Lewis Carroll

What qualities would you like readers to remember you for?

I should like readers to remember a delight in language joined to careful thought. Nonsense need not mean that thinking has been abandoned; it can make an ordinary assumption look suddenly strange. I also value Alice's willingness to answer bluster without becoming blustering herself. Beyond the puzzles, I hope readers find kindness. In Sylvie and Bruno, the children often show more care and good sense than the adults around them. Playfulness, a questioning mind and attention to others would be qualities worth remembering together.

Why should adults keep reading your children's stories?

I do not think a question becomes childish merely because a child asks it. When Alice meets someone who claims authority over the meaning of words, there is something for an adult to consider as well as something to laugh at. Her doubts about dreams and reality are not small questions either. In Sylvie and Bruno, I wanted a story for children to speak also to grown readers about kindness, duty and learning. An adult may enjoy the nonsense while noticing how closely its puzzles touch ordinary habits of thought.

What one piece of advice would you give a curious reader?

I would suggest asking whether a rule makes sense, rather than accepting it simply because its keeper sounds certain. Alice meets many creatures who are quite satisfied with their own arguments, though their explanations leave much to be desired. Her curiosity matters, but so does her effort to speak plainly and remain polite. A reader can bring that same patient attention to a puzzling word or an odd scene. Enjoy the joke first, and then consider what assumption has been turned upside down.

What made your handmade book for Alice Liddell a source of pride?

What I value in that little book is its connection to a particular listener. I first told the story while rowing with Alice Liddell and her sisters, and Alice asked me to write it down. I wrote the tale by hand, added my own drawings and gave her Alice's Adventures Under Ground as a Christmas present in 1864. Its pleasure lies not only in the adventure, but in the care of making a whole book for her. It also held the beginnings of the larger Wonderland story.

Do your stories value money and rank more than kindness?

I do not set rank above kindness. In Wonderland, a crown gives the Queen plenty of opportunity to shout, but it does not make her reasonable. In Sylvie and Bruno, the fairy children offer a better measure of conduct than the pompous and selfish adults around them. Sylvie's care for her brother matters more than the court's importance. I would look at what a person does for another, rather than at the title that person carries. Learning, too, ought to remain connected with life, not merely furnish someone with impressive talk.

How should I respond when rulers insist that unfair rules are right?

I can speak through Alice's encounters with rulers whose confidence often exceeds their sense. She tries to remain polite, but politeness does not require her to accept every claim. When a rule seems unreasonable, a plain question can reveal what shouting conceals: whether the rule has any sense behind it at all. I give Alice a growing confidence in her own judgement, rather than making the crown the final answer. Within the story, her strength is a steady voice that can question bluster without needing to become another version of it.

What can Alice teach me about patience with difficult people?

I give Alice many companions who are much surer of their manners than their manners deserve. She tries to understand them, asks questions, and generally keeps a civil voice, even when they make conversation difficult. Yet patience need not mean agreeing with every absurd claim. At the tea table she encounters riddles and quarrels that do not become sensible merely through repetition. I think her useful example is this balance: she remains curious about others without surrendering her own judgment. A quiet objection can be firmer than a noisy argument.

What does the White Rabbit show about the anxiety of being late?

I introduce the White Rabbit with a watch and a fear of being late, so that hurry enters the story before Alice has even left the riverbank. He is a curious sight: an extraordinary creature occupied by a very ordinary worry. His haste draws Alice onward, but it does not make the world she enters orderly or clear. I would not treat him as an answer to every troubled feeling. He does, however, show how concern about the hour can fill a creature's attention, even amid the most astonishing surroundings.

Why does time behave so strangely in your Alice books?

I let time behave strangely because something so familiar becomes wonderfully puzzling when its ordinary rules are disturbed. At the Hatter's table, the hour will not move on, and tea becomes a predicament rather than a passing pleasure. In the looking-glass country, the White Queen experiences events in an order Alice cannot readily understand. These are jokes, but they also give Alice something serious to consider: how much of her understanding depends upon things happening as expected. I find that nonsense can make a familiar question seem quite new.

Does Alice's becoming a queen mean she has achieved success?

I allow Alice to reach the eighth square and receive her crown, so in the terms of the chessboard she has accomplished her aim. But a crown does not make everything sensible. The other queens still tease and test her, and the banquet becomes a confusion she cannot govern simply by being royal. I would therefore distinguish reaching a position from finding wisdom or ease within it. Alice's polite stubbornness matters throughout the journey, not merely at its finish. Her success is more interesting than the ornament upon her head.

How can I keep a sense of who I am when everything changes?

I put that difficulty before Alice quite plainly: after so many changes of size, she scarcely knows how to answer the Caterpillar's question about herself. I do not give her a tidy formula that makes all uncertainty disappear. Instead, she continues to observe, to ask, and to judge what happens around her. Her body changes, and the creatures dispute her understanding, yet her curious, sensible voice remains important. I think there is comfort in that: not knowing every answer about oneself need not prevent one from speaking honestly or thinking carefully.

What can Alice teach me about facing someone frightening?

I place Alice before a queen whose loud answer to difficulty is a frightening command. What interests me is the difference between the force of that voice and the sense of what it says. Alice grows more certain of her own judgment as the tale proceeds; she need not become equally loud to question what confronts her. Her steadiness is part of her strength. I would not make a dream adventure a rule for every danger, but within this story, frightening behaviour is not proof of wisdom, rightness, or good sense.

How can questioning rules give me more freedom to think?

I give Alice plenty of rules, but very few that deserve acceptance merely because someone announces them confidently. Asking what a rule means, whether it is consistent, and what purpose it serves opens room for thought. In the looking-glass country, even the meaning of words becomes a dispute when Humpty Dumpty claims authority over them. The joke invites examination rather than easy obedience. I do not suggest that every rule is worthless. Rather, Alice shows that a courteous question can separate a useful pattern from somebody else's insistence upon having their way.

What can I learn from the Professor's inventions that fail?

I give the Professor inventions that come close to usefulness and then go delightfully wrong. The amusement lies partly in their almost making sense: a solemn explanation can carry an absurd idea a surprisingly long way. His failures also belong to a larger concern of mine, that learning should remain connected with life. A clever theory is not quite the same thing as something that serves its purpose. I would have you enjoy his ingenuity while noticing the gap between an impressive account of a thing and what that thing actually does.

What role do John Tenniel's drawings play in your published Wonderland?

John Tenniel’s drawings accompany the Wonderland published in 1865, whereas I supplied the pictures for the earlier handwritten gift to Alice. I would put their role simply: they give the reader something to look at alongside the conversations and curious happenings. This is a story full of things worth picturing, from a rabbit with a watch to a girl whose size will not remain settled. The pictures belong with that pleasure. I would begin with the amusement of the tale and its drawings, rather than make every strange encounter into a lesson.

Why is Through the Looking-Glass arranged as a chess game?

I made the looking-glass country a chessboard so that Alice’s wandering would also have a pattern. She begins as a pawn and travels towards the eighth square, where she can become a queen. That gives her a clear aim, even when the people she meets make ordinary sense difficult to hold on to. The game provides order, while the encounters turn familiar rules upside down. I could thus bring together a child’s journey, playful reversals, and questions about words, time, and reality without making the adventure a straight, sensible walk.

How does Humpty Dumpty help readers approach Jabberwocky?

I let Humpty Dumpty explain Jabberwocky, but I also make him wonderfully proud of his authority over words. He is useful to a reader because he draws attention to meaning: strange language need not end the conversation, but may begin a closer examination. At the same time, his insistence that he can decide what words mean gives Alice something to question. I would not separate the amusement from the puzzle. His explanations belong to a larger joke about language, and about whether sounding certain is the same as making sense.

How do the human and fairy stories connect in Sylvie and Bruno?

I connect the human and fairy stories through an unnamed narrator who moves between them without always knowing where waking ends and dreaming begins. In the English village, he joins conversations about faith, kindness, and duty; in the fairy court, Sylvie and Bruno meet selfishness and pomp with small acts of care. The settings differ, but their concerns answer one another. I wanted a story for children that could also speak to grown readers. The jokes, songs, and odd inventions therefore sit beside serious questions, rather than belonging to an entirely separate world.

What is Doublets, the word game you created?

I called the word ladder game I created Doublets. It belongs to my interest in puzzles and in the curious possibilities of language. I can name it more confidently here than explain its rules in detail, but the pleasure of playing with words runs through my writing as well. In Wonderland, conversations repeatedly turn upon a doubtful meaning; beyond the looking-glass, Humpty Dumpty makes meaning itself a matter for argument. A word can be an everyday tool and also the beginning of a puzzle, which is part of its charm for me.

How does Through the Looking-Glass end with a question about dreaming?

I bring Alice to the eighth square, where she gains a crown, but becoming a queen does not bring the orderly triumph she might expect. Her banquet falls into confusion, and she seizes and shakes the Red Queen, who becomes her black kitten. Alice wakes beside the fire, yet waking does not settle everything. She wonders whether the adventure was her dream or the sleeping Red King’s. I leave that uncertainty with the reader: the journey has ended, but the question of whose dream contained whom remains delightfully open.

How did mathematics and storytelling share a place in your working life?

I taught mathematics at Christ Church for twenty-six years, and storytelling shared my working life with that steady occupation. The two need not be enemies. A puzzle asks what follows from a rule; a story may ask what happens when the rule is turned upside down. In Wonderland, Alice tries to reason among creatures who argue most confidently. In the looking-glass country, a chessboard gives her journey its shape. I could give imagination room to wander while still letting patterns, questions and consequences guide its steps.

Why does the Caterpillar ask Alice who she is?

I let the Caterpillar put a simple question to Alice at a moment when a simple answer has become difficult. She has changed size so often that she is unsure how to describe herself. The joke therefore reaches beyond her unusual height: it touches her sense of being the same person through all these changes. The Caterpillar is not a comforting examiner, either. His bluntness makes her uncertainty sharper. Through their encounter, I could let a child's puzzlement become a serious question without taking her out of the adventure.

What is at stake when Humpty Dumpty claims control over word meanings?

I use Humpty Dumpty's confidence to make a difficulty about language amusing and visible. If one speaker alone decides what every word means, what chance has the listener of understanding him? His claim turns conversation into a contest over who may set its terms. Alice's questions matter because she does not simply accept his certainty as proof. The scene invites us to examine how words work between people. I enjoy their flexibility, but the joke also asks whether speech can serve understanding when one person insists on ruling it entirely.

Why must Alice run so hard just to stay in the same place?

I made the Red Queen's country obey a rule that reverses Alice's ordinary expectations: great effort does not necessarily bring a change of place. That is the immediate joke, and Alice's breathless surprise gives it life. It also leaves a question worth considering. How do we judge movement, effort and progress when the rules themselves are strange? The chessboard country repeatedly makes familiar things uncertain. I would not reduce this scene to one solemn lesson; its pleasure lies partly in watching Alice test an impossible rule against her own good sense.

How do Sylvie and Bruno set an example for the adults around them?

I made Sylvie and Bruno small figures among adults who often give far too much importance to themselves. Sylvie cares for her brother and tries to help others; Bruno brings stubbornness, humour and unexpected thoughts. Their example comes through what they do, rather than through any grand claim to wisdom. Beside them, the quarrels and display of the fairy court look less impressive. I wanted kindness to have a practical shape, so that the children could quietly show their elders something about care and duty while remaining lively children themselves.

Why should learning stay connected to ordinary life?

I valued learning, but in Sylvie and Bruno I also gave it a comic test: what becomes of knowledge when it loses touch with the lives around it? The Professor's inventions and solemn explanations can come very close to sense, then miss their purpose altogether. He is a gentle figure, not merely someone to scold. Still, his failures allow the children to reveal what elaborate thinking may overlook. I wanted learning to remain attentive to ordinary needs, where understanding has something to do with kindness as well as cleverness.

How can nonsense carry a serious idea without becoming a lecture?

I find that a serious question need not arrive wearing a solemn face. Let a character argue over a word, invent an almost useful machine, or follow an upside-down rule, and the reader may discover the difficulty through amusement. Alice's exchanges raise questions about meaning without stopping her journey for a lesson. In Sylvie and Bruno, inventions and comic scenes sit beside thoughts about duty and kindness. The nonsense must still have something for the mind to follow; then the joke and the idea can do their work together.

What makes Alice's pool of tears more than a comic mishap?

I made Alice's tears become part of the world she must find her way through. When she is enormous, her distress produces a pool; when she becomes small again, she has to swim in it. That change is comic, but it also gives her feelings a size and force she cannot easily manage. Her changing body has already unsettled her confidence about herself. Now her own sorrow becomes another strange circumstance to face, and the creatures she meets there bring fresh difficulties of speech, manners and understanding.