A Reader on Reading

The table manners of Alice’s reluctant hosts are obviously mad. First she is offered wine by the March Hare. But “I don’t see any wine,” she remarks, looking around. “There isn’t any,” the March Hare says, and offers her more tea. “I’ve had nothing yet,” Alice replies in an offended tone, “so I can’t take more.” “You mean you can’t take less,” intervenes the Hatter, “it’s very easy to take more than nothing.” Then the seating arrangements are constantly shifted to suit the Mad Hatter’s whimsy. Whenever he wants a clean cup, everyone must move one place along to one with a soiled setting; obviously, the only one to get any advantage out of the changes is the Hatter himself. Alice, for instance, is “a good deal worse off than before,” as the March Hare has upset the milk jug into his plate.

As in the real world, everything in Wonderland, however mad, has a logical underpinning, a system of rules that are often themselves absurd. The conventions of Alice’s society have led her to believe that the behavior of her elders and betters, wherever she might find herself, is rational. Therefore, attempting to understand the logic of her strange dreamworld, Alice expects rational behavior from the creatures she meets, but, again and again, she is merely confronted by their “logical” madness. “Throughout my life,” said Bertrand Russell on his ninetieth birthday, “I have been told that man is a rational animal. In all these many years, I have not once found proof that this is so.” Alice’s world mirrors Russell’s assertion.

An amateur anthropologist, Alice assumes that an understanding of the social conventions of Wonderland will allow her to understand the logic of the inhabitants’ behavior, and therefore attempts to follow the proceedings at the table with some measure of reason and good manners. To the absurdities presented, she counters with rational questions; to the questions asked, however absurd, she tries to find rational answers. But to no avail. “Really, now you ask me,” she says, “I don’t think — “ “Then you shouldn’t talk,” snaps back the Hatter.

As in our world, the manners of the inhabitants of Wonderland carry implicit notions of responsibility and value. The Hatter, emblematic of the perfect egotist, opposes free speech (except his own) and disposes of property to which he has no claim (the table belongs, after all, to the March Hare). Nothing matters to him except his own comfort and profit, and he therefore shows himself unwilling to admit even to his own possessions for fear of being held accountable. (During the trial at the end of the book, he refuses to take off his hat because, he says, it isn’t his: “I keep them to sell,” he explains, “I’ve none of my own. I’m a hatter.”) By valuing what he has only for what he can sell it for, the Hatter need not care about the consequences of his actions, whether they concern a trail of dirty dishes or the established conventions of a court of law.

The Hatter appears only once in the second Alice book, Through the Looking-Glass (jailed for a crime he may or may not one day commit), but his philosophy has spread far and wide across Alice’s dreamworlds. Halfway through Chapter 3, when Alice suddenly finds herself inside a railway carriage confronting an angry Guard who demands to see her ticket, the Hatter’s notion of value is echoed by a mysterious chorus of invisible evaluators.

“Now then! Show your ticket, child!” The Guard went on, looking angrily at Alice. And a great many voices all said together (“like the chorus of a song,” thought Alice) “Don’t keep him waiting, child! Why, his time is worth a thousand pounds a minute!”

“I’m afraid I haven’t got one,” Alice said in a frightened tone: “there wasn’t a ticket-office where I came from.” And again the chorus of voices went on. “There wasn’t room for one where she came from. The land there is worth a thousand pounds an inch!”

“Don’t make excuses,” said the Guard: “you should have bought one from the engine-driver.” And once more the chorus of voices went on with “The man that drives the engine. Why, the smoke alone is worth a thousand pounds a puff!”

Alice thought to herself, “Then there’s no use speaking.” The voices didn’t join in, this time, as she hadn’t spoken, but, to her great surprise, they all thought in chorus (I hope you understand what thinking in chorus means — for I must confess that I don’t), “Better say nothing at all. Language is worth a thousand pounds a word!”

“I shall dream about a thousand pounds tonight, I know I shall!” thought Alice.

Whether the vastness of time or the immensity of space, whether a mere puff of smoke or the words we speak, everything has, according to the invisible multitude that echoes the Hatter’s code, a monetary value — in this case, of a thousand pounds. For these financially minded Furies, everything can be bought and sold, everything (like the Hatter’s hat) can be turned into a negotiable commodity.