Mary Shelley

My dreams were at once more fantastic and agreeable than my writings.

The very winds whispered in soothing accents, and maternal Nature bade me weep no more.

My dreams were all my own; I accounted for them to nobody; they were my refuge when annoyed - my dearest pleasure when free.

I beheld the wretch—the miserable monster whom I had created.

Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world.

Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of void, but out of chaos.

Nothing contributes so much to tranquilize the mind as a steady purpose - a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye.

I do not wish women to have power over men; but over themselves.

The beginning is always today.