21 October 2026
Wednesday. My notebook has been taken from my bench and put on the internet. I am told this is an honour. I am told a great many things.
Very well. Reader, you will find here the true record of my great experiment: its storms, its assistants, its triumphs and the occasional regrettable incident involving the pipe organ. You will not find my method. A genius does not leave his method in a notebook. He leaves it in several journals, scattered about a laboratory, in terrible handwriting, which is entirely different.
You will also find, I regret to say, notes in the margin. They are not mine. They are written by the Subject, who has taught himself to read from my journals and to write with the pencils assistants leave behind. He wishes to be called Percy. He is not Percy. He is my greatest work.
Should you wish to assist me in person, the company keeps a calendar of storms for Northbridge and for Sydney, and a telephone at each. Halloween is coming. Book early. I intend to.
In the margin, in pencil, smaller and neater than before: Hello, reader. Please call me Percy. He will not.
— V. Frankenstein
