reputation. ‘Hurry,’ he’d say, ‘Hurry and get
a literary reputation and enrol yourself on the page of fame.’
We
visited Switzerland and became neighbours of Lord Byron, who was writing the
third canto of Childe Harold. By the time he had written the tenth canto
of Childe Harold , the Childe was 35.
Some
volumes of ghost stories, translated from the German into French, fell into our
hands. Someone pushed them and we caught them. There was the History of the
Inconstant Lover, who, when he thought to clasp the bride to whom he had
pledged his vows, found himself in the arms of the pale ghost of her whom he
had deserted. Then there was the tale of the sinful founder of his race, the
Two Thousand Guineas: his gigantic, shadowy form was clothed, like the ghost in Hamlet, in complete armour, but with the beaver up it was very painful
and could kruple his blurzon. He was to bestow the kiss of death on all the
younger sons so, in his clanking armour, he advanced to the couch of the
blooming youths who were cradled in healthy sleep. Eternal sorrow sat upon his
face as he bent down and kissed the foreheads of the boys who [wait for it!]
from that hour withered like the flowers snapped upon the stalk. But, alas, the
cost of the funerals finally bankrupted him. He sold his suit of armour to
raise money and the suit was crushed into a metal square and made into a
Mini-Minor which was bought by a priest.
‘We
will each write a ghost story,’ said Lord Byron. Poor Signor Polidori had some
terrible idea about a skull-headed lady who was so punished for peeping through
a keyhole, she saw what all keyhole peepers see — a couple screwing on the bed.
He did not know what to do with her and was obliged to dispatch her to the tomb
of the Capulets. Alas, when she got there they were both dead so she went for a
coffee.
I
busied myself to think of a story, a story that would curdle the blood
of the reader and loosen the sphincter. Every ghost story must have a
beginning. The Hindus gave the world an elephant to support it, but they make
the elephant stand upon a tortoise. In practical terms the tortoise would have
been crushed to a pulp. Perhaps that’s what is wrong with the world — we are
all living on a crushed tortoise.
Many
and long were the conversations between Lord Byron and Shelley; some were
eighteen feet tall. They talked to Dr Darwin and one of his experiments. He had
preserved a piece of vermicelli in a glass case till by some extraordinary
means it began to move with voluntary motion. Again, you could put some
spaghetti in a glass case and wait for it to become animated, then you could
let it go and it could then run free in the streets.
I
did not sleep that night; my mind wandered. I saw a pale student of unhallowed
arts kneeling beside the monster he had put together. I saw the hideous
phantasm of a man stretched out and then, on the working with some powerful
engine, he shows signs of life, sits up and says, ‘Hello dar, what’s de time?’
Frightful must it be; for supremely frightful would be the effect of any human
endeavour to mock the stupendous mechanism of the Creator of life — which as we
all know is a flat tortoise.
So
when the hitherto inanimate body sat up, opened his eyes and said, ‘Hello dere,
lend us a quid,’ I opened my eyes in terror. The idea so possessed my mind that
a thrill of fear ran through me and out the back.
Swift
as light, and as cheering, was the idea that broke in upon me: ‘I have found
it! What terrified me will terrify others; and I need only describe the spectre
which had haunted my midnight pillow.’ On the morrow I announced that I had thought
of a story.
At
first I thought but a few pages — of a short tale, about 5 feet 3 inches, but
Shelley urged me to develop the idea to a greater length, 100 feet 6 inches. I
certainly did not owe the suggestion of any one incident to my husband. In
fact, he did bugger all. However, but for his incitement it would never
a literary reputation and enrol yourself on the page of fame.’
We
visited Switzerland and became neighbours of Lord Byron, who was writing the
third canto of Childe Harold. By the time he had written the tenth canto
of Childe Harold , the Childe was 35.
Some
volumes of ghost stories, translated from the German into French, fell into our
hands. Someone pushed them and we caught them. There was the History of the
Inconstant Lover, who, when he thought to clasp the bride to whom he had
pledged his vows, found himself in the arms of the pale ghost of her whom he
had deserted. Then there was the tale of the sinful founder of his race, the
Two Thousand Guineas: his gigantic, shadowy form was clothed, like the ghost in Hamlet, in complete armour, but with the beaver up it was very painful
and could kruple his blurzon. He was to bestow the kiss of death on all the
younger sons so, in his clanking armour, he advanced to the couch of the
blooming youths who were cradled in healthy sleep. Eternal sorrow sat upon his
face as he bent down and kissed the foreheads of the boys who [wait for it!]
from that hour withered like the flowers snapped upon the stalk. But, alas, the
cost of the funerals finally bankrupted him. He sold his suit of armour to
raise money and the suit was crushed into a metal square and made into a
Mini-Minor which was bought by a priest.
‘We
will each write a ghost story,’ said Lord Byron. Poor Signor Polidori had some
terrible idea about a skull-headed lady who was so punished for peeping through
a keyhole, she saw what all keyhole peepers see — a couple screwing on the bed.
He did not know what to do with her and was obliged to dispatch her to the tomb
of the Capulets. Alas, when she got there they were both dead so she went for a
coffee.
I
busied myself to think of a story, a story that would curdle the blood
of the reader and loosen the sphincter. Every ghost story must have a
beginning. The Hindus gave the world an elephant to support it, but they make
the elephant stand upon a tortoise. In practical terms the tortoise would have
been crushed to a pulp. Perhaps that’s what is wrong with the world — we are
all living on a crushed tortoise.
Many
and long were the conversations between Lord Byron and Shelley; some were
eighteen feet tall. They talked to Dr Darwin and one of his experiments. He had
preserved a piece of vermicelli in a glass case till by some extraordinary
means it began to move with voluntary motion. Again, you could put some
spaghetti in a glass case and wait for it to become animated, then you could
let it go and it could then run free in the streets.
I
did not sleep that night; my mind wandered. I saw a pale student of unhallowed
arts kneeling beside the monster he had put together. I saw the hideous
phantasm of a man stretched out and then, on the working with some powerful
engine, he shows signs of life, sits up and says, ‘Hello dar, what’s de time?’
Frightful must it be; for supremely frightful would be the effect of any human
endeavour to mock the stupendous mechanism of the Creator of life — which as we
all know is a flat tortoise.
So
when the hitherto inanimate body sat up, opened his eyes and said, ‘Hello dere,
lend us a quid,’ I opened my eyes in terror. The idea so possessed my mind that
a thrill of fear ran through me and out the back.
Swift
as light, and as cheering, was the idea that broke in upon me: ‘I have found
it! What terrified me will terrify others; and I need only describe the spectre
which had haunted my midnight pillow.’ On the morrow I announced that I had thought
of a story.
At
first I thought but a few pages — of a short tale, about 5 feet 3 inches, but
Shelley urged me to develop the idea to a greater length, 100 feet 6 inches. I
certainly did not owe the suggestion of any one incident to my husband. In
fact, he did bugger all. However, but for his incitement it would never
Similar Books
