I am going to Portslade today to discuss Frankenstein, or, The New Prometheus with a group of friends. I have to say that the friends are a lot more of a draw than the book is; I found it dreary when I was twelve and had to read it at school along with Vathek and The Castle of Otranto, about both of which all I can remember is that there was a statue which for no discernible reason wept tears of blood. (That Bird says probably Otranto, “because he threw in everything in Otranto”, but I am not going to re-read it to find out.)
“It is done,” replied Manfred; “Frederic accepts Matilda’s hand, and is content to waive his claim, unless I have no male issue”—as he spoke those words three drops of blood fell from the nose of Alfonso’s statue. Manfred turned pale, and the Princess sank on her knees.
It occurred to me at stupid o’clock today that ‘There’s a porpoise close behind me’ is a rather more worrying state of affairs than one had hitherto imagined.
The Crab was utterly wonderful. Mr Bee izz zizzing on the sofa (still a bit feak ‘n’ weeble). I shan’t be making him turn out again, this evening, unless he absolutely insists.
