Forget science fiction. Math fiction is where all the weird is at.
Has anyone else noticed that they do this?
“Panthers,” said the Cat.
“What?” said Alice, turning her head to it but keeping her eyes on the table. The billiard balls rolled back and forth across the baize with the swaying of the ship. It was the Baker’s turn and he was running up and down the length of the table.
“It’s extremely important that you understand the difference between leopards and panthers,” the Cat said. “A leopard can’t change its spots, but the panther - are you listening?”
“Hm? Oh, there you go, Candle-Ends, well done.” She turned to the Cat, blinking. “Sorry, yes, leopards and panthers. Aren’t panthers just leopards with melanism?”
The Cat sighed. “Not at all. Just because something is another thing doesn’t mean they’re the same.”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me there.”
“A leopard can’t change its spots, but the panther is one big spot. And if you can’t tell the difference, that’s going to get you into trouble.”
Alice was reminded of a distant poem. She found herself quietly reciting it. “I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye, how the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie.”
The Cat hummed. It might’ve been a purr. It was so hard to tell with it. “And you know how that poem ends.”
Alice frowned. She noticed that the Baker and the Beaver were looking at her expectantly.
She waited until the cue ball was rolling by her and then waved a hand. “Excuse me,” she said. “Would you mind holding still one moment, please?”
The cue ball shuddered to a halt. Alice heard the Baker moan in agony, ignored it, and took her shot. There was a crack of celluloid on celluloid, and the green ball plopped into a pocket.
The Cat’s eyes narrowed. “How do you do that?”
“You just have to be polite,” Alice said, shrugging. She started to walk to the other side of the table, where the cue ball had once again frozen. The Cat followed her, walking along the rail of the table. “Why the sudden interest in panthers?”
The Cat thought about this. “They’re like,” it swung a paw through the air, trying to snag the invisible thread of its thoughts, “snarks.”
Alice snorted. “Like what?”
“Snarks,” the Cat said, more certainly this time. “Adorable things, handy for striking a light. Only once in a while, what you think is a snark is actually a boojum, and then-”
There was a crash. This was from the Baker, who had suddenly keeled over and fallen face-first into the cue rack.
The Cat gave him a look of pity. “Damn. I forgot about his predilections.”
Alice opened her mouth to ask, and then there was a noise, high and horrible, and only cut by a sudden and wet-sounding thud.
Alice looked. There was a dead eaglet on the table.
The billiard balls exploded with coloured sparks and the smell of burning celluloid. Alice raised her arm up to shield her face, and then she was running across the baize of the billiard table (baize? Or was it grass?), and the 8-ball rolled after her, huge and dark and howling, and it was closing the distance, threatening to crush her, and she couldn’t move fast enough to get away.
The Cat’s voice cut through the noise, high and laughing. “Panthers and leopards, Alice!” it called out. “If you remember nothing else, remember this! Remember how the poem ends, Alice! Alice! Alice!”
In the great tradition of nightmares, the voice of the Cat turned into the voice of Edith, who was shaking her by her shoulders.
“I don’t know how it ends!” Alice yelled. She blinked, and suddenly the dream had evaporated entirely. “What?”
***
Edith refused to let the subject drop by noon. “I told you, I don’t remember what the dream was about,” Alice growled. “Something about panthers and poetry.”
Edith looked very keen. “Really? What sort of poetry?”
Alice closed her eyes. “Something about panthers and owls - when the pie was all finished, the Owl, as a boon, was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon: while the Panther received knife and fork with a growl, and concluded the banquet…”
Her voice trailed off. “And concluded the banquet,” she tried again. She blew air out of her cheeks with a rude noise.
Edith mulled the couplet over. “Watts?”
“Something like that,” Alice sighed. “I told you I never remember what these dreams are about.” She looked out the window and frowned. “Who’s the woman that father is showing around campus?”
Edith followed Alice’s gaze through the window. “Carmilla von Karnstein,” she said. “She just arrived from the continent last week.”
There was a tone behind the words “the continent.” Edith had many elaborate fantasies about “the continent,” typically of the bodice-ripping sort. Alice was about to comment on this point when Carmilla von Karnstein looked up.
She was wearing dark glasses. Ina would later comment that this probably meant she was syphilitic, so stop bothering the woman, but Alice wouldn’t be paying attention.
Because despite the dark glasses, despite the distance, despite the fact that there was just no way she could’ve heard Edith, Carmilla von Karnstein looked directly at Alice.
She smiled.
There were panther teeth in that smile.
The poem completed itself and tumbled out of Alice’s mouth. “By eating the owl.”
if you see a Jabberwocky in an American National Park i cannot stress this enough you HAVE to report them to the nearest Park ranger. I know, I know, they fill human hearts with terror and whimsy in equal measure, but they are an aggressively invasive species in the Americas. Jackalopes are at risk of becoming extinct because during shedding season they have no natural defences against jaws that bite and claws that catch.
You don't have to worry about them killing it, they're actually endangered in England due to Victorian Era overhunting, so the British government's provided the National Park service with Vorpal Tranquilizer Darts so they can safely transport them to their native British Countryside where they can feast on borogroves and jubjub birds to their hearts' content.
ALT
Plus it’s just mean. You wouldn’t deliberately stomp any other animal to death, especially not just for existing!
I sure love my blorbos, I hope they don’t die this time
More Frankenstein thoughts
Okay, so… Victor Frankenstein was spoiled horribly, put up on a pedestal (where he had to be perfect all the time or else his oh-so “moral” dad would be unable to love him), trained to judge by appearances by his weird child-collecting mom, groomed by his weird child-collecting mom (who, by the way, had also been groomed by his dad), taught that his naturally passionate temperament was wrong, taught that appropriate and healthy feelings interfered with “duty”, told that his only coping mechanism for all of this was “sad trash”, used as a caretaker for his sickly brother, given a half-baked education despite clearly being a genius, and goodness knows what else.
So he becomes a salty and paranoid little man, but he cannot even begin to scratch the surface of unpacking any of it, because that would make his whole world unravel. Victor is perfect, his family is perfect, his life is perfect, end of story, don’t ask questions.
And then he has a super-genius breakthrough which is also the beginning of his descent into madness.
…I feel like… he sort of did the same thing Matilda did, but in a less healthy way? Owo;
The many uses of a Byronic Hero
chair ( Jane & Edward - Jane Eyre)
Pillow ( Christine & Erik - Phantom of the Opera)
Car ( Catherine & Heathcliff - Wuthering Heights)
Water dispenser ( Edith & Thomas - Crimson Peak)
So, I’m re-reading Frankenstein for the first time in way too long. But this time I’m reading the 1818 and 1831 editions side-by-side. :3 I haven’t gotten very far yet, but my observations so far are these:
1.) Despite their reputation, the 1831 revisions are actually largely good so far. People have deeper personalities, the prose is both more beautiful and easier to read, and Caroline’s death is greatly improved. Elizabeth’s illness is changed from mild to severe, and Caroline’s motive is changed from wanting the fun of her company to being determined to save her. This not only makes Caroline a LOT more sympathetic, it also makes the pathos of the probably-unwanted arranged marriage a lot more intense.
Both versions have some good stuff, though. I like the spunkier Elizabeth, and there are some cute Henry moments that got replaced with different cute Henry moments.
2.) I love Victor so much, but the Victor apologists are really exaggerating what a jerk he isn’t, LOL. He’s very, very, very strongly set up as a clueless, self-absorbed hypocrite who ought to know better. There’s this ambiguous tension between the fact that he’s such a fun little guy, and the fact that when you look at his actual words and actions, he’s objectively callous and prejudiced.
You can also trace his prejudice back to Caroline, though, and his manic need to be 100% perfect back to Alphonse, so that’s fun (and like Victor, they’re terrible parents but you can’t quite hate them. There are lots of lovable horrible people in this book).
Also, he becomes obsessed with destiny in the revision. I’ve heard this was due to a change in Mary Shelley’s worldview, and that makes sense on paper, but the way it’s presented in the book always struck me as loaded with irony. Victor is an unreliable narrator, and he keeps describing his own horrible choices and then chalking the results up to destiny having it in for him…? Come on, Victor.
Maybe he’s genuinely doomed by fate, or maybe he’s ill and delusional, but to me it still seems like he’s mostly just trying to be daddy’s perfect trophy heir by retroactively explaining away his bad choices. 6_6
3.) When Victor is in the carriage on his way to school, he thinks about how he’ll have to “form his own friends” even though he has a “repugnance to new countenances”. Mary Shelley, how hard did you laugh while writing that?
There’s also just an incredible amount of irony and playfulness in the text in general. You can’t go two lines without tripping over an example of dramatic irony, double meanings, callbacks/call forwards, et cetera. For such an incredibly sad book, it’s also really, really fun.
4.) I haven’t actually gotten this far yet, but it occurred to me recently that William probably has little friends he calls his “wives” not so you’ll go “OMG what the hell is wrong with this creepy kid”, but so you’ll see the creature asking for a wife in a different light. Of course the situation would have been horrible for her, and it would have formed yet another link in the Frankenstein family’s chain of grooming (and ambiguous, uncomfortable flirtation with incest), but it’s worth pointing out that the creature himself isn’t ready for marriage or meaningful consent, either. He’s younger than William, and although he’s obviously more developmentally advanced, he still seems to be essentially a kid. He throws tantrums, craves attention, and only knows what he’s gleaned from books and spying on people.
It’s also interesting that the chain would’ve continued through Victor, when Elizabeth is the most obvious victim of it. It actually alternates genders. Alphonse -> Caroline -> Victor -> Bride.
5.) I’m also trying to figure out if there’s supposed to be some thematic connection between Caroline losing her dad, taking two years, and marrying Alphonse, and Victor losing his mom, taking two years, and starting his “project”. They both suffer devastation, then deal with it by forging a new relationship that leads to their ruin.
6.) Victor thinks his mom looks affectionate even when she’s dead, because that’s not creepy and he doesn’t have an Oedipus complex at all. But you know, I bet he has her eyes, since Walton thinks this dying homeless guy they pulled off the ice looks so sweet and kind even while he’s talking to ghosts and raving about monsters.
(Everyone in this book is nuts, and I love it.)
starbuds-and-rosedust