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Автор: Mary Shelley

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These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my
undertaking with unremitting ardour. My cheek had grown pale with
study, and my person had become emaciated with confinement.
Sometimes, on the very brink of certainty, I failed; yet still I
clung to the hope which the next day or the next hour might
realise. One secret which I alone possessed was the hope to which
I had dedicated myself; and the moon gazed on my midnight
labours, while, with unrelaxed and breathless eagerness, I
pursued nature to her hiding-places. Who shall conceive the
horrors of my secret toil as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps
of the grave or tortured the living animal to animate the
lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble, and my eyes swim with the
remembrance; but then a resistless and almost frantic impulse
urged me forward; I seemed to have lost all soul or sensation but
for this one pursuit.

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