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Mary's Monster: Love, Madness, and How Mary Shelley Created Frankenstein

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Lita Judge

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“The Marquis stepped between Richard and Door. 'You can't go back to your old home or your old job or your old life,' he said to Richard almost gently. 'None of those things exist. Up there, you don't exist.' They had reached a junction: a place where three tunnels came together. Door and Hunter set off along one of them, the one that no water was coming down, and they did not look back. The Marquis lingered. 'You'll just have to make the best of it down here,' he said to Richard, 'in the sewers and the magic and the dark.”

HomeLostDarkAdventureHomesick
Book:Neverwhere
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“Về cửa nhà thân yêu, về chính cái nơi đã quen biết ngay từ ngày đầu tiên ra đời, về cái ngưỡng cửa mà đằng sau nó là lòng tin, là sự thật chất phác và thiêng liêng, là lòng thương xót, tình bạn và sự thông cảm, những cái đã trở thành tự nhiên đến mức hóa ra dung dị tột độ, mà nếu muốn xác định những ý niệm ấy thì thật chẳng có ý nghĩa gì. [...] Không, cái cánh cửa kia, nơi mà nó đang đi về, là một bộ phận của con người nó, là cả cuộc đời của nó. Thế thôi, trên thế gian này chưa một con chó nào lại cho lòng chung thuỷ thông thường là một điều phi thường. Nhưng con người thì lại nghĩ ra việc tâng bốc thứ tình cảm đó của chó như một thành tích, cổi là vì không phải tất cả bọn họ khi nào cũng có được lòng chung thủy với bạn bè và sự trung thành với trách nhiệm đến mức những thứ đó có thể trở thành cội nguồn của cuộc sống, thành nền tảng tự nhiên của bản thân sự tồn tại, khi mà sự cao thượng của tâm hồn là một trạng thái đương nhiên. Cái cửa nhà nơi Bim đi về là của nhà của người bạn nó và do đó cũng là cái cửa của nó, Bim. Nó đi về cái cửa của lòng tin và sự sống. Bim mong sao về được đến cửa này để hoặc là chờ đợi, hoặc là chết: đi lang thang trong thị xã tìm bạn thì nó không còn đủ sức. Nó chỉ có thể đợi mà thôi. Chỉ còn có đợi.”

HomeLoyalty
Book:Белый Бим Чёрное ухо
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“As Frank promised, there was no other public explosion. Still. The multiple times when she came home to find him idle again, just sitting on the sofa staring at the rug, were unnerving. She tried; she really tried. But every bit of housework—however minor—was hers: his clothes scattered on the floor, food-encrusted dishes in the sink, ketchup bottles left open, beard hair in the drain, waterlogged towels bunched on bathroom tiles. Lily could go on and on. And did. Complaints grew into one-sided arguments, since he wouldn’t engage. “Where were you?” “Just out.” “Out where?” “Down the street.” Bar? Barbershop? Pool hall. He certainly wasn’t sitting in the park. “Frank, could you rinse the milk bottles before you put them on the stoop?” “Sorry. I’ll do it now.” “Too late. I’ve done it already. You know, I can’t do everything.” “Nobody can.” “But you can do something, can’t you?” “Lily, please. I’ll do anything you want.” “What I want? This place is ours.” The fog of displeasure surrounding Lily thickened. Her resentment was justified by his clear indifference, along with his combination of need and irresponsibility. Their bed work, once so downright good to a young woman who had known no other, became a duty. On that snowy day when he asked to borrow all that money to take care of his sick sister in Georgia, Lily’s disgust fought with relief and lost. She picked up the dog tags he’d left on the bathroom sink and hid them away in a drawer next to her bankbook. Now the apartment was all hers to clean properly, put things where they belonged, and wake up knowing they’d not been moved or smashed to pieces. The loneliness she felt before Frank walked her home from Wang’s cleaners began to dissolve and in its place a shiver of freedom, of earned solitude, of choosing the wall she wanted to break through, minus the burden of shouldering a tilted man. Unobstructed and undistracted, she could get serious and develop a plan to match her ambition and succeed. That was what her parents had taught her and what she had promised them: To choose, they insisted, and not ever be moved. Let no insult or slight knock her off her ground. Or, as her father was fond of misquoting, “Gather up your loins, daughter. You named Lillian Florence Jones after my mother. A tougher lady never lived. Find your talent and drive it.” The afternoon Frank left, Lily moved to the front window, startled to see heavy snowflakes powdering the street. She decided to shop right away in case the weather became an impediment. Once outside, she spotted a leather change purse on the sidewalk. Opening it she saw it was full of coins—mostly quarters and fifty-cent pieces. Immediately she wondered if anybody was watching her. Did the curtains across the street shift a little? The passengers in the car rolling by—did they see? Lily closed the purse and placed it on the porch post. When she returned with a shopping bag full of emergency food and supplies the purse was still there, though covered in a fluff of snow. Lily didn’t look around. Casually she scooped it up and dropped it into the groceries. Later, spread out on the side of the bed where Frank had slept, the coins, cold and bright, seemed a perfectly fair trade. In Frank Money’s empty space real money glittered. Who could mistake a sign that clear? Not Lillian Florence Jones.”

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Book:Home
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“Without help or a supportive husband, Lenore was as alone as she had been after her first husband died, as she had been before marrying Salem. It was too late to curry friendship with neighboring women, who she had made sure knew their level and hers. Pleading with Jackie’s mother was humiliating as well as fruitless since the answer was “Sorry.” Now she had to be content with the company of the person she prized most of all—herself. Perhaps it was that partnership between Lenore and Lenore that caused the minor stroke she suffered on a sweltering night in July. Salem found her kneeling beside the bed and ran to Mr. Haywood’s house. He drove her to the hospital in Mount Haven. There, after a long, perilous wait in the corridor, she finally received treatment that curtailed further damage. Her speech was slurred but she was ambulatory—if carefully so. Salem saw to her basic needs, but was relieved to learn he could not understand a word she spoke. Or so he said.”

SelfHome
Book:Home
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“The biblical narrative begins and ends at home. From the Garden of Eden to the New Jerusalem we are hardwired for place and for permanence, for rest and refuge, for presence and protection. We long for home because welcome was our first gift of grace and it will be our last. The settings of our first home and our last home will testify to the nature of the embodied story God is writing in human history. Because God's story begins in a garden and ends in a city, place isn't incidental to Christian hope, just as our bodies aren't incidental to salvation. God will resurrect our bodies, and he will -- finally -- bring us home.”

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Book:Keeping Place: Reflections on the Meaning of Home
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