HUNTING THE SNARK

Chapter 1: Snarks in the River Thames

I was never minded to have a family of my own, but I have always enjoyed the company of children. They say what they feel, and ask what they want. Children are a purer form of humanity; our very best selves. But then they grow up. Innocence fades as experience breeds cynicism.

There is an undefined marker between childhood and adolescence that limits curiosity. As children grow, their minds harden and the spirits stop soaring. I've often considered pursuing this as an academic line of inquiry, and if I had to do my training all over again perhaps I would choose the undiscovered country of the human mind instead of exploring the boundaries of mathematics. But we make our choices; and we flourish or perish by them. Children at or about the age of thirteen simply stop wondering, and start knowing.

For whatever reason, I have not suffered from that affliction. At the old age of thirty-one, I, Charles Dodgson, find myself just as curious as the day on my seventh birthday when I caught a caterpillar in a jar and watched it transform into a butterfly. My chosen field of pursuit, mathematics, may be more complex (though what could be more complex than full metamorphosis?), but the visceral desire to know more today than I knew yesterday has never left me.

It's been said that I'm not particularly good with conversation, but that's only half true. I'm just not interested in stilted conversations at high table or garden parties with adults who limit their own imaginations. With children, however, I find I can converse for hours. And I often do. My slight stammer, which impedes my socialising with contemporaries, simply melts away with anyone who has not yet passed through puberty. Children, it should seem, bring out the best in me.

Having none of my own – for reasons I shall discuss later if I'm not yet executed – I was most fortunate when Henry Liddell became Dean of Christ Church college in the year of our Lord one thousand, eight hundred and fifty-six.

He brought with him not just an uninhibited mind – for all things literary and mathematical, a rare combination in my view – but four lovely, intelligent, and curious children. I was to know later that there should have been five, but their son, James, did not live long enough to blow out four candles. Knowing tragedy, but blessed with abundance, Henry became not only my superior (in every way), but also a dear friend. Consumed with the both the academic ambition and the practical operations of the college, Henry had little time for his brood, and was pleased that I could strike up such a familiar friendship with his offspring. He thought it right for them to have exposure to academics from a young age, and I thought it fitting that I should encourage their minds and keep their coming cynicism at bay for as long as possible.

Of the four youngsters, Edward, Lottie, Alice, and little Edith, it was Alice that I grew most fond of. She arrived at age five, full of curiosity for the natural world. I would often take her on long walks in the fields of Oxforshire, tramps in the woods, and punting on the Thames. In a manner that was considered unbecoming for little girls, Alice would pluck flowers from the grass and catch bugs and spiders with her bare hands. She was fond of her cat, Dinah, but more enthralled by the wilder animals that made the Oxford countryside their undomesticated home. It was these squirrels, foxes, and badgers that consumed her imagination.

"They all have names, and mothers and papas," she told me on one bucolic rowboat ride, clearly placing the animals into the frame of reference that she understood.

I would row the oars as Alice regaled me with stories animals competing in the most ridiculous running races, which I gleamed was her observation of elder brother Edward's equally ridiculous sporting events at school.

"And what about swimming?" I asked.

"Well," she said, composing her thoughts and channeling her imagination, "I don't think they've ever been taught how."