Having just completed reading Alice in Wonderland, the very first thought that pops into my mind is that I truly wish I had delved into this enchanting tale many years ago. I have been acquainted with the story of Alice for a long time, courtesy of Disney and the Mad Hatter's appearance on Batman. However, for some inexplicable reason, I never got around to reading this classic as a child. While I had a hunch that I would enjoy it, I had no idea just how much of a pure delight this book would turn out to be.
Carroll, being a logician, unsurprisingly employs his expertise in that domain to concoct numerous uproarious logical fallacies. But what intrigued me the most was the prose. I could expound at length on the pristine, beautiful concision of Carroll's writing and the sheer brilliance of his word games and puns, which clearly had an impact on Vladimir Nabokov (who even composed a Russian translation of Alice). The manner in which Carroll's narrative voice approaches the absurd events bears a resemblance to Kafka's Metamorphosis. Why some would dismiss the former's unique literary genius while lauding the latter's can perhaps be attributed to the snobbery of those who would reject a masterpiece simply because it is labeled as a "children's book."
These aspects piqued the interest of the adult reader within me, yet Alice is truly a book for children of all ages. Thanks to the animated movie, I was familiar with the characters, and it felt as if I was reuniting with old friends. I particularly experienced this during the Mad Tea Party, which I firmly believe must rank among the most brilliant comic scenes in English literature. However, Alice demonstrates that books for children need not be dumbed down or overly sentimentalized. There are some dark undertones beneath the excellent humor (the Queen's obsession with beheading being just the most famous example). And the beautiful concluding paragraph is a startling, Shakespearean meditation on childhood, age, and eventual womanhood. I must admit that this was a wonderful surprise. And then, of course, there is the drug use of the caterpillar and Carroll's suggested pedophiliac obsession with young girls. But I believe that those who approach Alice as psychedelic literature or a creepy Lolita story are missing the point. Nevertheless, these questions do indeed add depth to the reading experience.
Alice in Wonderland is truly a rare gem of a book: one that has the power to both entertain and enlighten both the child and the adult. Carroll's glittering novel has not lost even a scintilla of its luster over time, something that cannot be said of the works of many of his contemporaries. Alice's adventures will undoubtedly continue to fascinate us for countless years to come. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and listen to White Rabbit.