16 July 1824

Dearest Mary,

I know that we are merely acquaintances, but I have recently read your work of true art. Frankenstein. I must say that I was swallowed by its pages. Your manipulation of the written word is incredible. The brilliant story is so expressive of your feelings now. I know this because I am quite sensitive to emotion expressed with the pen. Let me say also that I know what you must be feeling now. You have a family crumbling around you. You are the lone pillar of strength. I feel this sadness also. How will we continue to breathe? Every sweet aspect of my life has gone terribly awry. This is life though. Ever amid the sweets of life some evil thing must be. Destiny. We will go on though. We will triumph over the everpresent despair. Thank you for writing the parable of my heart.

With most sincere gratitude,
L.


16 July 1824

Dearest Ianthe,

I have not slept since I conversed with you last evening, and I am writing you because in you, I see myself. You are the bird they want you to be. You have suffered incredible loss. I as well have felt the cold, clear tears slide on my cheek. It is too late for me; I cannot break free from this cage which I have fashioned for myself. When I see you, it fills me with sorrow. You can break free. Feel intensely but not behind a mask. I live in despair and have stayed here too long. And you have had your share of sorrow. Alas! There's a tear for every eye, a hawk for every dove. Beautiful dove.

Flying,
L.

1963 Chicago, Illinois Later in the night...

Hannah: So anyway, why the hell are you here? We've been talking for quite some time now, and I never bothered to ask.
Betty: Well, I had this silly 25th year high school reunion back in my home town in Peoria which is not very far from here. Everyone there had caught wind of my new book and basically they have all shunned me away. They really didn't like the...
Hannah: Wait a sec. they didn't like your book?
Betty: Well, yeah. You would be surprised, it has received a lot of critisism; especially from people in small towns like Peoria.
Hannah: Hmm. I guess I can see how some of your statements might make some people unconfortable. Ha, especially the idea of more woman in the work force and out of the kitchen. I can just see it now, a man pisses himself as he opens his daily newspaper to find that the new CEO of Sears is a woman. Ha, the poor fool.
Betty: Yeah, well...oh, wait. We can talk about my book later. I want to get back onto what we were talking about before. You had mentioned something about some letter you read. Let's get back to that. I haven't put my copy of Frankenstein down since I first thought about quoting it in my book, and I am glad to find someone who shares the same enthusiam as me. You really got me fired up. So what's this letter?
Hannah: Well, I had really gotten into the book just as you have, and I became hungry for any information I could get my hands on. I wanted to know the ends and outs of the book. I became obessed with each character and the evil each bore in their own sadistic way. I looked into the writer and the others that were involved with creating this twisted horror story, and it was then that I came upon a letter written to Mary Shelley from her "husband to be" Percy.
Betty: Damn.
Hannah: Well, it's a letter that proves "Percy Shelley murdered his wife [Harriet], and then construed it as a suicide. Percy, without fully realizing the implications, envisioned a life which he could share with Mary, and then made that life for himself. However, like Frankenstein, he could not live with the consequences of his decision. He could not live with the discrepancy between the imagined and the actual. Thus, he had to destroy. He destroyed his wife, and in the process, he destroyed his family and his relationship with Mary. [Furthermore], Victor, who, discovering the monster that he created to be so very different from his vision, destroyed his life, his family, and himself, along with his creation."
Betty: (speechless)
Hannah: Do you see the crazy connections? Does it not just make you want to, want to...I don't even know what it makes me what to do, but it curdles my blood. Gah, I love that book!
Betty: Yeah, it really makes you think. It makes you ern to love, ponder the horrors of death, consider the creation of your very own being...the beauty of it all and the evil.
Hannah: That's exactly what I'm talking about!

1963 Chicago, Illinois

Betty: Hey Bartender! I'd like another G&T! (Turns towards the woman next to her) And how about one for this woman right here?
Hannah: I don't want your charity.
Betty: I just thought it would be nice to...
Hannah: I mean it. Don't try and numb my perpetual problems which the evil in this...
Betty: Whoa! I was just trying to be nice. I thought it would be "cool" to share one of those "male moments" in a bar where...
Hannah: Why would I want to act like the beast of all my problems? The...
Betty: I am just kidding around. I am the last person in this world who would want to act...
Hannah: Look, I don't really feel like talking to anyone right now, I don't like you and I don' like your antics. I just want to sit here in the little amount of peace I have been able to find in this shallow evil world.
Bartender: Hey, Mrs. Friedan, don't worry about her she...
Hannah: Joe, did you say Friedan?
Betty: That's me.
Hannah: Well why didn' t you say so? Hello, my name is Hannah.

Hey P...
Can you believe we are graduating in three days? I feel like it was just the other day that we first arrived to Smith. I am excited about going into the real world now, but also a little nervous. With the war going on overseas, the country has been sort of a mess recently. I hope our big shot politicians will keep America out of it. Unfortunatley, knowing our country we probably won't be able to hold back. Well, anyway I guess I am still excited to be getting out of here. With all of my psych research, I have already gotten an offer or two to write in some local magazines. What are you going to do now? We should both move to New York! We could have such a great time there, and it would be a lot easier to get a job in a big city then back home in Illinois. Well, I have to polish up my speech a little bit, I will see you soon.

-B.F.-

Move 4

From: stc_luver@hotmail.com
To: betty@mypub.org
Subject: manuscript
Date: Tues, May 23 2020 00:32:01 -0500

Dearest Betty,

Temporarily suspend disbelief and listen carefully to what I have to say. Today I received a package in the mail from Ian. I know that I never told you this before, but Ian staged his death on that aircraft thirteen years ago. He was fleeing great personal danger, the result of the import of his research. I heard from him once, eight years ago. Now I hear from him again, posthumously. His real death occurred three weeks ago, on an island in the South Pacific. Betty, he sent me his journal. It was his last wish that it be shipped to me after his death, and enclosed were instructions for its publication. You have always been such a great friend to me throughout my writing career; I hope that you can lend the same kind ear to Ian. He was one remarkable man; science owes him a great debt of gratitude.

What follows are two excerpts from his journal. I hope that you will find them as fascinating as I do. Ian speaks again, one last time. His is a voice which I have sorely missed.


"By autumn of 2003, I had found a solution to the problem of telomere shortening, a dilemma that had plagued my research for so long. It did not become apparent to me, however, until four years later, that my specimens, which had grown into maturity as normal, were experiencing an atypical process of aging and decay. That is, they exhibited no signs of aging at all. I performed repeated tests until I was absolutely sure that this was indeed the case. Only then did I realize the magnitude of my discovery.
To this day, I feel certain that I know who was responsible for the invasion of my laboratory that fateful day in October, 2007. That despicable Richard Seed, the American scientist so intent on cloning a human being, was the cause of it. Teetering on the brink of schizophrenia, alternating between self-righteousness in my labors and self-disgust at what I had become, I had already commenced the annihilation of any evidence of my latest finding. Thankfully, I did not leave behind a crumb of information to further Seed in his devilish pursuit."


"The creative power of man is limitless; his imagination knows no bounds. We must understand the inevitable discrepancy between what we conceive of and what we mold into actuality. Like Victor Frankenstein, I found myself on the verge of a great discovery, capable of changing the world and advancing science by the devices of my mental and intellectual capacity. I was to actualize an idea which had danced within the imaginations of men for so long: the ability to clone. With every genetically altered life I brought into the world, I was fulfilling the role of a creator.
But creation and destruction go hand in hand. Like good and evil, light and darkness, one cannot exist without the other. Thus, man’s power to create is also his power to demolish, to obliterate. If not properly guarded, this power can result in the destruction of oneself.
There’s a faint echo of a rumor I once heard floating around, not fully formed, within my head. I believe that I read or heard somewhere that Percy Shelley murdered his wife and then construed it as a suicide. If this rumor were true, then even Mary Shelley’s life, in addition to her work, Frankenstein, would be a testament to this philosophy of creation. Percy, without fully realizing the implications, envisioned a life which he could share with Mary, and then made that life for himself. However, like Frankenstein, like myself, he could not live with the consequences of his decision. He could not live with the discrepancy between the imagined and the actual. Thus, he had to destroy. He destroyed his wife, and in the process, he destroyed his family and his relationship with Mary. Need I explain that Victor, who, discovering the monster that he created to be so very different from his vision, destroyed his life, his family, and himself, along with his creation? Similarly, I had to destroy. I saw what I had done, and it disgusted me. Thus, I incinerated my papers, much of my late life’s work, and I was forced to kill my animals to stop the madness that I had invented. It’s amazing how my life is so connected with that fated family.
It is a sad truth that we can never fully know the import of our decisions before we make them. What we reason to be true and correct in an early situation, often comes again to show us the error of our logic at a later date. The only safeguard that I may justly offer against committing a folly such as my own is this: do not allow yourself to become blinded by obsession. I for one became so engrossed into my work that I quickly lost perspective of its consequences. To this day, however, I cannot utter an ill word against scientific progress or research; it was my passion, my life’s dream."

Move 6

2012

Dear Kathleen.

I hope that this letter does not come as too much of a shock. Let me explain. I have been alive for the last five years and in good health. I can not tell you my whereabouts and this may be the last time you hear from me. It was essential that I did what I did. Faking my death was not easy, I know that I hurt many people, but I had to get out. How did I do it? Let it be enough to say that it was all a part of the research I was into at the time, hell I could have had a thousand replicas of my exact self, living, dying, playing chess, whatever; I had come a long way.

But that was the problem you see. No wonder Einstein was so angry about his discovery, the bastards will always come in and take it away from you. Yes that's right, the Gov. raided my office and took all of my notes. And I, well, I no longer care, what do we owe the world? And so I will live out my existence here in sunny paradise, let the world do as it may, Invent, create, create only to destroy, whatever. I spend my time reading now, most of the time that is, trying to trace just when meaning died for the world. Well what does it matter to me. Please do not tell my wife that I am alive, there is enough here to keep me happy. Enjoy life. I will miss you.

Your Friend

-Ian

November 4, 1823

I should burn this journal. What would happen were it found? Its twisted perceptions pain even myself.

But I do have addictions. Torn from my embrace… by her own volition? Strong words, but weaker than my thought. And my thoughts clouded. My mind has become as the streets at dusk, and I lose myself, and no one there to find me… Where is that woman? Does she have no concept of the solace I need?

If she will not hear me, so help me God, some one will. This paper. My own ears. I forget recently if it is my own voice I hear, or is it drifting to me from out of mind? I hate what I have become… or what I see in myself? Frankenstein was a fool. So, too, am I. Reading the book, then the script, I found the idea of him repulsive. Here this man plays God. But rather than creating a thing to be loved, he works at the power… achieving the knowledge of control. And were those not my own aims in taking this role? In taking them all? Did I not dream of power in my own venue? The control of a body of people, the knowledge of their response, if only for an evening. Worse, I took the role against my own feelings, to achieve this aim in my vanity.

And still it grows worse. Marie has not come by now for a month. Can it be possible that I am further Frankenstein? His monster only hurt him when he scorned it, assuming it as inhuman, incapable of living as he. What if I myself was blind as this? Missing the nature, pushing the center of things away, only to live counter to the image. Only that I have left… an image. But my image would never desert me as Marie has done. Does she not realize her cruelty?

But I think I found a kindred spirit yesterday. I cannot explain it. But the same conflicted, confused, loathing, lost soul I found in those eyes… Dorothy… Could she too have been betrayed like me? She seemed as a bird, fluttering so… but I have played those games - I act. Her gaze had the same tired motion, her smile the same weakness that I see as in a mirror. There could not be anything else meant by this chance meeting than this reflection… and we cannot be so completely alike. Both hurt, but I cannot see such a creature scaring off her love. Little doubt remains in my mind that I have done such a thing… that I should have taken her thoughts as more than darling.

So then have I become too like Frankenstein? But what demons have I to hunt? More wanderings to the depths of my mind, if I can withstand the cold.

15 July 1824 (Perhaps it is early morning 16 July 1824.)

Not a single word in the English language, or any other language to my knowledge, exists that can describe this night. I now know where I belong in this grand web of emotion which some refer to as the world, or universe. I have had a moment of incredible enlightenment. Who thought one evening in society would have such a profound effect on my life forever? How ridiculous I am describing it as if I could make it last forever! Oh, I do sound quite like Wordsworth! And oh, how I criticized him for doing the same thing in "The Tables Turned." Well as contradictory as it may be, I am going to record this feeling.

I was accompanied by W. to the ball (which to me seemed like a pretentious soiree) as usual, and as usual he left me to be with the finest ladies of society. His abandonment of me was meant to allow me to "flutter." Fluttering is W.'s idea for promoting my image as a poet. I flutter about society like the tiniest of sparrows searching for soft things to furnish a her nest. I appear delicate, but I cause quite the stir. I tell all of the women about my many suitors, for most do not know about W. I am said to be rather scandalous. But it is all a fallacy, a mere mask. I have constructed an image for myself, a fortification that does not allow anyone to come too close. W. came too close. Enough of that nonsense!

I had taken notice of her early in the evening, a young woman who was also fluttering. This was unnerving, for I chose my games wisely. And who was this young bird? Ianthe Shelley! This was disconcerting! According to social constructs and the migratory patterns of sparrows, Ianthe and I flew to one another. We conversed politiely, as ladies do. As my mouth was moving, my mind was spinning with thought. When I looked at her appearance, I saw an exquisite girl experiencing a lovely time. When I looked into her eyes, I saw an impoverished soul experiencing tremendous pain. When I looked into that soul, I saw myself.

Think of what this pour girl has experienced! The affair of her beloved father, the tragic death of her mother, the imposition of a new mother, the revelation of murderous scandal, the death of her beloved father, and now the death of Byron. What a strong wind for such a small bird! Now, she too has constructed the ramparts and closed herself off to everyone. I understand her plight. A family fallen. I see myself.

As I reflect on the instance, something has become so clear to me. Ianthe's tragedy reminds me of the family fallen in the book that so posessed me yesterday. Yes. It could have been written by no one else but the mother of this family flying away. Mary Shelley! She of all people needs to be held and cradled. How I admire her mother. And I remember a time when I did admire her father. Godwin and Wollstonecraft, the perfect compliments, two ideal minds. So tragic that Godwin had a role in that terrible murder. Shelley's cold, cruel hands complimented by Godwin's skill and deciet. Hogg. Peculiar man. . .I wonder why he came forward with the whole terrible thing. I believe. . .that. . .I am rambling. I must away to bed. . .

December 16, 1816
Mary-
I feel I am spiralling out of control within the whirlpool created by my actions, the only calming thought the idea of once again feeling your warm embrace. Fear not, however, for legally, I am untouchable. Hookham wrote to inform me that, as planned, the death has been declared a suicide. The court convened soon after Harriet’s body was discovered in the Serpentine on the tenth, and immediately closed the case, declaring the victim “found dead”. Meanwhile, Hogg continues to come forward with his sworn word that on many occasions he overheard Harriet speaking of the glory of suicide. Additionally, with her pregnancy, ample motive for her suicide serves to completely distract any suspicion from my associates and I. Fear not for Godwin, he also remains, in public opinion at least, as disconnected from the death as could be hoped for.
On a separate note, the changes you have made to "Frankenstein" frighten me. Your complete alteration of the text no doubt stems from the horror of this whole experience, and while writing definitely comprises the most healthy outlet for your emotions, the changes in the book which you have made chill my heart. Your initial idea for the story hardly resembles what you have now composed.
Perhaps it is simply paranoia induced by my psychological condition, but I see numerous parallels between the new "Frankenstein" and the situation at hand. I will provide you with my interpretation, but you must understand I am simply conjecturing.
Most clearly, the horribly morbid events and mood of the novel seem to derive from the life which I have created for us. Additionally, I fear that the character of Frankenstein represents none other than myself. The text suggests that Frankenstein obsesses himself with his quest to create the monster as, in your eyes, I have obsessed myself with the murder of Harriet. Furthermore, you seem to believe that in both cases loved ones are lost sight of; Elizabeth for Frankenstein, and in my case, you. This viewpoint of yours no doubt results from my admitted partial estrangement from you as a consequence of my villainous machinations. It also seems that, as Frankenstein destroyed the lives of those surrounding him with his evil creation, you believe I have begun to and will ultimately destroy the lives of all those whom I have involved in my plot.
As I strongly believe my perceived connections to be accurate, I anxiously await your conclusion to the horrible tale, though I suppose it will similarly draw its basis from the events of actual life. I feel obliged to note, however, that the parallels within the book will undoubtedly prove equally apparent to others as they do to me, and thus your planned publication of the story as is could rain down disastrous consequences upon us all.
I pray you feel better soon, and I promise I will return to you as soon as possible. But please darling, prevent the projection of your emotions at least until Harriet has been forgotten; otherwise we will all find ourselves living out the remainder of our lives in incarceration.
-Shelley

The University of Chicago
Chicago 37, Ill....
Committee on Social Thought
October 3, 1963

Mary, darling -
I've tried to escape all the Eichmann trouble through literature. Since you were so fond of it, I've begun reading _Frankenstein_ and only found myself thinking about it all the more. But do not worry, I appreciate the activity it has stirred in my mind. The monster fascinates me of late. Probably because I was so heavily criticized for not making Eichmann a monster. To illustrate what I mean: the whole book seems preoccupied with the search for human sympathy. Walton was on a search for it, and ended up in an icy waste land, which seems to be what happened to the monster too. Frankenstein had it and still could not find it within him to love what he himself made. But the monster is the only one that turned to evil. He was entirely rejected by all: "I am alone," "misery made me a fiend," "You, my creator abhor me; what hope can I gather from your fellow creatures, who owe me nothing?" Perhaps it is too simplistic to see this as almost a dialog between man and God, but I don't think the parallel can be ignored, especially when he keeps referring to him as his creator. It makes me wonder, mon amie, maybe God has this wonderful compassion and yet cannot display it for those He has placed here. Perhaps He cannot accept us. He made us in his image but we were hideous reproductions. Perhaps this is the nature of evil. Looking at my own work, and the possibility that evil is banal, I think I might have an answer as to why. Evil is unavoidable, and we are trapped. Furthermore, maybe this is why evil looks almost trite and hackneyed when you try to examine it and lay bare the facts as I tried to do in my essay. I intend to write an essay about "Truth and Politics" which should be an answer, and hopefully and end to the Eichmann business.

And what do you make of the superficiality of it all? Those people in the cabin refer to him as good spirit and wonderful and the monster had the highest hopes of potential, overlooking his deformity. Is this all it is? We want evil to be ugly and that is all? Save me from my over-active mind.

Only through the activity of thinking can humanity abstain from evil. THOUGHT can condition us from evil deeds like the Holocaust. . . I am convinced. However, I am not sure yet how I think this relates to the story, or if it does at all. Write to me soon - tell me what you think. For his efforts of thought; the monster only seemed to better understand why he was so hated. A final thought on _Frankenstein_ and our own condition: "For the first time, also, I felt what the duties of a creator towards his creature were, and that I ought to render him happy before I complained of his wickedness." Perhaps that is all this world is. . . and attempt at appeasement.

Please don't extend yourself too much dearest, you tend to overdo things and I am so worried about your health and the problems with the children. Take care. Please come to Chicago if you will be in the country. Heinrich sends his love and is well again.

Love to you and yours. Je t'embrasse.
Hannah

14 July 1824

I was drowning today, drowning in the sea that is my life. Breathing was an impossible task this morning, for the weight of the water above me was crushing my chest. This seeming to be my everlasting condition, I decided to read something that would not cause me to dwell upon the deep waters of life. I picked a novel published in recent years, a cheap, worn out horror story that I believe was Whittington's. I must have accidentally taken it when I looted the study during my move. But oh, what I found inside. It is not at all what I believed it to be. It is a tragic tale about a need for love and family. A tale about a need for security. A tale about needing simply to be held, cradled. I must go view again this art that so clearly addresses my plight.

December 1, 1816-
I am a murderer. A cold-blooded, heartless murderer. The mother of my children, my former lover, dead. I tell myself I had no choice. I couldn’t keep paying her, couldn’t keep fighting her, I had no choice. Now I can be with M, yet I know I have done horribly, horribly wrong. I fear not that I will be discovered. My alliance is too strong and my position too respected. Loyal Hogg will spread the rumors, provide the motive for suicide. Hookham will keep me informed, bribe the proper officials when necessary. No, I fear not the conviction of the law, simply that of my soul. I find it no easier to sleep now. My closed eyes bring me a horrifying vision of her; my hands around her neck, her eyes pleading, her life leaving her. A perpetual, terrifying punishment of the mind.
Likewise I fear for M. So delicate, so young, so innocent. Her intelligence allows her to see her role as what it is; the overriding cause. Her demeanor has changed, as if a melancholy blanket smothers the fire of her youth. I fear the consequences of my actions far, far outweigh what I, even in my nightmares, had thought they would.

August 15, 1823

No end can be found to these that overtake me. No stronghold. Even Cooke has lost his previous attitudes. I can find no source as of yet, but I have my suspicions. My former friend has taken to wandering lifelessly through this world, as if it too is the play. I cannot reach him. Marie is hopeless, as always. Calls Cooke Erictho. He may have reached that level of putridity, but has hardly the power. He is someone else's slave.

Me, I have my own addictions.

Move 3

Obituaries

Dr. Ian Wilmut, 63, Dies.
Monday, November 1, 2007 ; Page B06

Dr. Ian Wilmut, 63, the Scottish embryologist responsible for the birth of Dolly, the world’s first clone of an adult mammal, died suddenly yesterday in a mysterious plane crash off the coast of Paris. Wilmut had been journeying home after attending a conference in Geneva regarding the patenting of biopharmaceuticals.

Dr. Wilmut was born in Hampton Lucey, England, and attended the University of Nottingham as an undergraduate. He earned his Ph. D. in animal genetic engineering from the University of Cambridge in 1971. Wilmut joined the Animal Research Breeding Station in Scotland, which is now known as the Roslin Institute, in 1974, and conducted research there until his death.

In conjunction with the cell cycle biologist Keith Campbell, Wilmut experienced his first great success in 1995 with the birth of Megan and Morag, two Welsh mountain sheep cloned from differentiated embryo cells.

In 1996 Wilmut produced the first clone of a mammal, the Finn Dorset lamb named Dolly, using nuclear somatic transfer from fully differentiated adult mammary cells. His work, published in 1997, kicked off a large-scale debate about the ethics of cloning and cloning research. Polly, another sheep, was cloned from fetal skin cells that had been genetically altered to contain a human gene in 1997.

In the weeks before his death, rumors had been circulating that Wilmut had hit upon yet another great advance in his field. It is impossible to confirm the validity of these rumors at the present time.

Wilmut is survived by his wife and daughters.

© 2007 The Washington Post

London Herald Article :
March 27, 2003

While renovating the old Shelley residence inhabited by Mary, sons William, Percy Florence and Charles, and daughter Ianthe during the early 19th century, a shocking discovery was made. Underneath a dilapidated floorboard a battered diary was discovered. Investigation showed the diary to house journal entries by Ianthe Shelley, the daughter from Percy Shelley’s first marriage, to Harriet Shelley. The pages of the diary date back as far as 1814, and reveal a previously unknown dimension to the psyche of the daughter who tragically lost both her natural parents. Ianthe’s inscriptions demonstrate what, in present-day terms, is described as "desirous schizophrenia". Presumably due to the repeated horror of seeing those surrounding her die, the journal entries indicate that Ianthe attempted to assume an alternate identity, expressing the desire to transform herself into “ a bubbling social bird,” among other things. The entries, all dated during 1824, cast the poor girl in a delusional, possibly suicidal light:

“15 July 1824-
Yes, a bubbling bird. I want to spread my wings and fly. I could do it. I see birds flying all the time. So happy, so free. Do they even know death? Have they felt its cold laughter echoing in the chambers of their hearts as I have? What know they of loss? Yes, I must fly. Why, a blossoming adult like myself would have no problem flying with the birds. Perhaps I could fly to Father’s house, at the bottom of the ocean. Or perhaps I could go to Byron’s. Surely my flight could bring me there. Yes, soon I will fly, fly away. Mother and brother matter not; will matter less as I disappear into the sun’s footprints upon the sky. I’ll fly to a place where nobody needs to die, where all love me and none leave me. I’ll fly far, far away.”

Ianthe’s words provide a heart-wrenching account of the fragility of the child’s mind. Clearly mentally gifted, Ianthe’s inability to cope with the loss of her parents and Lord Byron, overpowered her natural gifts, swamping her with irrational dreams and contemplations on suicide. These new findings undoubtedly completely redefine previous interpretations of the child’s later life, providing a frightening, insane backdrop and stimulus for all her actions.

Move 5

October 2007

P.S.

I have just reread the letter I wrote to you last evening and I apologize. I was severely drunk and quite emotional. You must understand how torn I am about all of this. I do not deny feeling a prick of fear in continuing the work of Frankenstein. Though I have been humble in my invention until now, there has always been a certain weight which hovers over my conscious mind. My work to date has been nothing more than to advance the development of drug therapies so as to combat certain life-threatening human disease, this is what our world wants, is it not? There are real potential benefits, and it's important that the concern to prevent misuse doesn't also prevent the really useful benefits that can be gained from this research. We don't want to throw the baby out with the bath water. I know there are two sides to this issue, yet consider your own.

The very problem begs the question: Why are we here? What is our purpose on this earth? If there is a God, than it is to serve Him and my work does not swerve from this course, in fact it is a study into His own creation. I know more truly the mysteries of God's work than most Christians in fact. I am not playing God, no one can do that, I am merely using the gifts he gave me to explore His universe. If there is no God than my work is nothing but an attempt to make life longer and more agreeable while we live. I do not pretend to know if God exists or He doesn't, I do know that my work will increase the quality of life as we see it. Health and physical, scientific security is all we can rely upon. You say fulfillment will come in some sort of sympathetic human exchange, prove it! Do with your ideas what I have done with mine. Where is the Dolly of human compassion?

The security of fellowship amongst mankind is an utopian idea, pretty in concept but as realistic as successful communism. You point to the book to warn me of my way and so do I. You call me Victor, well I call you Elizabeth caught up in your own romantic vision of fulfillment through some familial security. Like to all poets of the sympathetic school, this will only bring you madness for it is as hollow as any false understanding of the world. Look to Maslow's hierarchy, the individual mind reigns over any security found in the beneficence of others. If my path is wrong, yours is no better.

Man is not evil but that does not mean he is good. It reminds me of an e-mail I received from a University student years ago. I won't go into the details of the odd circumstances, yet problems of evil came up. Evil does not exist, it is a qualitative term given to particularly depraved levels of social deviance. Man is not evil but is wayward and even though the problem was recognized centuries ago man does not yet know himself. The e-mailing occurred when Dolly first appeared and certain Frankenstein notions were being railed at me in the press. As I wrote to this student so I will write to you: what Frankenstein did was right, how he handled it was the problem. Scientific research is the only good we have as humans and as the American, Thomas Jefferson, correctly says, we shall follow knowledge to the ends of it's reach no matter where it takes us, or something like that.

There was nothing wrong with Frankenstein realizing his dream and utilizing his vast knowledge, his problem was rather Freudian, he failed in his mental ability to accept his own creation. Like a mother who is not yet ready for her child, he broke down and acted in a way to make a monster of his creation. The book has lots of issues, but do not think for a moment that it is merely anti-ambition. If anything it is against false security, in ambition, yes, but also in society, in friendship and in family, perhaps even in God. Science is our only assurance on this earth and until we eke out the very corners of our being, we will be in a state of chaos, frightened by our own inventions. I will include the original portion of my letter so that you do not think I am unconscious of your concerns, they are on my mind assuredly, but I am more afraid they themselves will be the cause of any monster (as Frankenstein's emotional withdraw back into his comfortable family life was his) than that they will uncover any true evil in my work.

I am affectionately yours,
Ian Wilmut

Move 2

October 2007

My Dearest K-

I am sure that you already know the subject of this letter before I even begin to set down my thoughts. Yes, the rumors which you have doubtless heard are indeed true; I hope that this letter shall begin to unfold the mystery of my latest proceedings.

Many years ago, D. taught me the effects of telomere length on life span. Not too long after her birth, when she began to prematurely age, it became clear that an experimental progeny inherited not just their parent’s DNA but also their age. At the time, I naturally viewed this as just another minor setback for science. After all, it had taken us decades to move from using embryonic specimens to fully developed adults for our research. Through the course of time and careful experimentation, I believed that this obstacle would be surmounted. How was I to know that by preserving those chromosome tips, partially erasing the evidence of aging, that I would be hitting upon a fountain of youth? This was beyond my wildest conception, so very far from my design and intent. What I did, I did for the good of science, for the good of biopharmaceuticals. I reserved my research strictly to animal specimens, for fear of what would ensue if the technology was adapted for homo sapiens. If the existence of this procedure is discovered by the general public, I can say with certainty that this will change mankind forever. No aging; what will this do for life? I must pay my penance. This must be stopped.

. . . . The warning signs were all there. The obsessive temperament, the manner in which I pushed myself to a maddening frenzy. For God’s sake, I’ve read that text what seems to be a thousand times, and the symptoms were right before me all along. The chilling commencement of Chapter XX now haunts my memory:
"As I sat, a train of reflection occurred to me, which led me to consider the effects of what I was now doing . . . I shuddered to think that future ages might curse me as their pest, whose selfishness had not hesitated to buy its own peace at the price, perhaps, of the existence of the whole human race."
As I read these lines again, it seems like the events of these past six months were absolutely inevitable. Only now do I understand the hell that was the life of Victor Frankenstein. To live each day in utter remorse, to wonder how it was that I could have so misread myself, and my ambitions, and the world. The cycle is completed. What I have done I cannot undo. But there is still a chance that I may protect future generations from the repercussions of my mistakes.

Many years ago, I am sure that you remember, I alluded to a room which I discovered on S. Ronaldsay. In addition to the destruction of my laboratory and my life’s work, I feel as though I must annihilate this relic of the past as well. As is always the case with science, new discoveries stand upon the shoulders of old. It was through the works of such distant men as Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, Paracelsus, and Davy that Frankenstein’s monster was conceived, and their passion, their poison, was passed to me and flourished so many centuries later. I must destroy this knowledge at its root . . . .

-I

From: kizzy18@hotmail.com
To: embryologist@britishisles.com
Subject: query
Date: Sat, Jun 24 1995 10:46:02 -0500

Dear I. Wilmut,
I know you don't know me and the circumstances surrounding how I came to contact you are extrememly difficult for me to relate (and may seem unbelievable to you). I have been, of late, having dreams where a woman I believe to be deceased contacts me. I also have examined my recent journal entries and some of the contents are a complete mystery and I am looking for your help to decipher them. I believe that I have been the medium for a woman named Hannah. I further believe that she is writing, through me. Although it seems utterly incomprehensible, that is how I got your email address. I only want to know if this writing means anything to you and if you might know the "Hannah" that has been appearing in my dreams. I have typed portions of the journal that do not seem to be my writing.

. . .any man who attempts to follow in the shadow of Frankenstein cannot understand the import of the message as I see it. Why is man evil? Shelley. . .if God hates us and cast us out what sympathy can we expect from those that owe us nothing?. . .cannot feel and believe in a benevolent God. . ."misery made me a fiend". . .THOUGHT can condition us from evil deeds like the Holocaust. The monster's thinking only made him aware of his misery. . . playing Frankenstein. . . how can humanity abstain from evil.

There is much more but exists as fragments and is at times indecipherable, especially because the subject matter remains ellusive to me. I have been reading Frankenstein by Mary Shelley for some hints because it is the only reference I understand so far. Also, all things (dreams and writing) seem to be urging me to contact you, which is as much a mystery to me as any of the rest of these occurences. Please, any insight you could share with me would be a relief.

Thank you,
-Kizzy English

13 July 1824

I am destined to be forever left behind. If ever I have an exchange of feelings with another being, he is then wisked away from me before my own eyes. Father has been taken by a God who I had entrusted with my life. This has been quite a shock to me, and I still do not fully understand why I am always alone. There has never been a time when I have felt quite loved or included. It is as if the entire universe is determined to exclude me. Alas. How I do exaggerate my circumstance! But how am I to feel on this day of mourning? The world suffers the death of an adored man, their Byron, but I cannot even feel their pain. The loss of my own father stands all too fresh in my eyes for me to take on yet another loss.

Ay, the pain is great. I am leaving, for there is no reason for me to stay in this place. My mother and brother do not provide me with a reason to be here any longer. I am going somewhere without my father for he has left me, without my mother for I cannot bear the sight of her, without W. for he has given me wings and now I want to use them. This would be lovely if only it were true. True it is that he has given me a means to survive, but I shall not survive without him. I have arranged to go away from here, but what I earn from publishing will support mother and dear Whittington.

Eyes bright, I walk ahead. I can leave things behind as well. As much as it hurts, it is also equally as much exciting. I will publish my works, which have already been adored. I have a public. Someday they will need me as much as I need them. Until then, I have this wonderful oppertunity to conquer the world. I will be the bubbling social bird, but I will do it my own way. I need no one to accompany me, for already they notice when W. and I are together. I will show them. I can have whomever I please, and they will have me. I will give them the impassioned, blossoming woman. Utterly shocking, but irresistibly adorable.

Move 4

New York Times Book Review:
August 16, 2176

"New Criticisms of The Series F. Letters"

Derek Newcastle utilizes the "new" psychoanalytical approach to literature in discussing the deeper qualities of the Series F. letters. The "new" approach founded by Dr. E.M. Yeungling replaced the popular Freudian approach in the early 21st century. "Dr. Yeungling's work," says Newcastle "has had vast success in the field of psychology and must be applied to arts and literature." The Series F. letters have undergone vast scrutiny from all angles, however, Newcastle is successful in uncovering the deeper perhaps more important qualities of the letters.

"When we read D. W.'s letters," Newcastle says, " we can uncover what is seen to be deeply suppressed emotional qualities stemming from un-confronted aspects of human development. As Yeungling has pointed out, most of the anxieties stemming from this sort of 'power' ambition, originate largely in the repression of certain moral desires or needs within the individual."

Not since Dr. D.M. Paulaner of Princeton University wrote his revolutionary book, "Gothic Literature and the Need to be Held", have we seen such a breath taking stance. Newcastle points out the suspicious apparent overtones of ambition in W's letters as the emanation of W.'s true desire to help his mother more and spend more time bonding with a fatherly figure. Furthermore, the anger shown in the correspondences towards a female positive reinforcing character (as that of Kathleen Wheeler) derive from the subconscious need for certain "relationships" with a female personage (mother or otherwise), as those found in experiences such as playing chess. "In conclusion" Newcastle brightly asserts, " I have found the overbearing need of recognition and ambition found within W.'s letters to signify none other than a deeper and more significant desire to hold hands with someone!"

When asked about the actuality of W.'s work and the severe impact of world change derived from his findings in the late 20th century, Newcastle responded, "It is astonishing what can occur when we fail to hold someone's hand." The book has seen wide success throughout the 3 nations of the world. Excellent cover art, and a firm solid binding, Thumbs Up!

Chicago 37, Ill....
Fall 1963

Dearest Mary,
Heinrich is not well. All these bouts of illness have me extremely worried because I simply can't imagine life without him. There's been more trouble with this Eichmann business, but that is to remain strictly entre nous because I would hate to disturb Heinrich.

However, Lionel Abel has been outright slanderous in his treatment of the book. I had no idea the trouble this would cause. I my opinion the book is just a statement of the facts and some conclusions that I have drawn, and there are many that could be drawn. All this criticism is directed at some image of Eichmann they have taken away from my book and used as a substitute for the entire report. The real issue remains to be touched by the boys because they don't seem to be interested in real criticism or polemics. I was interested in the kind of man Eichmann was and is our legal system able to take care of these new kind of criminals so beyond the ordinary criminal? The most general conclusion I drew was the "banality of evil" but as I said, there were many to be drawn. Most of the problem seems to be with this conclusion. My critics seem to have missed the point and be completely confused as to why Eichmann wasn't a complete monster in my book. I want to write about the nature of evil but I thought it would be a mistake to do in the book.

Well, I must go. My health has not been the best either but I couldn't resist writing to you because it has been so long. Let me know when you will be in the country and how long you will stay. It would be so marvelous if you could come to Chicago.

Much love
Yours,
Hannah

Move 1

From: embryologist@britishisles.com
To: stc_luver@hotmail.com
Subject: Research Update
Date: Fri, Mar 17 1995 00:27:16 -0500

. . . having confirmed the success of the experiments of S__ W__, I believed at the time that we were justified in changing our research strategy. Taking differentiated embryo cells as the starting medium would greatly simplify the process of gene manipulation, in theory at least. If I could just get it to work in practice, then we could progress by leaps and bounds.
I find that it is difficult at times not to become discouraged, and though I know we are on the right path, it is a very long and tedious process. However, our present research is showing a lot of promise. Perhaps in a few months, we will finally see some results.

-I

Move 3.

June 6, 2089

FILE #65789
United States of America
Federal Bureau of Investigation
Center for H.T.G.O

Series F. #38
Personal correspondences of D. I. W.

Comments.
The following text has been reconstituted from fragments found in the papers of Kathleen M. Wheeler. Most of the document has been lost. It is believed Ms. Wheeler attempted the incineration of the entire series F. documents. Objects in brackets are hypothesized by Gene R. Rubens of Davis U. due to damage in the original text. Original document believed to be dated 1974.

Text-

...[Ronald]say was brilliant. Uncle Seamus met me at Herston after a short ride from the docks. What a beautiful house. I had mentioned in my l[ast] [lett]er that you would really love it he[re]. [ the middle portion of this document is unobtainable]...and beautiful old fireplaces. Ey, he is a crazy old man. Kathy, as I promised, I will now relate to you what happened to me there. It was about three days after my arrival. Boredom had set in and I spent a lot of time going through the room[s of this]s old house. It was in the lower corner of the house, on the opposite end of the cellar, that I found what seemed to be a door behind a coffee table in uncle Seamus' sitting room. It hadn't been opened for years. It took me awhile to pry it, but oh what I found once I did. Dust covered the co[ the bottom of the document is very severely damaged and the following is difficult to recover] ...[fr]om the nineteenth-century [?] weird inst[uments and gad]gets but the [?] of a [fun]nel. This was most interesting, it almost broke into pieces a [ ? ] ... this old cr[iticism] never thought to exist, the pa[ssages] full of [ the end of the letter is lost]

Move 2.

November 1986

Kathleen-

What right have you to lecture me. You do not understand at all. You're a fine scholar in the inactive arts, Shite, no arts are active, or even useful. So your studies have been successful, two books on Coleridge (and you say I've a demented mind). What in the hell good has literary criticism done the world? You have no right. You stand around with your colleagues inventing an arena for your own useless and selfish scholasticism. Inventing a job that has no need, no use in this world.
What I found on S. Ronaldsay is something that will change the world forever, will help real people, do real things. Damn it Kathy, if you had of seen it, that old house, that basement, untouched for centuries, and what was within. For the last twelve years I have been working it out, putting it together and it makes sense. It's all there in Vasbinder; ironic that his criticisms, perhaps the only useful ones on the text, are not half minded by your shite colleagues. It has taken a long time, Erasmus, Priestly, Davy, all Newtonian, all correct, all proved by these papers, that island and that book.
You underestimate the psychology of the good doctor. His fault was his own, so many understand this why won't you? The Faustian warnings you speak of are stock material for what underlies the real meaning of that novel. The monster was no more a monster than any human, breathing, living thing would be under the circumstances. I have found much in the study of this book; I had to know before I began. Create a being and do not love it? Create something, anything, a picture, a child, a book even and do not love it, no, hate it, abhor it, and yes you will create a monster, of both yourself and your unnatural progeny, what you set in motion and despise! The creator and the created are always two sides of the same coin, one side can not deny the other! The creation is beauty, the beautiful from the mind of the creator, nature is but a scape of scattered parts which it is our job, our duty to form and link into the great, the Beautiful, the Useful!
I have had difficulties till now, but after reviewing the work of Willadsen, (oh if he but knew how close he was) I shall continue unhindered; for I alone have the key that all of them have missed since the early work in the 50's. I continue to work hard in this bonny city. I have made many friends, none of them know. Friends around the text, that bewitching text. There is something more to it than a fragile girl and a nightmare I tell you, the story is not her own, I have the proof of that to be sure. The book reads like an incantation, I can almost recite it now. It has ruined many more lives than those within it, I wonder, how many. Last week, I was shown some papers by a dear friend who has helped me in my study of the novel. They are the private papers of T. P. Cook, poor bastard, once he took on the monster the monster overtook him. He never lost those thin black lips, they say he never was the same. And when I read his own papers, I knew the man was mad. Not many knew of the extreme laudanum addiction, the madness, it is clear in his papers that by the end of August 1823, he actually thought he was both Frankenstein and monster. He became violent, seperated from all his family and friends and collapsed shortly there after. Poor man. This is my point, we must not fear what we create, Cook came to see the monster as "wretch" something "grotesque", it over took him. Such are the mind's of men. If he could only have found himself in his creation, in being the monster...well...his folly is the real warning, not Faust's. One thing is clear, we must create we must unravel this disjointed universe around us and believe in our position as human beings to control the shapes we draw out of the world. Even you scholars do that.
I will write to you again soon, but damn women, stop your chiding. You are, as always, my friend.
-I.

October 6, 1816,
Only now do I fully acknowledge the futility of attempted sleep. Ignorance and damned hope alone persuade me to even lie down any longer. The raging of my problems can be silenced by nothing short of their elimination, a task which seems utterly unfeasible. As my eyes begin to close the screams for money snap them open; as my heartrate slows the reproachful voice of G penetrates my skull, demanding action.
My financial obligations, seemingly neverending, combine with G's disapproval to prevent my happiness. They cast a cold shadow upon the world which once seemed to promise so much. It is life's cruelest joke to dangle the life I so desperately desire so close in front of me, rewarding my attempts with painful glimpses of what could be. I cannot continue this way. Only my thoughts of her afford me any moments of enjoyment. To be with her, free from the obligations which constrict me to the brink of lifelessness, would be bliss.
Yet there seems only one possible course of action, the mere thought of which sends violent shudders throughout my increasingly tortured body. At first I laughed it away, refusing to believe I could be capable of such a thing. Now , the proposition seems to make more and more sense. I would be provided with a significant relief from my financial burdens, and with her I could finally achieve true union, silencing G.
I suppose I have no choice. I suppose that which now shakes me will one day be forgotten and forgiven, in my mind at least, for it's necessity. Gradually the horrible memories will subside, then disappear completely. Yes, I have no choice. I must and will do it. Surely my position, allies, and standing will prevent my suspicion and conviction. And then, finally, I will be able to once again close my eyes in peace, knowing I only acted out of the desperation of my situation.

August 2, 1823

A whirlwind, I tell you, a whirlwind. That these thoughts should be looked on by another, I shudder. The response alone is too much to bear. "Very grand," they say. Grand indeed.
And so it seems again I feared the wrong things. From childhood, the fear of being forgetten, set aside, buried in reality. But what if I should be remembered as this wretch? This thing? C. embraces this chance to be "tremendously appalling" as a game of sorts. A revelry in one of those long standing obsessions with the grotesque. I can do no such thing. It is lovely to be praised upon your talents. Lovely the smell of roses at my feet….
More so to be left in silence today. Took a walk down Strand and oh, to be absorbed in normality, in a life that isn't a fantasy.
No, a nightmare.
And Marie, the most real thing, I think, of these past days. A. allowed me time off this afternoon, so I walked to find my foolish pet with her nose in a book again. I tell her it's far more becoming for a lady of her stature to at least keep her head upright and out of the clouds. She is reading L. again. Has become quite obsessed, I suppose, with my work. How like her. She prattled on about some character E. for a good hour, but as I said to her, what care have I for these findings? She apologized, became sullen. So endearing these moods have become, that I should almost provoke them for the joy of watching her shift of expression spring from her darling little heart. I suppose such child-like enthusiasm is enchanting, and it's nice to be wound up in thoughts that aren't my own.
I cannot bear these thoughts. I cannot. I will not make them real. I end -

4 April 1824
Aeolus gently swept a tender tress across my eyes as I descended the quaint church stairs cradling in my arms this child, this thing created from passion but also naivite. Since we had entered, rain had christened the fresh buds on the trees. I take in the entirity of the nature around me. My soul burns, and I am afraid of being left in ashes. Frustration invades my being, but at least it is not numbness. The blankness with which some attend to their daily lives is sickening, and I will not have it even though it would be simpler to be numb. I kindle the fire in my heart by any means possible. It has, for these three years, caused me to create melodies with the written word. I bend the words and fold them, but my greatest pleasure comes from layering them. They flood through my hand and head. No longer do I walk for hours in a glade or beside a brook. My attention is devoted to the constant hearth that is my body and the deep innerworkings of its desire to be held.

I envy those who are consoled by God, for I cannot find it within myself to admit to a wrong and thus cannot submit to a higher being. The only truth I know now is that I have oft given love, but infrequently do I recieve it. I have left the time of melancholy and entered that of desperate action toward high emotion. I live in feeling even if it is not pleasant. Now E. constantly reminds me of my unhappiness; I cannot escape this woeful state. All I can do is bear a mask so that I will not show what lies under the surface. I can convey my state only through masks and layers, and they never know that I am the one whose heart is exposed. I fear that soon I will be thrown into the depths of despair, for I cannot live with unrequited love. I will not be the delicate, broken flower who they love to portray on canvas.

October 5, 1816-
Sir-
This letter, hopefully, will prove much less unwelcome than my previous one. Recent re-negotiations with my Father have presented me with the ability to further fulfill my obligation to you and supply you with a larger portion of that which I have promised. I pray that the enclosed will help settle affairs, thereby assisting you in the completion of your current project. I wish I could do still more, but the constant requirements placed upon me make for difficult times, and the cries of those in need fill my ears as much as ever.
On the other note of importance, I empathize completely with your situation, yet still prove unable to find a suitable course of action. I assure you, that which you desire I crave from the depths of my heart, and I will, somehow, find a way to achieve our common goal. You must understand, however, how complicated the matter is, and that while there is so much to gain, there is also much at stake. All I ask is for your continued patience; I will find a solution, I promise you.
-S

Dear P,
I have to vent, and you are the only one that would understand my frustrations. All I see around me are women throwing away opportunites. Just the other day I actually heard one of our classmates say, "I dropped my honor's class. I was afraid of what would happen if I stuck with it. I don't want to jeopardize my future. Everyone knows that a girl serious about her studies is peculiar and very unfeminine, and who would want to marry me then?" Can you believe the ignorance? My research is coming along even though it is a situation like this one that drives me nuts. It seems women are suddenly incapable of any ambition, any vision, any passion, except for the pursuit of a wedding ring. I guess it's not the woman's fault, though. Society discourages girls to prepare for a realistic career or intellectual commitment, and drives us into the arms of a man that we confide all of our security in. If only women could commit themselves to serious study, possibly even graduate work then they would have a far better chance of finding security in their own accomplishments and strength in their disciplined minds rather their immature emotions. Oh vey! I feel the weight of this situation on my own shoulders. Thanks for being such a great friend AND woman, I admire you ambition...I will see you tomorrow in psychology class.



-B-

July 28, 1823

I spent the morning looking at what will be my glory from every possible vantage point… Balcony, orchestra, and I surveyed my medium - I am an artist. I will bring them to their knees, B.C. be damned.
Though I must confess I cannot be so hard-hearted. What should I do if met with such scorn? Or worse, dismissal? C., at least outwardly, has remained fully optimistic. Our alterations will fend off the hounds, he says, laughing. I can only remember how they attacked with no restraint after their first taste of this horror.
This horror… or perhaps… "a romance of peculiar interest"? Such softened words make me laugh.
I suppose something must. Spoke with her again last night… such a doll you never saw. Seemed somewhat despondent though, my silly little darling. It upsets me to see her so. Still, she agreed to come tonight. I shall place her in a box, where I can see her, that she may be my muse.
Though one would think after all of my efforts, and uncontested talents, such an inspiration should hardly be necessary. Never have I engaged so fully in my imagination. He has become second nature to me, though indeed never have I despised anyone so… Convenient though, to be something I hate. That's everything he was.

1974-

Kathleen,
First, I would like to apologize for the nature
and tone of my last letter. If I could explain to you the
magnitude of my situation you would surely understand.
But let me back up. I have placed my confidence in you as
a fellow and as a close friend, I trust that you will
remain discreet concerning our correspondences. With time,
I will explain to you all that has occurred for me in the
last few months. My God, listen to me, I sound like
Frankenstein himself. I apologize for all this "cloak and
dagger." It's just that this matter is of indescribable
immensity and importance. I need to confirm my suspicions
before I am able to tell you any more, for many reasons,
please trust me.
Your direction was extreemly useful to me,
Vasbinder is certainly what I was looking for, I will
need more information on him. You can not guess how glued
I have been to the text since I last wrote you. I have
read it twice these past weeks and am rereading it, with
Vasbinder in mind, a third time. I desperately feel there
is some validity to my theory. I apologize, I feel
as though I were a child taunting you with a secret,
please bear with me.
I need more information. I haven't read the text
since primaries and never really took it seriously then.
I must see letters, criticisms, manuscripts, I don't
know, any direction you may point me concerning my
previously explained concern. I do not have much time
until my new position begins and I can not let myself be
distracted, I have worked hard to be here.
Thank you for your haste. Once again I apologize
for my rather elusive manner. In answer to your
questions, my vacation was excellent and just what I
needed. It was good to get up north and see my uncle, you
would have loved his home. Good luck on the book, I have
never read B.L. put his poems are good. Write soon! It is
important.
Sincerely,
-I.