On this bittersweet Sunday…caramel, salt and sweet day on accomplishment and fucking stupid neighbors and old fences torn away to expose my private sanctuary. I am pissed with Lilith beyond enduring… my voice speaks fire… so the best I can do to water this flame mouth and heart is reach for the first book I see next to me… oh little Mantis with you long razor arm…. I see a yellow blur as the book opens…
A random page, a random paragraph moves in my green mind… reading…
Page 251, Heroism, Mary Shelly by Emily W. Sunstein… I type as each word appears randomly to my understanding…
“For the rest, she was annoyed and depressed at being confined to middleclass inferiors; “a new world” to one accustomed to Shelly and Byron, and to one who distinction warranted the best England had to offer. Godwin’s best were a few professionals the older playwrights Knowles and Reynolds, the youthful Landseer, and the Prentis brothers, Stephen a poet, Edward a painter whom he invited for teas, supper and whist at The Strand, where Mary looked so out-of-place that Henry Crabb Robinson did not know her at first; “elegant and sickly and young’ and an implausible author of Frankenstein. Harriet de Boinville, who had broken with Shelly when he left Harriet but now pitied and admired Mary, would compare her to “an exotic transplanted unhappily into an unsuitable soil and shrinking before rude and shilling blasts…Your early and intimate intercourse with the most refined of human Beings has left you a standard for comparison with few in the most polished circles could bear and from which springs (of necessity) your dissatisfaction…”
