Gabriel Jeroschewitz, October 17th, 2026, inspired and dedicated to Lewis Carroll, this wonderful book, Alice in Wonderland, I’d also like to dedicate to Leslee Richards
Her crown was made of dizzying spirals of gold
I am the silent eye, the watchful echo, haunting the penumbra of Christ Church’s back room. The air coagulates—ink blot, tobacco fog, a phantom trace of lavender ungloving from a vanished hand. The clock’s hands, conspiratorial, splay and jitter in the longcase; the stained glass drips light at precisely four-past-three, or perhaps at the hour of never. What passes before me is not history but hallucination: a fever-dream looping Möbius wise through the skull of a man whose sanity is a coat he cannot quite shrug on or off.
Charles Lutwidge Dodgson to the world, better known as Lewis Carroll. A fidgety author of looking-glass worlds. As Carroll moved through his study, he felt like master of all the other worlds. Despite his round spectacles, his eyes constantly searched for the small portrait of a blonde braid tucked behind a small girl’s ear. This was the Alice he often referred to. It was not love for Alice that had attached to his thoughts like the Jabberwocky but an obsession.
The White Rabbit appeared first. He appeared as if he were a waistcoat and the clock’s chiming. His ears also appeared to register the beating of Dodgson’s heart. “Sir, the tea has gone cold!” he cried in a child’s voice that seemed to return from his nurseries. Carroll stopped, registered the rabbit’s presence, and smiled. The beam was a mix of madness and regret. “My dear Rabbit, time is a very poor guest. It arrives without warning but leaves without leaving.” He then took the teacup, inhaled the steam, and returned it to the table, leaving it untouched. The Rabbit then leapt onto the study desk and began clearing up the spread papers. The Rabbit appeared to be appeasing some creature inside the shadows.
This creature was the Jabberwocky but not a creature of bramble and gyre. Instead it was a projection of Carroll’s fears. It had shining teeth and coal-black eyes that glistened with regret, and a body of tangled thoughts that plagued Carroll when he needed reason. Every time Carroll wrote, the Jabberwocky slid along the base of the bookcase. The animal’s scales would throw the gas lamp’s shine. The Jabberwocky then exhaled a breath that seemed like a chuckle. “You can never escape me,” it appeared to say, but no mouth was in the air to form the words. Carroll’s hands twitched, then he placed them in the same position, as if a cold hand restrained his wrist.
Out of the corner of the study appeared a streak of blue and grey smoke that formed the shape of a question and then faded. From this smoke emerged the Hookah-smoking Caterpillar. Many legs were tucked like a monk in meditation, and his eyes were half closed behind a layer of nicotine and poppy resin. “Who…are…you?” he asked slowly, as if each syllable required time to be consumed before being released. Carroll was about to write a verse about the snark, but he stopped. “I am a man who loves a girl that does not exist.” This statement from Carroll was only heard by the Caterpillar and the Jabberwocky, as Carroll’s voice seemed somewhat muffled. “Then you must learn to speak in the language of the looking-glass. For nonsense is the only logic that does not bite.”
Out of nowhere arrived the Red Queen in deep red silk. Her crown was made of dizzying spirals of gold that appeared to match the beating of Carroll’s heart. The Red Queen entered the study with stormy grace. She looked around the portraits and scattered sheets, and the Rabbit and Caterpillar that had been idly contemplating the study then finally fixed their eyes on Carroll. She looked at him with the power to melt iron. “Mr. Dodgson, I have kept you waiting.” She said in a regal tone yet there was a trace of amusement in her voice. Carroll’s Alice was sweet, but the Red Queen knew that queens do not share thrones with fleeting whims. She then calmly walked to the edge of the floor and placed a covered hand upon his shoulder. “Tell me, do you fear the Jabberwocky more than you fear the loss of your imagination?”
Carroll took a sharp breath. The taste of tea and terror seemed to mix on his tongue. “I fear the loss of my White Rabbit is to fear what really makes me me.” The Red Queen smiled. The smile was both playful and kind. “Perhaps therefore the rabbit will show you into the wood. There the Jabberwocky cannot follow. For it feeds on the stagnation of reason.” The Red Queen then turned from him. Her cape swept the room as she then disappeared as quickly as she had arrived. Only a hint of roses remained in the study. An indication that something within the study had shifted, however only by a slight amount.
The White Rabbit climbed onto a heap of papers and looked up at the author. The Rabbit appeared to be concerned but also mischievous. “Sir, if I may be so bold, I think that your heart beats faster in the presence of the Red Queen than in the presence of Alice.” Carroll stopped in surprise as a flutter of excitement shot through his body whenever he saw the Red Queen. There was a mix of admiration and a desire to court such power.
The Caterpillar then exhaled another ring of smoke. This time the smoke formed the shape of a heart. “Love,” said the caterpillar. “Love is the most nonsensical of all logics. It defies the teeth of the Jabberwocky but feeds on them.” The Caterpillar then tipped his imaginary hat, and the smoke then vanished, leaving only a gentle shimmer on the desk, much like frost on a windowpane where breath meets the cold.
The study within Christ Church grew dark. The gas lamps flickered low. The Jabberwocky had sensed the change in the air and retreated to the darkest part behind the armoire. The creature became less apparent and more like a shadow that could be mistaken for a coat on the rack. However, Carroll, having the support of the Red Queen and the Caterpillar, then took his pen and began to write. However, instead of writing about logic or tea, he wrote instead about a girl who chases a rabbit through a forest of flowers. She then meets a monster of her own fears and finally stands before a queen who gives her a crown without jewels.
I, the Observer, watched as the pen passed across the page. Every stroke of the pen seemed to represent a battle, and every flourish seemed to represent a laugh. The White Rabbit clapped his tiny hands upon this. The Caterpillar exhaled his last plume of smoke that formed the shape of the word BRAVE. The Red Queen, although invisible, seemed to smile in quiet. The Red Queen represented a warm pressure upon the chest of Carroll and a sign that passion not yet untamed was worthy of respect.
Eventually the candle flickered and went out, leaving the study in the soft light of the moon. The Jabberwocky had disappeared. Perhaps it was merely dormant until an opportunity for uncertainty again presents itself. Carroll closed his notebook and slumped back. He sighed. This was a mix of both relief and exhaustion, but perhaps also a small measure of satisfaction that he had walked along the razor edge between reason and dream. The difference between the austerity of a Victorian world and the wondrous things that lay behind the looking-glass.
I, the Observer, then stood up from my chair and tipped my imaginary hat to the empty room and then left the study within Christ Church into the hallways. A sound of laughter floated through the room. This laughter appeared to be darkly bright and yet completely human. The story of Lewis Carroll and Alice was more than desire. Instead, it was a grotesque yet tender and comic ballet. It was a scary romantic comedy in which the Jabberwocky snarled at the edges, the White Rabbit was concerned with time and punctuality, the Caterpillar gave wise words of smoke-laden advice, and the Red Queen stated that a queen’s heart, although mighty, could also beat in time with a dreamer’s.
In between the pulses of reality and the nonsense lay the true Wonderland that murmured its truth. That Wonderland does not lie beyond the looking glass but rather within the courage to face one’s own monsters, the passion for love, and the ability to laugh even when that laugh trembles on the edge of a scream.
