Page 82 of Frankenstein

His tale had occupied the whole day, and the sun was upon the verge of the horizon when he departed. I knew that I ought to hasten my descent towards the valley, as I should soon be encompassed in darkness; but my heart was heavy, and my steps slow. The labour of winding among the little paths of the mountain and fixing my feet firmly as I advanced perplexed me, occupied as I was by the emotions which the occurrences of the day had produced. Night was far advanced when I came to the halfway resting-place and seated myself beside the fountain. The stars shone at intervals as the clouds passed from over them; the dark pines rose before me, and every here and there a broken tree lay on the ground; it was a scene of wonderful solemnity and stirred strange thoughts within me. I wept bitterly, and clasping my hands in agony, I exclaimed, "Oh! Stars and clouds and winds, ye are all about to mock me; if ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory; let me become as nought; but if not, depart, depart, and leave me in darkness."

These were wild and miserable thoughts, but I cannot describe to you how the eternal twinkling of the stars weighed upon me and how I listened to every blast of wind as if it were a dull ugly siroc on its way to consume me.

Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamounix; I took no rest, but returned immediately to Geneva. Even in my own heart I could give no expression to my sensations--they weighed on me with a mountain's weight and their excess destroyed my agony beneath them. Thus I returned home, and entering the house, presented myself to the family. My haggard and wild appearance awoke intense alarm, but I answered no question, scarcely did I speak. I felt as if I were placed under a ban--as if I had no right to claim their sympathies--as if never more might I enjoy companionship with them. Yet even thus I loved them to adoration; and to save them, I resolved to dedicate myself to my most abhorred task. The prospect of such an occupation made every other circumstance of existence pass before me like a dream, and that thought only had to me the reality of life.

Chapter 18

Day after day, week after week, passed away on my return to Geneva; and I could not collect the courage to recommence my work. I feared the vengeance of the disappointed fiend, yet I was unable to overcome my repugnance to the task which was enjoined me. I found that I could not compose a female without again devoting several months to profound study and laborious disquisition. I had heard of some discoveries having been made by an English philosopher, the knowledge of which was material to my success, and I sometimes thought of obtaining my father's consent to visit England for this purpose; but I clung to every pretence of delay and shrank from taking the first step in an undertaking whose immediate necessity began to appear less absolute to me. A change indeed had taken place in me; my health, which had hitherto declined, was now much restored; and my spirits, when unchecked by the memory of my unhappy promise, rose proportionably. My father saw this change with pleasure, and he turned his thoughts towards the best method of eradicating the remains of my melancholy, which every now and then would return by fits, and with a devouring blackness overcast the approaching sunshine. At these moments I took refuge in the most perfect solitude. I passed whole days on the lake alone in a little boat, watching the clouds and listening to the rippling of the waves, silent and listless. But the fresh air and bright sun seldom failed to restore me to some degree of composure, and on my return I met the salutations of my friends with a readier smile and a more cheerful heart.

(The book is available for free online)
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My Review

I haven’t read Frankenstein since eighth grade, if memory serves me right. But this page certainly suggests that I’ve been remiss in letting it sit so long unrevisited. That first paragraph stabs an immediate hunger into you, a yearning to know who the heck the narrator was just talking to, and what on Earth was said, that could provoke such a shattering emotional response. Would you even need to know that the passage came from Frankenstein, to make you want to turn back to the prior pages and discover what had been said before?

As luck has it, when we read further we come to understand what it is that has been asked of our narrator to so disrupt his composure. This is the scene just after the monster has insisted that Victor construct for him a mate. At least, we understand that if we’re familiar with the Frankenstein mythos. If not, we’re treated to an even more unnerving experience: the revelation that the narrator has been required to “compose a female” by some “fiend.” In either case, it’s a striking moment.

Throughout this page, the language used and the passion expressed and the penetrating presence of the natural world enfold the reader in beauty and woe, in the cathartic experience of a horror so great that it sets our narrator apart from all the rest of humanity.

The page seems to echo with every terror and triumph that existence has to offer, making it little wonder that the book helped set the foundations for both modern horror and the entire genre of science fiction.

Page 82 of The Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini

But although it was only done roughly it was much more powerful than the little wax model. The Pope in fact was so flabbergasted that he cried out: “From now on I will believe anything you say.”

Then, after innumerable compliments, he added: “I want to set you working on something else which is even dearer to my heart than what you are doing now, if you feel you are up to it.”

Then he said that he was anxious to have some dies made for the Mint, asked me if I had ever made any and if I was confident enough to take the work on. I replied that I was willing and confident and that I had seen how they were made, though I had never made any myself.

Now a certain Tommaso de Prato, the Papal datary, was present at this interview; and being a close friend of my enemies he took it on himself to say:

“Holy Father, you’re pouring so many favours on this young man, and he’s so anxious for them, that he’ll be only too ready to promise you a new world. You’ve already set him one great task, and you’re adding a greater one and the result will be that one will hinder the other.”

The Pope, who was really furious at this, turned on him and told him to mind his own business. Then he ordered me to design the model for a gold doubloon. He wanted the design to show the naked figure of Christ, with His hands bound, and the inscription: Ecce Homo. The reverse was to show the figures of a pope and an emperor, both of them holding upright a cross that was on the point of falling, with the inscription: Unus spiritus et una fides erat in eis.

The Pope had just given me instructions to make this beautiful coin when Bandinello the sculptor came up. This was before he had been knighted; and with his usual mixture of presumption and ignorance he said: “The goldsmiths must be provided with designs for such beautiful works.”

I immediately turned to him and told him that I had no need of his designs for my work, but that I felt sure that before long my designs would deal some nasty blows to his. The Pope was delighted at what I said, and leaning towards me he added:

“Now go along my dear Benvenuto, put all your energies into serving me, and pay no attention to what these idiots say.”

(From the George Bull translation)
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My Review

Okay, how can you not be grabbed by a page that starts off with the Pope bursting out in an astonished oath to believe anything the narrator of the book will say? Can this possibly be true? In short order, we're treated to plenty of evidence that Benvenuto Cellini suffers from no frailty of self-image; on his mere say-so, he's getting the Pope to commission him to do work that he's never personally done before, despite apparently being quite young in this scene. The odds seem good that there's some exaggeration going on here, but if so, it's certainly entertaining exaggeration. Furthermore, by paragraph four we're getting the impression that Cellini has enemies everywhere, and by paragraph eight we start to see why.

Clearly, if this page is any indication, the book at hand must be a constant barrage of arrogant self-congratulation, denigration of Cellini's rivals and enemies, and perhaps unhappy repercussions from his willingness to embarrass powerful people in front of even more powerful people. If one is prepared to tolerate an unreliable memoirist, this page promises a window upon the temper and pettiness of at least one Renaissance Pope, as well as politicians and artists of scheming character and pompous tone. And it makes that promise in a quick and light style, highly readable and with a flair for concise description.

Two ruby-and-emerald-encrusted gold thumbs up!

Page 82 of Pride and Prejudice

Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept them mutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded that no real confidence could ever subsist between them again. Her disappointment in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her sister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her opinion could never be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious, as Bingley had now been gone a week and nothing more was heard of his return.

Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised letter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to their father, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a twelvemonth's abode in the family might have prompted. After discharging his conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them, with many rapturous expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection of their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had been so ready to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at Longbourn, whither he hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; for Lady Catherine, he added, so heartily approved his marriage, that she wished it to take place as soon as possible, which he trusted would be an unanswerable argument with his amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him the happiest of men.

Mr. Collins's return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of pleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary, she was as much disposed to complain of it as her husband. It was very strange that he should come to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient and exceedingly troublesome. She hated having visitors in the house while her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the most disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and they gave way only to the greater distress of Mr. Bingley's continued absence.

Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day after day passed away without bringing any other tidings of him than the report which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming no more to Netherfield the whole winter; a report which highly incensed Mrs. Bennet, and which she never failed to contradict as a most scandalous falsehood.

Even Elizabeth began to fear--not that Bingley was indifferent--but that his sisters would be successful in keeping him away. Unwilling as she was to admit an idea so destructive of Jane's happiness, and so dishonorable to the stability of her lover, she could not prevent its frequently occurring. The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters and of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss Darcy and the amusements of London might be too much, she feared, for the strength of his attachment.

(The book is available for free online)
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My Review

As much as I love Pride and Prejudice, I’m afraid this page is one of its most frightfully dull ones. There’s no dialogue whatsoever, and the only hint of Jane Austen’s keen-toothed wit is the one quip mid-page: “... lovers were of all people the most disagreeable.”

Of course the page is, as are all of Austen’s pages, suffused with her elegant voice -- but even that works against her here if the reader is unwary. So effortlessly does she flow from clause to clause to clause to clause that you can read, in the second paragraph, a sentence that is 118 words long and not even realize that you’ve just read a sentence that’s 118 words long. The writing is brisk and easy to read, despite being essentially one vast tract of exposition uncolored by the first metaphor or simile, and indeed lacking almost any figurative language whatsoever. In its very fluidity, the skill of this writing renders itself invisible, leaving the casual reader with little more than a sense of precise and well-mannered vocabulary.

What is left, then, is the substance of the page alone: a string of involuted romantic relationships clearly as marked by etiquette as by passion. We don’t even receive any visuals to break up the pavane of matrimonial aspirations and sisterly fretting -- no primly painted English manors, no quiverings of a pining maiden’s cheek, no deep liquid expanses of a leading man’s dark eyes. In short, the page seems almost a deliberate warning to anyone not fascinated by the courtship rites prevalent among the English gentry of the early 19th century: if you cannot abide a parlor-full of young ladies in want of husbands, stay away!

This is a shame, of course, as the book is marked by a great many elements not even remotely present on this page. But then, I never claimed the Page 82 method to be perfect ...

Page 82 of The Fellowship of the Ring

feat and a respite, the Shadow takes another shape and grows again.'

'I wish it need not have happened in my time,' said Frodo.

'So do I,' said Gandalf, 'and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us. And already, Frodo, our time is beginning to look black. The Enemy is fast becoming very strong. His plans are far from ripe, I think, but they are ripening. We shall be hard put to it. We should be very hard put to it, even if it were not for this dreadful chance.

'The Enemy still lacks one thing to give him strength and knowledge to beat down all resistance, break the last defences, and cover all the lands in a second darkness. He lacks the One Ring.

'The Three, fairest of all, the Elf-lords hid from him, and his hand never touched them or sullied them. Seven the Dwarf-kings possessed, but three he has recovered, and the others the dragons have consumed. Nine he gave to Mortal Men, proud and great, and so ensnared them. Long ago they fell under the dominion of the One, and they became Ringwraiths, shadows under his great Shadow, his most terrible servants. Long ago. It is many a year since the Nine walked abroad. Yet who knows? As the Shadow grows once more, they too may walk again. But come! We will not speak of such things even in the morning of the Shire.

'So it is now: the Nine he has gathered to himself; the Seven also, or else they are destroyed. The Three are hidden still. But that no longer troubles him. He only needs the One; for he made that Ring himself, it is his, and he let a great part of his own former power pass into it, so that he could rule all the others. If he recovers it, then he will command them all again, wherever they be, even the Three, and all that has been wrought with them will be laid bare, and he will be stronger than ever.

'And this is the dreadful chance, Frodo. He believed that the One had perished; that the Elves had destroyed it, as should have been done. But he knows now that it has


(From the 1974 edition)

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My Review:

Can you get much better than this page? Let's say all you know is that it's from the series The Lord of the Rings. Here, by sheer luck, is the page that tells you what the Lord of the Rings is. Not only that, but five sentences in, you get to one of the best sentences ever written: "All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us." In a handful of paragraphs, Gandalf lays out a vast sweep of history, and also lets you know that some very bad news is going down in the present. The language is poetic, but the sense of threat is real, and as you get to the end of the page, you're speared on the hook of an incomplete sentence that promises to tell you even more about how bad our good guys have it, thanks to the nameless Enemy learning whatever it is he's learned.

Pure magic.