It's like having a Garfield with murderous tendancies

[secondlina]

Lewis Carroll's birthday has passed. He'd be darn old today.

Most people know I love fairy tales and fantasy stories. Alice is up there among my favorites. Yet, I always get the "Urgh, you liked Lewis Carroll, he was totally a pedophile" attitude once in a while. It's true, he might have been one. There's evidence that states that as much as there is evidence to the contrary. I like to think that if he was one, he was a contained one and did not take action.

It sucks that people judge you for liking something because of a writer's opinions (like "he's racist" or "He's sexist" or anything else). I my view, a work of art can be judged independently from the creator to an extent. There's plenty of people I don't like very much who write really well or draw really well.

It kinda brings in the question of how much of an artist can you find in a work and how much of an artist must you consider when looking at work. Can a work really live beyond the artist or is the artist part of the work?

-Isa

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[dqbunny.livejournal.com]

*** random excerpt ***

And the tall grandfather clock by the door kept time with its steady tick-tock as it counted off the seconds that remained in Alice's life. It still perplexed her to this day why the clock didn't move, that the hands didn't spring to life and start dancing. More seconds passed, then the clock rang out.

Six O'Clock.

As usual, as she was wont to do at this particular hour of the evening since she was a child, Alice turned to the door expecting to see a white rabbit come running through with the cries of "I'm late! I'm late!" echoing through the room. But, as her common sense told her long before the wishful thinking kicked in, the white rabbit didn't come. Neither did Lewis.

But she did.

It felt like the time that Alice hesitantly tapped the tip of one of the new-fangled light bulbs. An electric shock that tingled from head to toe. She had no problems picking out the source, even in the lobby of the crowded hotel. She was small, had dark hair and wide, inquistive eyes. She stuck close to a mirror image of herself, a twin. Another woman - Sister? Mother? - stood next to them as she signed the register. Every so often, the first twin would tug on the sleeve of the other and point out one of the elaborate decorations or the richly costumed bellmen.

And in that room, at that time, Alice's world narrowed to that single child who took in her surroundings with such utter joy and wonderment. She'd been that child once - before Wonderland. Then adulthood came and with society's manners, crammed that childish glee into a very small box and locked it in the back of her mind.

"Alice?"

He was at her shoulder and she didn't look back. "Lewis," she breathed. "See her? That child?"

"Yes?"

"She's one of us."