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July 21, 2010

It strikes me as odd that as I wrote about the strange stormy weather in Geneva in 1816 when Mary was starting to write Frankenstein, a sudden storm has blown up here. The wind is knocking beach parasols over. Some pictures have even fallen off the wall. Meanwhile in 1816, it is midnight, and Byron has just recited some scary lines by Coleridge and Shelley has just run out of the room shrieking. I am trying to think of words that are Not “howl” “blow” or “gust.”

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