyed with Mary's stepsister Claire and Mary was growing tired of Dr. Paula Dorey's sexual advances. Uh, and Percy became depressed. No one was happy. Things were tense. And after three straight days of rain, after reading horror stories and morbid poems, Byron gave the group a challenge to write a new ghost story that was better than anything they had read. Uh, Mary said about the challenge. I busied myself to think of a story, one which would speak to the mysterious fears of our nature in a waking, thrilling, uh, thrilling horror for his port. Oh my gosh, for his part, Paula Dorey wrote a novella titled The Vampire, published the following year in 1819. Actually, the first fictional work to include a vampire hero, which many think was modeled after Byron. And he is credited by many as the inventor of the vampire genre of fantasy fiction. He wrote his book, some seven decades before Bram Stoker, uh, began writing Dracula. Paula Dorey would dive suspected suicide at his father's house, uh, weighed down by depression and gambling debts five years after the infamous summer of 1816, only 25 when he died. Crazy footnote to the story of how Frankenstein came about, right? Uh, Mary struggled to write her story. She later recalled, I was asked each morning and each morning I was forced to reply with a mortifying negative. No, I don't have it. Uh, but then one night after, uh, another day, uh, they were all stuck inside, uh, during to San Francisco.
She suddenly had a vision. She wrote, "I saw the hideous fantastic of the man stretched out, and then on the working of some powerful engine show signs of life." The next morning she had her story in mind, and that was the basis of Frankenstein. As we know, the story features a scientist who creates a sentient creature out of a human or out of human body parts. A Mary incorporated her surroundings, including a Villade de Arate, Masarare, Bajaras, Bajeren, Dora Banderas, into the novel. France, Germany, and Switzerland were Mary and Percy traveled during their lopement, also featured in Frankenstein, or more specifically Frankenstein, or the modern Prometheus. And in Greek mythology, Prometheus is a titan, a trickster, a god of fire, most famous for creating humanity out of clay, and stealing fire from the gods to give demand kind. And great title for a book. The character of Victor Frankenstein, not actually a doctor of the novel, but rather a student, is from Geneva, Switzerland. Spent his early years by the lake, he studies at Ingolstadt University, in Ingolstadt, Germany. Frankenstein, partially inspired by an 1812 French translation of the German ghost story collection. Fantasma goryana, a nightmare Mary had of a student being horrified by the vivacation of assembled human body parts, and also a dream of her dead daughter coming back to life. Spired by a collection of things, she wrote about this dream, which occurred a month after her daughter had died. A dream that my little baby came to life again, that had only been cold, and that we rubbed it before the fire, and it lived, I awake, and I find no baby. I think about the little thing all day. So that's very sad, the best account of how Mary wrote Frankenstein actually comes from her preface to the 1831 edition of the novel. Let me share Mary's own words from that preface, the publishers of the standard novels in selecting Frankenstein for one of their series. Express to wish that I should furnish them with some account of the origin of the story. I am the more willing to comply because I shall thus give a general answer to the question so frequently asked me, how I, than a young girl, came to think of and to dilate upon so very hideous and ideal. It is true that I am very averse to bringing myself forward in prints, but as my account will only appear as an appendage to a former production, and as it will be confined to such topics as have connection with my authorship alone. I can scarcely accuse myself of a personal intrusion. It is not singular that as the daughter of two persons of distinguished literary celebrity, I should very early in life, a thought of writing as a child I scribbled, and my favorite pastime during the hours given me for recreation was to write stories. Still, I had a dearer pleasure than this, which was the formation of castles in the air, the indulging and waking dreams, the following up trains of thought, which had for their subject. It was the formation of a succession of imaginary incidents, my dreams were once more fantastic and agreeable to my writings, in the latter I was a close imitator, rather doing as others had done, than putting down the suggestions of my own mind. What I wrote was intended at least for one other eye, my childhood's companion and friend, but my dreams were all my own. I counted for them to nobody. They were my refuge when annoyed, my dearest pleasure when free. I lived principally in the country as a girl, and passed a considerable time in Scotland. I made occasional visits to the more picturesque parts, but my habitual residence was on the blank and dreary northern shores of the Tei near Dundee, blank and dreary on retrospect, on retro-spection, I call them. They were not so to me then. They were the area of freedom and the pleasant region where unheated I could commune with the creatures of my fancy. I wrote then, but in the most common playstyle, it was beneath the trees of the grounds belonging to our house, or on the bleak sides of the woodless mountains near, that my true compositions, the airy flights of my imagination were born and fostered. I did not make myself the heroine of my tales. Life appeared to me to commonplace in affairs regarded myself. I could not figure to myself that romantic woes or wonderful events would ever be my loss, but I was not confined to my own identity, and I could people the hours with creations far more interesting to me at that age than my own sensations. And after this, my life became busier, and reality stood in place of fiction. My husband, however, was from the first very anxious that I should prove myself worthy of my parentage and enroll myself on the page of fame. He was forever inciting me to obtain literary reputation, which even on my own part I cared for then, though since I had become infinitely indifferent to it. This time he desired that I should write, not so much with the idea that I could produce anything worthy of notice, but that he might himself judge how far I possessed the promise of better things hereafter. Still, I did nothing. Traveling in the cares of a family, occupied my time, and study in the way of reading, or improving my ideas and communication with his far more cultivated mind, was all of literature, was all of literary employment that engaged my attention. In the summer of 1816, we visited Switzerland, and became the neighbors of Lord Byron. At first, we spent our pleasant hours in the lake, or wandering on its shores, and Lord Byron, who was riding the third canto of child herald, was the only one among us who put his thoughts upon paper. There, or these, as he brought them successfully to us, clothed in the light of, sorry, and all the, oh my god, clothed in all the light and harmony of poetry seemed to stamp as divine the glories of heaven and earth, whose influences we partook with him. But it proved a wet, unginal summer, and incessant rain often confined us for days of the house, or to the house. Some volumes of ghost stories, translated from the German into French, fell into our hands. There was the history of the inconstant lover, who, when he thought to class the bride to whom he had pledged his vows, found himself in the arms of the pale ghost, of her whom he had deserted. There was a tale of the sinful founder of his race, whose miserable doom it was to bestow the kiss of death on all the younger sons of his fated house, just when they reached the age of promise. His gigantic shadowy form, clothed like the ghost in himlet, incomplete armor, but with the beaver up, was seen at midnight, by the moon's fitful beams to advance slowly along the gloomy avenue. The shape was lost, breathed the shadow of the castle walls, but soon a gate swung back, a step was heard, the door of the chamber opened, and he advanced to the couch of the blooming youths, cradled in healthy sleep. Eternal sorrow sat upon his face as he bent down and kissed the forehead of the boys, who from that hour withered, like flowers snapped upon the stalk. I've not seen these stories since then, but their incidents are as fresh in my mind as if I had read them yesterday. We will each write a ghost story, said Lord Byron, and his proposition was acceded to. They were four of us. The noble author began a tale, a fragment of which he printed at the end of his poem of Mazepa, Shelley, more apt to embody ideas and sentiments in the radiance of brilliant imagery, and in the music of the most melodious verse that adorns our language, then to event the machinery of a story, commenced one founded on the experiences of his early life. Poor Polidori had some terrible idea about a skull-headed lady, who was so punished for peeping through a keyhole, what to see I forget, something very shocking and wrong, of course. But when she was reduced to a worse condition than the renowned Tom of Coventry, he did not know what to do with her, and was obliged to dispatch her to the tomb of the capulence, the only place for which she was fitted. The illustrious poets also, annoyed by the plattertude of prose, speedily relinquished the uncongenial task. I busied myself to think of a story, a story to rival those which had excited us to this task, one which would speak to the mysterious fears of our nature, an awakened thrilling horror, one to make the reader dread to look around, decertled the blood, and quickened the beatings of the heart. If I did not accomplish these things, my ghost story would not be unworthy of its name. I thought and pondered vainly. I felt that blank in capability of invention, which is the greatest misery of authorship, when dull nothing replies to our anxious invocations. Have you thought of a story? I was asked each morning, and each morning I was forced to reply with a mortified negative. Everything must have a beginning, to speak in Sanchion phrase, and that beginning must be linked to something that went before. The Hindus gave the world an elephant to support it, but they make the elephants stand upon a tortoise. Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of a void but out of chaos. The materials must in the first place be afforded. It can give form to dark, shapeless substances, but cannot bring into being the substance itself. In all matters of discovery and invention, even of those that appertain to the imagination, we are continually reminded of the story of Columbus and his egg. Invention consists in the capacity of season, the capabilities of the subject, and in the power of molding and fasting ideas suggested to it. Many in long were the conversations between Lord Byron and Shelley, to which I was a devout but nearly silent listener. During one of these, various philosophical doctrines were discussed, and among others the nature of the principle of life, and whether there was any probability of its ever being discovered and communicated. They talked with the experiments of Dr. Darwin. I speak not of what the doctor really did, or said that he did, but as more to my purpose, of what was then spoken of as having been done by him. Who preserved a piece of Pharmaceli in a glass case, till by some extraordinary means it began to move with voluntary motion, not thus, after all, would life be given. Perhaps a corpse would be reanimated, galvanism had given token of such things.
Perhaps the component parts of a creature might be manufactured brought together and imbued, uh, in dude, or imbued, probably, with vital warmth. Night waned upon this talk, and even the witching hour had gone by before we retired to rest. When I placed my head on my pillow, I did not sleep, nor could I be said to think. My imagination unbidden, possessed, and guided me, uh, and guided me, giving Jesus Christ. This is a long fucking bad. Gifting the success of images that arose in my mind with the vividness, far beyond the usual bounds of reverie. I saw with my shut eyes, but acute mental vision, I saw the pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together. I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out, and then on the working of some powerful engine, show signs of life and stir with an uneasy half-fidal motion. Frightful must be, for supremely frightful with the effect of any human endeavor to mock this dependous mechanism of the creator of the world. His success would terrify the artist. He would rush away from his odious handiwork, horror-stricken. He would hope that left to itself, the slight spark of life, which he had communicated with faith, that this thing, which had received such imperfect animation, would subside into dead matter. And he might sleep in the belief that the silence of the grave would quench forever the transient existence of the hideous corpse, which he had locked, or excuse me, looked upon as the cradle of life. He sleeps, but he is awakened. He opens his eyes. Behold, the horror thing stands at his bedside, opening his curtains and looking on him with yellow, watery, but speculative eyes. I opened mine and terror. The idea so possessed my mind that a thrill of fear ran through me, and I wished to exchange the ghastly image of my fancy for the realities around. I see them still, the very room, the dark parkay, the closed shutters, with the moonlight struggling through, and the sense I had that the glassy lake and white high alps were beyond. I could not so easily get rid of my hideous fandom, still it haunted me. I must try to think of something else. I recurred to my ghost story, my tiresome unlucky ghost story, oh, if I could only contrive one, which would frighten my reader as I myself had been frightened that night. Swift is light, and his 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 specter, which had haunted my midnight pillow. On the morrow, I announced that I had thought of a story. I began that day with the words, it was on a dreary night of November, making only a transcript of the grim tears of my waking dream. At first, I thought about a few pages of a short tale, but shelly urged me to develop the idea of greater length. I certainly did not owe the suggestion of one incident, nor scarcely of one train of feeling to my husband, and yet but for his incitement, it would never have taken the form in which he was presented to the world. From this declaration, I must accept the preface. As far as I can recollect, it was entirely written by him. And now, once again, I bid my hideous progeny go forth and prosper, I have an affection for it. For it was the offspring of happy days, when death and grief were but words which found no true echo in my heart. Its several pages speak of many a walk, many a drive, and many a conversation when I was not alone, and my companion was one whom, in this world, I shall never see more. But this is for myself, my readers have nothing to do with these associations. I will add but one word, as to the alterations I have made, they are principally those of style, I have changed no portion of the story, nor introduced any new ideas or circumstances. I have mended the language where it was so bold as to interfere with the interest of the narrative, and these changes occur almost exclusively in the beginning of the first volume. Throughout, they are entirely confined to such parts as our mere adjuncts to the story, leaving the core and substance of it untouched. And then Mary Womskopf, Shelley, London, October, 15, 1831. So you're not just cool, just to hear, I mean, those are so fucking hard to read, without fucking up a little bit here, and there are those long pastures written in such a different kind of writing style than we write in today, but it was just cool to hear like her perspective on Frankenstein. Percy, Mary and Claire will return to England, August 29th, 1816, they first will stay in Bath, where Claire will try to hide her pregnancy with Lord Byron's child. And then while Mary had just had a creative breakthrough, she will soon face more tragedy after looking for, but not finding her after receiving some alarming letters. On October 9th, Mary's half-sister Fanny, the only sibling she shared the same mother with died by suicide, by taking an overdose of lodinum at an inn in Swansea Wales. Only 22 years old Mary is, of course, devastated. Just two months later, Percy's wife Harriet dies by suicide. So many fucking suicides. On December 9th, her body is found drowned in the serpentine, a lake in Hyde Park. She was even younger, just 21. Mercy, Percy did not seem to mourn her passing. He and Mary officially got married less than two weeks later, December 20th, 1816. William Godwin, pleased by the news, not that Harriet died, but the Percy and his daughter were now legally married, and he accepts them both back into the family. Interestingly, months after Harriet's death, the courts will rule not to give Percy custody of their children, finding him morally unfit. Maybe not wrong. After their court proceedings were closed, Percy and Mary moved to Marlowe, a village in a Buckinghamshire, west of London, very quaint little town along the Thames. Here, Claire Claremont will give birth to a baby girl, January 13th, 1817, first called Alba, later Allegra, Lord Byron's child, possibly his third. Also there, Mary finished writing Frankenstein by May of 1817. However, she thought that the public would be highly interested in her European allotment with Percy, more than this book, and it would take time to get her novel published. So before trying to publish it, she first helps Percy prepare an account of their joint travels in the summer of 1814. On September 2nd, 1817, Mary and Percy's daughter Clara is born, their second daughter, named Clara. After the first died shortly after birth, and that's a little weird to me. I know this can be seen as a tribute to the first child, but it can also make it look like the second child's replacement kid, I don't know, I guess to each their own with things like this, I haven't, you know, suffered through it thankfully. It just seems a little odd. History of a six weeks tour is published at travel log two months later in November 1817. Mary wrote in the preface, "Those whose youth has been passed as theirs with what success it imports not in pursuing, like to swallow the in constant summer of delight and beauty, which invests this visible world, this is a long sense, will perhaps find some entertainment in following the author's still the same sense, with her husband and friend on foot through part of France and Switzerland's still the same sense, and in sailing with her down the castle Rhine, fucking same sense, through scenes beautiful in themselves, but which since she visited them, a great poet has clothed with the freshness of a diviner nature. Has part of why that old fucking timey shit so hard to read. That was one fucking sense, with like 75 commas." Okay. A great poet refers to her husband, his masterpiece, poem, "Momblanc," first published in Mary's book. At the time, English readers were eager for travel accounts because it was dangerous to travel the continent during Napoleon's Wars. Still, the public weren't that interested and it didn't sell well. And that fall, Percy often lived away from home in London to evade more creditors, but what about his allowance, all the money he got over a year? Well, I guess he fucking blew it. Blu it, borrowed more money, blew that too, didn't pay people back. I have to say, for a great poet and for a guy who gave his father in law a lot of money, still one massively dislikable motherfucker. Frankenstein released January 1st, 1818, initially under anonymous authorship, 500 copies of Frankenstein printed anonymously anonymously by a large unknown London publisher, not known how quickly they sold, or by a largely unknown, excuse me, London publisher, Mary did not immediately claim authorship because the novel's controversial elements, many readers falsely assumed, Percy wrote the introduction, who did write the introduction was the writer, the book dedicated to William Godwin, he also was credited by many with authorship. While Percy helped his wife with some wordy and sentence structure, they worked along solely to Mary though. By August, a family friend informed the shellies that Frankenstein seems to be universally read. We don't again have exact sales numbers, but it has thought that most initial copies went to libraries, and then it was relatively popular in the first few years after initial publication, checked out a lot of these libraries. Meanwhile, Percy still maintaining an active literary career alongside his wife, in 1817, he wrote Leon and Scythna, or the revolution of the Golden City, a poem that centers on incestuous lovers, so much incest. Percy was asked to edit the story, get a new title, so in 1818, he reissued the story as the revolt of Islam, a little bit of a different title, although the title clearly focuses on Islam, the poem discusses religion in general, and the main characters now no longer siblings. Soon after this, Percy, Mary, and their children, and Mary's stepsister Claire Claremont and her Lord Byron baby, Allegra, leave for Italy, partially to continue hiding from creditors. My God. Before moving forward with Mary's story, I got to share some more dirt on Claire and Byron. He's such a piece of shit. Lord Byron will meet all them in Italy, kind of. He'll meet Percy and Mary, but not the mother of his child. Claire still wants to be with him to raise their child together, but Byron does not want to even fucking see her, but does want to raise their baby, kind of, but I want condition that Claire go away and he and baby Allegra never have to see her again. I fucking hate this guy. Surrounder pregnancy Claire had written long numerous long letters to Byron, pleading for his attention, promising to, you know, excuse me, and a promise to care for her and the baby. Sometimes reminding him how much he had enjoyed having sex with her, other times threatening suicide. He consistently ignored these letters now not having the money.
has to raise a child. Claire does give Allegra to him. Actually, since he literally won't see her, she has the baby delivered to him in Venice. He does then grant her a few visits with Allegra over the coming months, but then that motherfucker, after growing tired of the baby, his baby, rather than give the baby back to her mother, which was an option, an option the mother wanted, he instead just dumped her off at a Catholic convent in a Bacchia, this fucking word, Banya Cavallo, Banya Cavallo, motherfucker, this little place in Italy. And then it could seem worse. Claire was outraged when she found out. She wrote a letter begging Lord Byron to retrieve their child. She wrote about how the physical conditions and convent in general were often very unhealthy. The education provided was very poor and was responsible for quote. She wrote the state of ignorance and profligacy of Italian women, all pupils of convent. They are bad wives. She didn't care for them. And most unnatural mothers, licentious and ignorant. They are the dishonor and unhappiness of society. And she really didn't like them. This step will procure to you in a newmable addition of enemies and of blame. Byron doesn't give a single fuck. Claire then plotted to kidnap her daughter Allegra from the convent and asked Shelly to forge a letter of permission from Byron to go retrieve her, Percy refused. And then she fucking dies there at the age of five. Allegra dies in the convent. I forget some kind of fever. So fuck Lord Byron forever. Claire will hate him for the rest of his life. Of course, why did he do that? Why be so cruel? And shame on Mary and Percy for remaining friendly with that piece of shit. Now speaking of dead children, back to Mary and Percy. For several years, Percy and Mary lived in different cities around Italy, Percy together. Percy may have probably did it seem as fuck around quite a bit. How some affairs. She was reportedly faithful. And then on September 24th, 1818, Mary and Percy's daughter, baby Clara, 2.0 dies in Venice at the age of just one of dysentery. Then less than a year later, June 7th, 1819, their son William also dies in Rome at the age of three and a half of some severe illness, most likely malaria. Mary's had three kids now. None of them have made it to the age of four. Percy's had five kids, three of died young, two were essentially abandoned. Mary falls into a deep depression after her son's death. She will ride on August 4th, 1819, we have now lived five years together. And if all the events of the five years were blotted out, I might be happy. So the love of her life has brought her so much misery. Still, she returns to riding by the end of the summer. Around the time of his son's death, Percy wrote Prometheus unbound in four act lyrical drama that will be published in 1820. The Irish poet, dramatist, writer and literary critic, who will become one of the four most figures of 20th century literature, William Butler Yates, will famously call it among the sacred books of the world. Dude might not have been a good human in many ways, but sure could write. Despite the heartache, Percy and Mary will say together and she will get pregnant again. Mary and Percy's fourth child, their second son, Percy Florence, born November in November of 1819 and will survive well into adulthood. Percy's birth made a difficult for Mary to publish novella Mathilda, she had been working on, a work that will not be printed until long after her death, not until 1959. And that book deals with not really surprisingly, after everything we've heard, got the themes of more incest and suicide, specifically a father's incestuous love for his daughter. And it was thought to be somewhat autobiographical, but not in the sense that William and Mary were incestuous. Still, the character of the incestuous dad believed to be based largely on William and the object of his lust largely based on Mary. The fuck was going on with these Gothic writers. Here's a summary. The novella begins with readers becoming aware that the story is being narrated in the first person by Mathilda, a young woman barely in her 20s, who writes her story as a way of explaining her actions to her friend Woodville. Readers are also made informed that this narration is meant for a specific audience and answer to a question asked prior to novella's beginning, you have often asked me the cause of my solitary life, my tears and above all my impenetrable and unkind silence. Readers quickly learn that Mathilda is on her deathbed and this is the only reason she is exposing what seems to be a dark secret. Mathilda's mother Diana and her father were childhood friends. Mathilda's father found solace in Diana after the death of his own mother and the two married not long after. Mathilda is narrator notes that Diana changed Mathilda's father making a more tender and less fickle. However, Mathilda was born a little more than a year after their marriage and Diana died a few days after her birth causing her father to sink into a deep depression. His sister Mathilda's aunt came to England to stay with him and help care for Mathilda, but Mathilda's father unable to even look at his daughter now, left about a month after his wife's death, and Mathilda is raised by her aunt. Mathilda tells Woodville that her upbringing, while cold in the part of her aunt, was never neglectful. She learned to occupy her time with books and John's around her aunt's estate in Scotland. On Mathilda's 16th birthday, her aunt received a letter from Mathilda's father expressing his desire to now see his daughter. Mathilda describes their first three months and each other's company is being blissful, but this ends when Mathilda's aunt dies, and then after the two returned to London upon Mathilda's father's expressions of lust for her. Leading up to the moment of revelation, Mathilda was courted by suitors, which she noticed drew dark moods from her dad. This darkness ensued causing Mathilda to plot a way of bringing back the father she once knew. She asked him to accompany her on a walk to the woods that surrounded them, and on this walk she expressed her concerns and her wishes to restore the relationship to what it was. Her father accused her of being presumptuous and very rash. However, this did not stop her, and he eventually confessed his incestuous desire regarding his daughter. But, Mathilda's father then fainted. She retreated back to their home. Her dad left her a note the next morning explaining that he would leave her and she understood that his actual intent was to commit suicide. Mathilda followed him, but was too late to stop him from drowning himself. Okay, even more wow. If you can praise him, Mary Shelley sent a finished manuscript of Mathilda to her dad back in England to submit for publication, and he was like, "Are you fucking kidding me? What? Fuck no, I'm not publishing this. Are you absolutely insane?" William did admire some aspects of the novella, but found the incesting, quote, "disgusting and detestable." And then he refused to give Mary back the manuscript, despite his daughter's repeated request for him to do so. Absurd. This is a much weirder biography than I thought it would be. Moving along, in the spring of 1820, Mary produced two blank verse adaptations from Ovid, Prasurpony, and Midas. First published in an annual and the second not published until long after Mary's death in 1922. In 1821, the Shelley's moved to Pisa, Italy. By the end of the year, they were joined by their friend Lord Byron. After he'd needless, he dumped his kid off at a convent. Don't like it. Mary would write Valperga, published in 1823, a historical novel about the adventures of a real 14th century Italian duke of Luca. In the novel, his army threatened the fictional fortress of Valperga, governed by Countess Euthanasia, the woman he loves. He forces her to choose between her feelings for him and political liberty, and she chooses the latter and sails off to her death. No incest. Sounds kind of boring. And I didn't look up before I sat down to record if this is the etymology like the root of where our word Euthanasia now comes from now, or if that already existed, probably already existed. Dad did edit this one and agreed to help it get published. He was like, no, character based on me wanting to fuck a character based on you. Okay, all out. Still, it didn't sell well or attract much attention. But the daddy wanting to fuck daughter book would have probably got more attention. Mary also wrote more travel diaries and magazine articles around this time for a little bit of money. On June 16, 1822, more baby problems, Mary, unfortunately suffered a miscarriage. Then the following months, she suffered another devastating loss. On July 1, 1822, Percy and his friend Edward William sailed off in Percy's boat called Don Juan to Lvarno, where Percy met riders Leigh Hunt and Lord Byron that fucking prick to make arrangements for a new journal called the liberal after the meeting on July 8, Percy Edward and their boat boy sailed out of Lvarno to go to Larecchi, but they never made it. A few hours later, the boat and his crew were lost to a storm. Sadly, Lord Byron, not a board, and was still very much alive. Percy's dead body washed ashore at Viarege. Viarege, oh, there we go, 10 days later. His remains were cremated on the beach on August 16. Most papers reported, Percy's death is an accident, but there was some speculation he was murdered due to his political beliefs. Either way, he died just shy of turning 30. Mary is now with a young age of just 25. How the fuck is she only 25 in the story at this point? Feels like she should be 50. Both Mary and Edward's partner, Jane, yeah, why not? Let's add another Jane to the story. We're now alone. Neither one of them remarried, but it is thought that their friendship may have developed into something more. Mary wrote in 1835, "Being afraid of men, I was apt to get tausy mousy for women. These euphemisms have convinced some scholars that Mary may have been bisexual." Mary was heartbroken, expressed her grief in verse, which she almost never did. Mary's diary entries, according to the Poetry Foundation, quote, "are not typical of Shelley's pro-style. There are more memoranda than diaries, telegraphic and abbreviated for the most part." Two exceptions are notable, travel entries, especially her descriptions of Geneva in 1816, and the melancholy entries following the three-month gap in her journal after Percy Shelley's death in 1822. Here she provides to herself the minutest feelings that had been previously found only in letters and rarely there. Perhaps it was her husband's death that unleashed his eloquent self-communion, since her ideas and feelings before had always been tested against his. She says in the first entry, 2nd October, after the post-death on 8th July 8th, "For 8 years I communicated with unlimited freedom."
him, with one who's genius, far transcending mine awakened and guided my thoughts. I conversed with him, rectified my errors of judgment, obtained new lights from him, and my mind was satisfied. Now I'm alone, oh how alone, the stars may be hold my tears, and the winds drink my sights, but my thoughts are a sealed treasure, which I can confide to none. But can I express all I feel? Can I give words to thoughts and feelings that as a tempest hurting me along? Is this the sand that the ever flowing sea of thought would impress indelibly, indelibly? Alas, I am alone. It seems like she kind of like married her dad and so many, right? Now I guess his inheritance, per se's inheritance, did not transfer over to her, Mary still has to support her son and needs to publish her novel, Valperga. It'll be published in February 1823 in three volumes. But like I said, it doesn't sell well. However, Mary Shelley's name first appeared on the second edition of Frankenstein, published by GNWB Whittaker in 1823. That does sell pretty well, but doesn't make much money. Maybe 20, 30 pounds, we don't have exact figures. Hoping her husband's work would be highly marketable, she then returns to England and begins editing his last manuscripts. However, her father-in-law forces her to agree not to publish any more of his per se's writings during his lifetime. He also threatens to withdraw support of his grandchild. If she does not turn per se junior over to his custody, the fuck is happening. Refused and then surprisingly served Timothy still sent an allowance of a hundred pounds per year, which gradually increased with time. In February of 1826, Mary had a new book published, The Last Man, another sci-fi novel in apocalyptic dystopian story about a late 21st century Europe ravaged by the rise of a plague that rapidly sweeps across the entire globe, ultimately resulting in the near extinction of humanity. One of the first dystopian fictional novels ever published, but critics hated it. It remained largely obscure at the time of its publication was until the 1960s that the novel would resurface for the public. Frankenstein gets more popular, thanks to some recent stage productions, though. However, while the theatrical productions brought heavy profits to theater owners and producers, 19th century copyright laws offered zero performance royalties or theatrical profit shares to authors. God damn it. In September of 1826, Percy Shelley's first son Charles Shelley died, making Percy junior, the only surviving Shelley male heir to the barrency, only six years old at the time. Now with more support from Percy's aristocratic wealthy family, since she's raised in the only fucking living grandson Percy produced or the only grandson they have, Mary and her son have the means to travel still honoring the agreement not to publish her husband's work until her father-in-law died, Mary helped others with their editing. For example, during the second half of 1829, she helped Cyrus Redding with the Paris edition of Percy's collected poems. Oh, did I mention that Lord Byron was dead now. Oh, yeah, he is. Very, very dead. And how it happened is actually pretty funny. After breaking up a marriage in Italy in 1823, then growing bored of his mistress, so on brand, he decided to ditch her and go to Greece and fight the Ottomans on behalf of the Greeks in the Greek war for independence, pretty random. He was so committed to this. He even sold one of his family estates to raise money for the Greek cause, but it sounds like in the end, his efforts didn't help much. He mostly got taken advantage of by some Greek warlord slash mercenaries who never really did anything good with all the money he gave them and he gave them so much. Then he got a fever and had some shitty doctors keep draining him of his, quote, bad blood. But it's actually very good blood. He needed very much, uh, immunally speaking, and he got weaker and weaker and then died before ever doing a minute of actual fighting, sloppy chaotic end to a sloppy chaotic life. The Greeks mourned Lord Byron deeply and became a national hero, but honestly, fuck that guy forever. He was 36. Back to Mary in November of 1831, Frankenstein was re-released as an now best selling single volume addition with the preface written by Mary, which I read an excerpt from earlier in the timeline, made her very little money. She had transferred the copyright for the 1831 third edition to publishers Henry Colburn and Richard Bentley. That fucking dick, that griffy dick for a single flat fee of 30 pounds, then it sells very well, continues to sell well year after year after year, but she will never see another penny in her lifetime from Frankenstein. She didn't know the rights. Uh, we'll get paid a little bit from other work though. In 1835, she published a novel, "Ledora," or "Ledora," or "Ledoree," I watch three different videos and people say the name of the book differently every single time. What's it about? An overly controlling daddy, mostly. Lord Ledore isolates himself and his young daughter, Ethel, and the American wilderness of Illinois, raising her to be completely dependent on him while his aristocratic wife Cornelia remains in England, doesn't sell well. In 1836, Mary's father, William Godwin, dies at the age of 80, Mary was very active in helping care for him in his final years. They are said to have been on, you know, quite good terms when he passed. In the late 1830s, Reverend Dionysius Lardner, a scientific writer, commission Mary, to write biographical sketches for his popular cabinet, Cyclopedia, and a Cyclopedia series arranged by topic, contained 61 titles and 133 volumes, helps her, you know, grieve, you know, through grieving her dad, keeps her busy, and she does very well with this. According to the Poetry Foundation's biography of Mary, though Frankenstein is shares Mary Shelley, a permanent place in literary history, and those some of her other novels are praised by critics, her nonfiction prose, particularly in the forms of biography and travel essay, rank with some of the best writing in those genres. Indeed, when Rambles and her Cyclopedia biographies are considered next to her fiction of the period after 1830, it must be admitted that the nonfiction is superior writing. Mary Shelley herself thought so near the end of her literary career. She told her Percy, told Percy's publisher Edward Moxon, "I should prefer quiet or work, such as my lives for the Cyclopedia, which I think I do better than Romancey." Mary also published her last novel Faulkner in 1837. Faulkner follows a young woman's education under a very controlling, daddy figure. She spent so much more time working out relationship issues with her dad in writing than she ever did on monsters, not what I expected. As Mary concluded in her Cyclopedia series, "Certainty Shelley rescinded his ban on publishing Percy's works." Although Mary's health began to decline in 1839, she began a complete addition of Percy's poems and four volumes, the last of which was published in May of that year. In November, she produced a single volume addition to the same work and her addition of Percy's essays, letters from abroad, translations, and fragments, came out in December. After that, Mary traveled with her son and his college friends in hopes of getting a reprieve from her symptoms, keeping a journal of her travels to publish later. Some historians think she probably had a brain tumor. Actually, most people seem to think she had a brain tumor, might have had a series of strokes preceding it as well. Mary's stepmother Mary Jane Godwin dies at the age of 73, June 17, 1841 at home in London. While the two did reconcile somewhat, after Mary's father's death, they were never affectionate or ever really on good terms. Mary Jane has been recognized by literary historians and recent years for occupying a singular professional position as the only female publisher of substance in the London literary world of the early 1800s. So, Rambles in Germany and Italy in 1840, 1842 and 1843, a travel narrative published in two volumes in July of 1844 and his Mary's final book. She probably didn't write anymore because maybe she didn't need to write for money anymore. Certimacy Shelley, her father-in-law, died a few months before April 24, 1844, left his estate and titled to Percy Jr., who will take care of his mother for the rest of her life because he was a very good boy who always went peepee on the potty. The last year's Mary's life, relatively uneventful and peaceful, you know, perhaps a bit lonely. She never remarried or into any confirmed physical romantic relationships after Percy's death, though she did flirt with some people who just did not reciprocate her feelings. Maybe she had some secret lovers, I hope. She got some action if she wanted it. In her final year, she experienced further health problems, worrying symptoms such as more frequent migraines, weakness and seizures. Her son Percy Jr. married June 22, 1848, married woman named Jane because every other fucking woman in England was named Jane back then. He was now 100% secure in his title, something Mary was very happy about. They had always worried her before that. Mary Shelley then dies at the age of 53 on February 1, 1851 of a suspected brain tumor. Thank God she at last outlasted at least one of her kids. Mary's death certificate from the General Register Office of London, lists that she suffered from disease of the brain, supposed tumor and left hemisphere of long standing in the last dozen years of her life. She experienced recurring night migraines with weakness, aphasia, hemiparesis, aka weakness on one side of her body and seizures. The National Library of Medicine scholars now suspect her most likely cause of death was recurrent, finally massive stroke, so yet tumors or stroke. After Mary's death, her son Percy and his wife Jane had her parents remains exhumed from St. Pancras Cemetery in London and reinterred beside Mary at the family tomb at St. Peter's Church in Bournemouth. This site is accessible to tourists on the Bournemouth Cultural Trail. That's cool. Her son Percy Florence will live until the age of 70, and while he will never produce a child, he will adopt a child, a girl messy, Jane's niece. Again, seems like he was a good dude, not a good writer, but probably a better human than his dad, definitely a better human than a lot of his parents' friends, and that will take us out of this timeline. Good job, soldier, you've made it back, barely.
So what a story. Mary Shelley, the mother of science fiction, created Frankenstein when just a teenager. It's incredible. Also incredible. So many different unlikely things had to have all happened. For Mary to write what she wrote, you know, what is her most enduring work by far, despite her continuing to write published works for, you know, decades later, love odd historical situations like this. Despite being the mother of science fiction, many also the mother of modern horror. She never wrote much science fiction or horror. She wrote more travel logs, worked more in nonfiction or on gothic romance novels, where she clearly was trying to work out her complicated relationship with her dad for her to write Frankenstein, though she had to first be born into one of the very few households in the Western world where a woman who wanted to be an author would not only have that dream be tolerated, but deeply nurtured and encouraged. She had to also be born into a home where a bunch of notable authors of the day would continually visit to be raised by authors, right, a home where her parents had a bookstore and publishing company to attract authors to come around often, you know, they had to have two parents who were, you know, distinguished academics, you know, one of them stay alive and keep brilliant minds coming back. Then she had to have one of the most talented writers of the day, not only things she was a good writer as well, but also things she was sexy and wanted to run away with her. Despite infuriating her father, a man he greatly admired and supported and that guy had to know another guy who was also one of the most talented writers of the day, who also thought she was talented and the weather had to be shitty and Switzerland for that summer, keeping them cooped up inside and growing board and this other author had to randomly throw down a weird writing challenge and she had to have had fucked up dreams, parched inspired by the recent loss of a child and had to be a really talented writer herself to pull off her high concept idea and and and and and, her having all that happened. Almost as unlikely as actually bringing a corpse back to life and I think that's so fitting, so fucking cool. What a story. Time for the takeaways. Number one, Mary Shelley was a daughter of two famous writers, William Godwin and Mary Wallston Kraft. Her mom died just a little over a week after she was born. Yet she was probably the biggest influence on Mary throughout her life, inspiring Mary. What a special thing regarding those who write. You can learn so much about them after death through their writings. Mary's father, another huge influence. He exposed her to so much literature and to so many other writers from a young age. He always expected her to follow in his footsteps. Number two, Mary Shelley's relationship with the famous poet Percy Shelley got off to a rather scandalous start. She and Percy began seeing each other while he was still married and they alloped to continental Europe after they revealed their relationship to her family, who did not approve. They did not officially marry until Percy's wife died by suicide. This scandal caused Mary's father to stop speaking to her for several years. Number three, if Mount Tambora had not erupted in 1815, we may not have had Frankenstein written the following summer. How fucking random? The aftermath of the volcanic eruption caused the year without a summer in 1816. Mary, her husband, Lord Byron and Dr. John William Palladori, spent much of that very summer hold up inside. After Lord Byron challenged the group to write her to go story at a boredom, Mary was soon struck with the vision of the creature taken from a dream partially that would inspire Frankenstein. Number four, Mary lost many of the people closest to her. So many, including her mother, all but one of her children, her half-sister and her husband Percy. These losses devastated and depressed Mary, but she never stopped writing because of them. And number five, new info was Mary Shelley's Frankenstein also inspired by a man many have called the real Frankenstein, Johann Conrad Dippel. A man who claimed to have discovered some magical elixir of life, a man rumored to have dug up bodies of the dead for his experiments, a man rumored to have created a monster and a man literally born in a place called Castle Frankenstein, a real hilltop castle, overlooking the German city of Darmstadt. Johann Conrad Dippel born in 1673, he was a German theologian, alchemist, physician and controversial experiment. He became notorious during his lifetime for his interest in alchemy, anatomy and medicine. And rumors, as I just mentioned, spread that he conducted grizzly experiments on corpses that he attempted to transfer souls from one body to another. Although these stories are difficult or impossible to verify, they do fit in neatly with themes of Shelley's novel and have helped fuel the legend of the connection. Dippel also created a file smelling elixir, an animal oil, known as Dippel's oil, which he claimed had remarkable medicinal properties and was viewed by many contemporaries as the work of a mad scientist. His outspoken personality, unconventional research, reputation for pushing ethical boundaries, made him a larger than a life figure in German folklore. The theory that he inspired Mary's story gained wider attention after author Alexander G. Bogdanovich argued in the 1970s that Mary, likely visited Castle Frankenstein while traveling or definitely could have, while traveling along the Rhine River in 1814, two years before writing her novel. According to this idea, she could have heard local stories about Dippel's bizarre experiments and woven them into Victor Frankenstein's character. However, despite all these very obvious connections, right down to the name Frankenstein, some historians do remain skeptical because there's no surviving evidence that Mary Shelley ever visited the Castle for sure. She didn't mention Dippel in her journals or letters. It's not certain that she even knew who he was, but come on. For me, the inspiration is pretty fucking obvious. And it makes me like her story even more. Mary Shelley, mother of Frankenstein, has been sucked. Thank you to the Bad Magic Productions team for all their help making time suck. Thanks to Queen of Bad Magic, Lindsay Cummins. Thanks Logan Keith helping publish this episode, designing merch for the store at badmagicproductions.com. Thank you to longtime researcher Olivia Lee for her research this week. Also thanks to the all-seeing eyes moderating the cult of the curious private Facebook page. They continue to do such an awesome job, such an awesome group of people. Thanks to the mod squad, making sure Discord keeps running smooth, and to everybody over in the time sucks, start on Reddit and badmagic subreddit. And now let's head on over to this week's Time Sucker Updates. Just one update this week is a big ol' big ol' update. Very informative about something that we have already covered, but this is another perspective. Just another person in the same industry. And it's something we talk about pretty much every week in one way or another, something in the back of all of our minds all the time. Death, another professional corpse touching sack. Send in another message with the subject line of, a professional, professional corpse toucher to bojanglesatimesuckpodcast.com. Well, hello, suck masters, Supreme Esquire Reverend Doctor and all the other titles bestowed upon your most unholy-ness. I've been a sucker and creeper since before the pandemic, and I've actually written a couple of times before. I recently listened to the Carl Tanser episode, and now I'm writing in to tell you that you suck. JK gosh dang on my heck, I am gonna call you out though. You see, I am a professional body toucher, aka a funeral director. I've been in the industry about three years, so I'm still admittedly very much a baby mortician. However, I probably see more dead people in a week than your average person will see in their lifetime. I've also walked alongside many families during their most traumatic life experiences to help guide them. Just commit for who you mentioned as an opponent of embalming and countless media pieces, depicting those in my profession as stuffy old men who are out to profit off of those in the throws of grief, or the new rising trend of mortuary TikTok influencers who post the gory truth of what goes on behind the preparation room doors. Most of these people have been in the industry for less time than I have, and their word is worth about as much as a corpses fart. The majority of the people I know in the business are caring and dedicated. I'll be it weird as fuck, myself included. People who work their asses off to lighten the burden on folks during some of the most stressful and painful days one can go through. One of the many tools we use to help people during this time is the art of embalming and other restorative arts. Major nerd moment for me here because embalming is one of my favorite topics. It is a unique combination of science and art. Yes, there is a certain level of chemistry, but as my old mentor used to say, "You mix with your heart, not a formula." The art of embalming and restoration is not for my morbid benefit, but to help people comprehend the passing of their loved ones. Take a moment to imagine being at the bedside of your parent or spouse, or even your child with them gasping for their final breaths, eyes wide open, but staring off into the distance. Body wasting away from disease hooked up to a million machines barely sustaining some semblance of life in a cold sterile hospital room. This is the reality for many people, and for many this is the very painful final image of their loved one. Embalming and restorative arts or as Jessica Midford put it, the way the body is sprayed, sliced, pierced, pickled, trust, trimmed, cream, wax, painted, rused, and neatly dressed, transformed from a common corpse into a beautiful memory is a way to give people the opportunity to say goodbye to their loved one as they remembered their loved one looking when they were alive. Yes, a body does undergo extensive procedures in order to preserve and restore its appearance, but Jessica Midford's description of my area of expertise is a clearly slanted and disdainful interpretation of a process that can actually bring a sense of comfort to many people. I have personally heard Beread families say how they're how it peace their loved one looks. No more torment from the dementia or the cancer or any of the other countless human ailments. All their worries are gone and their loved ones believe them to be at peace. Another circumstance where embalming can benefit a bereaved person is when there are family members who live far away or are unable to say goodbye.
by before or shortly after death. I personally lived thousands of miles away from my grandmother, but I'm very connected with her and we call and chat regularly. She supported me through all kinds of bullshit in my life, all through college, and now my weird and crazy life today. When she dies, I wanna be able to lay my hand on hers one last time until her thank you again and goodbye. This wouldn't be possible without embalming. This is not to say embalming is the best option for everyone. There are actually eight legal methods of final disposition, fancy funeral director speak, what happens to your corpse, in my state, burial, cremation, entombment, alkaline hydrolysis, aka water cremation, natural organic reduction, aka human composting, green burial, burial without formaldehyde or any other chemicals and usually in a casket or shroud made of decomposable materials, anatomical donation removal from state. And even within each of those methods, there are so many things you can do. Down in the Florida, or down in Florida, there's an organization that is transforming cremated remains into structures to allow for coral growth to help rebuild reefs. That is actually really cool. There's a company that is developing a casket made of mushroom fibers that encases the body and helps aid for a natural return to the earth. There's another company that can take your cremated remains, place them into a capsule and then shoot it into space so you can be laid to rest literally in the heavens. What I want for myself personally is called conservation burial. It's a form of green burial that takes place on green spaces that have been designated as cemeteries. This land is not maintained like traditional cemetery and is largely left as a natural space. There is usually not even a physical headstone but instead a geotag for families to visit a burial site in the future. This is done to protect green spaces that otherwise will be destroyed by developers. The government is even less likely to take the land through eminent domain as they would then have to pay to move human remains buried there. Yes, the cost of burial has increased, however, if you consider all that goes into laying a loved one to rest, the prices don't seem as exorbitant. For example, most people are not able to schedule their time of death and not everyone goes during regular business hours. So that means a funeral director is on call 24/7, 365 days a year to transfer your loved one into the funeral homes care. I'm actually riding this to you now after having worked until 2 a.m. on back-to-back in Bowmans, which I was doing while listening to time, so I can scare to death. Well, thank you. My fellow funeral directors and I have missed family dinners, weekends, holidays, birthdays, and many other occasions in order to be there for people. There is a very limited pool of people willing to do this, so compensation reflects that. It's a dying art, literally. Additionally, many of the specialized funerary merchandise is not mass-produced. I've actually visited a casket factory and every step was done by hand, cutting, molding, welding, painting, sewing, assembly, all done by people, not automated machines. Some burial equipment requires specialized equipment to handle. Almost every cemetery requires an outer burial container. This prevents the casket from breaking down in the cemetery lawn from sinking. These concrete grave liners, the minimum cemetery requirements that has no extra bells and whistles like reinforced concrete or ceiling properties, can weigh a couple hundred pounds easy. This requires a specialized small crane-like device to transport to the burial site, place in the grave, and then close on top of the casket. Many smaller costs can add up to. Some churches have five to seven couple hundred dollar fees that the family must pay to hold their funeral in the church. Then there are other expenses, such as flowers and food for the funeral reception. In my humble opinion, I believe there should be a cost-effective method for final disposition paid for by the state. This would tie into a basic universal health care system that ensures all citizens have access to a baseline of health care and death care. People should not have to go into debt, sending their loved ones into the grave beyond. That way, anyone who wants a casketed burial or an embalming and public viewing or an animatronic exoskeleton with a puppets your corpse around to Michael Jackson's thriller can opt to fund those services as they desire. I'm honestly surprised I didn't hear any other funeral directors in the updates. Yeah, well, after years came in, I read one. But that is fitting with the work card and keep your head down mentality. We are taught in school when it comes to talking shop with civilians. The general public is so removed from death at this point in time that it would be truly traumatized for someone to see what I have, which I think is another reason why embalming is valuable. I may be used to seeing dead people, but the average person is not. Seeing an embalmed version of the deceased is kind of like the diet version of what I see. The same great Mima look now with 50% less dead. That's fucking awesome. Maybe if we lived in another culture, where aging, dying, death was more normalized, it wouldn't be a shock into people. However, as it stands, I don't know if most people would be okay seeing their loved ones how I do. How we have removed ourselves from death is a whole separate issue. We send off our elderly to wither away in dying facilities that keep them out of sight and out of mind. Yes, many people require extensive medical care at the end of their life, but you wouldn't believe the amount of people who just stick their family members that are nursing home and go on with their lives. So many stats on healthy aging and longevity show that people who are active in their community have strong social ties and a purpose will live longer, healthier lives. The dead and the grieving have taught me so much about what it means to truly live. Really gain a perspective on what it actually matters in life and not getting caught up in day-to-day bullshit that we all think is so important. Pick the battles that actually matter to you and know that you're not likely to change someone's mind by arguing with them. Instead, live authentically as yourself and extend the hand of kindness towards somebody you disagree with is more likely to help shift someone's perspective as it reminds people that we ultimately are all team meetsack. Never leave the I love yous, the I'm proud of yous and the I'm sorry's unsaid. No one can hear the words that are never spoken and all too often we lose the chance to tell our loved ones just how much they mean to us. Next is actually a biological fact. Just as we are all different on the outside, so are we on the inside. People come in all shaped sizes and anatomical layouts. We're taught the general guidelines of where to find what we need, but sometimes the body doesn't follow the script. My favorite class in mortuary school was our cadaver lab because we actually got to dissect full cadavers. This was by far the most empowering experience of my life. Understanding and visualizing where and what the internal structures of the body look like helped me to not only improve my embalming skills, but to better understand my own body. The other point I'll make is somewhat contradictory to the one above. We are ultimately all just team meetsack, or excuse me, or all meetsacks, no matter what you look like on the outside, what God you pray to, or who you loved in life, we all bleed red, which is the morbid way of saying we are all on the same team human. The next one is just my own perspective, so take it how you will. After spending so much time with the dead, I firmly believe that there is some force that makes us truly alive. Whether that is a soul or some other ethereal matter or simply the firing of neurons in our brains, I don't know. There's some spark though that leaves a person when they die, that makes them who they were in life. This kind of leads into the whole ghosty side of things. And while I have also experienced some spooky happenings, I'm waiting to compile that anthology for scared of death once I get some really good ones. Love what you do, and I have met so many incredible people during my short time in the industry so far. Oh, excuse me, I love, as I fucking weirdly turn that around about me. I love what I do. Sorry, not on this person. I love what I do, and I've met so many incredible people during my short time in the industry so far. So many people are paralyzed by fear with the idea of their own death when it's only, when it's one of the only certainties in life. I think we're a long ways off as a culture from embracing death, but if we take small steps to understand the process, it will become less scary. That's all for now. I know this was a big fat email. And death slash death care is one of my favorite topics. If you ever want to discuss more or do a suck on dying death and funos, please, and I hesitate to reach out. I seriously love educating people who want to know more. And if I don't know the answer, I know enough people who have more experience than I do, who'll be happy to pass on their knowledge as well. Thank you, and the whole team, thank you to you, and the whole team for what you all do. Peace, a body disposal expert. Wow, that was, that was an amazing email. Thank you so much, so informative. I always love hearing from an expert. You touched on so many things, and you did so, so intelligently and compassionately. I also love just hearing from people who are so passionate about what they do and excited to share their knowledge with others, way too many points to try and address them. And no need, because you addressed them all so eloquently. It felt fitting to add this update to an episode about essentially a woman who became famous writing about a corpse. Thank you for sending that in. Thanks, everybody, for sending in your updates to
[email protected]. [MUSIC PLAYING] Thanks, time suckers. I need a net. We all did. Well, thanks for listening to another Bad Magic Productions podcast. Be sure and rate and review TimeSug. If you haven't already, please don't fall in love, someone who's already married with a young child and another one on the way this week, someone who's totally fine, hanging them out to dry. Odds are, they probably aren't really in a good place right now and won't stay committed to you, either. Oh, and keep on sucking. [MUSIC PLAYING] Bad Magic Productions. And now, let me share a dramatic reading from Frankenstein. This woman is mine. Her touch is electrifying, still in the wild, bright fire raging in my loins. I'm so turned on. I feel like I'm going to explode. But I want to make this last. I want to save her this moment. And I don't just want her to feel good. I want her to feel incredible. I want this to be special for her, for both of us. I look at Lucy Lyne on the bed, completely naked with her lake spread. She looks like a goddess. And she's inviting me into her.
"My eyes flick down to her pussy. So pink, so juicy, just begging my cock to plunge inside and fill her up. I position myself between her thighs, burying my face and her wetness again, my tongue hungly licking her up and down. She moaned softly, her hands running through my hair. "I feel so good." She coos. She lifts her hips and grinds against my face, then reaches down and wraps her fingers around my thick shaft, stroking it up and down. She groans in delight, "I can't wait for the main course." Leaning down, she gives my cock a couple quick licks, and the sensation sends a bolt of lightning through my body. "I feel my balls tightening, contract. That tastes good," she smiles. Turning her head to the side as she starts to lick me again, up and down again, and again, her tongue sliding up and down, my shaft, her lips are soft and moist, and I can't help it groan in delight. My tongue feels so good, I'm not sure how much longer I can take this. That does it. My dick is so fucking hard, it hurts. I can't take this tease anymore. I pull her sucking wet pussy towards me, and slowly I press myself into her, pushing every inch of me inside her tightness. I watch her face, and she makes the pained expression moan in louder than I've ever heard her moan before. "Does it hurt?" I ask with concern. "I don't want to hurt you." "No," she breathes, "not at all." "They must be lying. What they say about your first time, at least for me, 'cause Frank, you feel so good." "Good," I growl. I love the sound of pleasure on your lips. I put my hand behind her head, and thrust myself into her heart, and faster, giving us both what we want. Each movement of my hips sends her banging into the headboard of the bed. "Oh, fuck, Frank," she gasps, moaning loudly and digging her fingernails into my ass. "Now she's mine, and I want to fuck her until she shudders in pleasure, 'til she comes on my coxel heart she can't speak." "Frank," she moans again, her voice husky, supple breaths bouncing in rhythm with my movements. She's bucking her hips, meeting my thrust, grinding against me and groaning in pleasure. I reach down to her wetness, rubbing her, clipped up and down, and she squeals. "Hot of Frank," she urges. "Oh, oh, wait a minute. Can't feel, wait, feels awkward now. I'm sorry. Were you expecting me to read from a different Frankenstein? Like Mary Shelley's? Oh! Oh, no, I was reading an excerpt from 2023's "Getting Freaky with Frankenstein" by Tabitha Lovelace. Sorry, my apologies. And now I bid you good day.
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