This is one of those all-too-common weeks where the airwaves and the Web are so full of rancor, so much of it aimed at figuring out whom to call a “White Supremacist” or a “White Nationalist” or a “Nazi”, whether “Alt Left” is a suitable name, whether “mainstream conservatives” believe this or that, and have we denounced everyone belonging to some named group strongly enough—without specifying whether they belong to the group because they say so themselves or because someone else says it of them, or because they fit one person’s definition of the group, or the current dictionary definition, or the definition that held for fifty years until 2008, or what—that it reminded me of this peaceful section from Chapter 3 of Lewis Carroll’s THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS.
It could be a bit of fantasy flash-fiction on its own, but I notice today that in the book it comes just before Alice reaches the Eighth Square, where she becomes a Queen. Was Carroll suggesting this experience of things-in-themselves, without having their names to remember our prejudices about them, was an important step before becoming a mature adult? It's a very thought-provoking passage, to me; I think it's deep enough to be worthy of the excellent
Sci Phi Journal, if they published vintage content. I thought it was an especially refreshing read today.
The Wood Where Things Have No Names
She came very soon to an open field, with a wood on the other side of it: it looked much darker than the last wood, and Alice felt a little timid about going into it. However, on second thoughts, she made up her mind to go on: “for I certainly wo’n’t go
back,” she thought to herself, and this was the only way to the Eighth Square.
“This must be the wood,” she said thoughtfully to herself, “where things have no names. I wonder what’ll become of
my name when I go in? I shouldn’t like to lose it at all—because they’d have to give me another and it would be almost certain to be an ugly one. But then the fun would be, trying to find the creature that had got my old name! That’s just like the advertisements, you know, when people lose dogs—
‘answers to the name of “Dash:” had on a brass collar’—just fancy calling everything you met “Alice,” till one of them answered! Only they wouldn’t answer at all, if they were wise.”
She was rambling on in this way when she reached the wood: it looked very cool and shady. “Well, at any rate it’s a great comfort,” she said as she stepped under the trees, “after being so hot, to get into the—into
what?” she went on, rather surprised at not being able to think of the word. “I mean to get under the—under the—under
this, you know!” putting her hand on the trunk of the tree. “What
does it call itself, I wonder? I do believe it’s got no name—why, to be sure it hasn’t!”
She stood silent for a minute, thinking: then she suddenly began again. “Then it really
has happened, after all! And now, who am I? I
will remember, if I can! I’m determined to do it!” But being determined didn’t help much, and all she could say, after a great deal of puzzling, was, “L, I
know it begins with L!”
Just then a Fawn came wandering by: it looked at Alice with its large gentle eyes, but didn’t seem at all frightened. “Here then! Here then!” Alice said as she held out her hand and tried to stroke it; but it only started back a little, and then stood looking at her again.
“What do you call yourself?” the Fawn said at last. Such a soft sweet voice it had!
“I wish I knew!” though poor Alice. She answered, rather sadly, “Nothing, just now.”
“Think again,” it said: “that wo’n’t do.”
Alice thought, but nothing came of it. “Please, would you tell me what you call yourself?” she said timidly. “I think that might help a little.”
“I’ll tell you, if you’ll move a little further on,” the Fawn said. “I ca’n’t remember
here.”
So they walked on together through the wood, Alice with her arms clasped lovingly round the soft neck of the Fawn, till they came out into another open field, and here the Fawn gave a sudden bound into the air, and shook itself free from Alice’s arms. “I’m a Fawn!” it cried out in a voice of delight, “and, dear me! you're a human child!” A sudden look of alarm came into its beautiful brown eyes, and in another moment it had darted away at full speed.
Alice stood looking after it, almost ready to cry with vexation at having lost her dear little fellow-traveller so suddenly. “However, I know my name now,” she said, “that’s
some comfort. Alice—Alice—I wo’n’t forget it again….”
