14 September 2027
Tuesday. A group of fifteen-year-olds came in today who had read a book about me. For school. I was not informed.
They told me all about it. Apparently a lady named Shelley wrote the whole thing down two hundred years ago without my permission, and I come out of it very badly. I asked how it ends. They looked at one another and said I should read it myself. I suspect it does not end with the Subject in a paper crown.
I will say this for them: they spotted things in my laboratory that other assistants walk straight past, little nods to the book, and they were insufferable about it. But knowing the novel did not help them wake the Subject one bit. Everything they needed was in the room. A group who had never heard of me would have had exactly the same chance, which is the fairest thing about my experiment and the most humbling.
Their teacher asked whether the evening could count as homework. I said yes. I have no authority whatever to say yes.
In the margin: I have read the book too. It is very good. I am much nicer than the creature in it, and my handwriting is better. I have recommended it to the doctor. He says he does not read fiction. I have pointed out that he is in it.
— V. Frankenstein
