“How funny it’ll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downwards!” “I wonder if I shall fall right through the earth!” she frets. The hole is lined with shelves (naturally), and she plucks a jar of orange marmalade from one as she passes. Would the fall never come to an end?” Carroll writes, as Alice plunges down the rabbit hole. In the morning, when other books have had their coffee and sobered up, Carroll’s works remain dreamlike and stubbornly nonsensical. This is especially true of Lewis Carroll’s still trippy “ Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,” from 1865, and its even odder sequel, “ Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There”-both of which I’ve been reading late at night. At a certain hour, reading becomes a psychedelic experience. They will filter into your dreams in surreal, and not unpleasant, ways. The sentences will begin to bend and blur together. If you wait long enough-if you are tired enough-something magical will unfold. In the long predawn hours, I’ve read histories of very old buildings minor gods remote, half-forgotten conflicts-and retained practically nothing. Generally, the duller the words the better. Insomnia is lonely-and often infuriating-and it’s a comfort to look at words on a page. Lately, when I can’t sleep, I take a book to the sofa and turn on a reading lamp. Art work by Peter Blake / Courtesy Victoria and Albert Museum The origins of Alice’s tumble into Wonderland are explored in an exhibition at the Victoria and Albert Museum, in London.
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