is not so good for writing. There’s driving my son to camp, groceries, dentist appointments, haircuts, bedtimes, phone calls. I like being in exile, self-imposed, that is. The astonishing thing is how much the trip has helped me understand how much the Shelleys loved Italy, and yet hated feeling driven out of London.
I have just re-read Frankenstein as I am gearing up for the famous summer, the dark summer of rain in Geneva, when Mary had her nightmare and began to write her story. She was only 19. She had a toddler. She was learning Latin and Italian and reading Locke and anything else she could get her hands on. She is an inspiration. I, on the other hand, don’t want to read anything. It is hot and sticky. I want to go swimming.