It was a dark and stormy night.
In a coffin in the ground there lived a vampire.
It was a bright and cold evening in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.
Last night I dreamed of New Orleans...
I was born, I grew up.
If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like ... and all that David Copperfield kind of stuff.
In the winter of my twenty-first year, I went out alone on horseback to kill myself.
This was on my plantation in New Orleans in Louisiana, and these were the last decades before the nineteenth century.
It was the worst winter that I could remember, and the slaves were stealing the sheep from my plantation and even running at night through the streets of the village.
These were bitter years for me. My brother was crazy, and I was the first son and the only one who had lived to manhood. I think I had a wife and child maybe also, but I cannot remember. Babette had beautiful breasts, though. They depressed me.
My plantation, the estate and the town nearby were my entire universe. And I'd been born depressed--the dreamer, the angry one, the manic-depressive. I wouldn't sit by the fire and talk of the old land and the price of tea. Life had no meaning for me.
In this dim and old-fashioned world, I had become the hunted. Early on a very cold morning in January, I became prey.
To be continued...
Beat that, Lestat.
Lestat is not the only one who can write books, childrenbiscuits. I do not need anyone to interview me, either! If he can have another book about him, then so can I. It shall open as follows: