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Table of contents

The exercise seemed to us dull, mechanical. We felt we were way beyond it.

All of us knew that blindness played a starring role in both dramas. Still, we liked our English teacher, and we wanted to please him. Once we started looking for eyes, we found them everywhere, glinting at us, winking from every page.

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Long before the blinding of Oedipus or Gloucester, the language of vision and its opposite was preparing us, consciously or unconsciously, for those violent mutilations. Teiresias, Oedipus, Goneril, Kent—all of them could be defined by the sincerity or falseness with which they mused or ranted on the subject of literal or metaphorical blindness.


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Tracing those patterns and making those connections was fun. Like cracking a code that the playwright had embedded in the text, a riddle that existed just for me to decipher. I felt as if I were engaged in some intimate communication with the writer, as if the ghosts of Sophocles and Shakespeare had been waiting patiently all those centuries for a bookish sixteen-year-old to come along and find them.

I believed that I was learning to read in a whole new way. But this was only partly true. Because in fact I was merely relearning to read in an old way that I had learned, but forgotten. We all begin as close readers. Even before we learn to read, the process of being read aloud to, and of listening, is one in which we are taking in one word after another, one phrase at a time, in which we are paying attention to whatever each word or phrase is transmitting. Word by word is how we learn to hear and then read, which seems only fitting, because that is how the books we are reading were written in the first place.

The more we read, the faster we can perform that magic trick of seeing how the letters have been combined into words that have meaning. The more we read, the more we comprehend, the more likely we are to discover new ways to read, each one tailored to the reason why we are reading a particular book.

At first, the thrill of our own brand-new expertise is all we ask or expect from Dick and Jane. But soon we begin to ask what else those marks on the page can give us.

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We begin to want information, entertainment, invention, even truth and beauty. We concentrate, we skim, we skip words, put down the book and daydream, start over, and reread. We finish a book and return to it years later to see what we might have missed, or the ways in which time and age have affected our understanding. Especially if I could return to my own bed in time to turn off the lights, I liked trading my familiar world for the London of the four children whose nanny parachuted into their lives on her umbrella and who turned the most routine shopping trip into a magical outing.

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I would have gladly followed the white rabbit down into the rabbit hole and had tea with the Mad Hatter. I loved novels in which children stepped through portals—a garden, a wardrobe—into an alternate universe. Perhaps my taste in reading had something to do with the limitations I was discovering, day by day: the brick walls of time and space, science and probability, to say nothing of whatever messages I was picking up from the culture.

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Each word of these novels was a yellow brick in the road to Oz. Some chapters I read and reread so as to repeat the dependable, out-of-body sensation of being somewhere else. I read addictively, constantly. On one family vacation my father pleaded with me to close my book long enough to look at the Grand Canyon.

I borrowed stacks of books from the public library: novels, biographies, history, anything that looked even remotely engaging. Along with pre-adolescence came a more pressing desire for escape. I read more widely, more indiscriminately, and mostly with an interest in how far a book could take me from my life and how long it could keep me there.

This familiarity with cidre might be an indication that Legeay is from one of these regions or just a budding young drunk. But as we will see, there is other evidence that points in a very different direction. The murderer, sandwiched between spurs, is apprehended and clearly startled. Here our guilty man seems repentant and regretful at the Assize Court. Notice the second sign in the background: Etres Sans Frapper enter without knocking. In this scene the action of the story comes to a close. It is unclear whether this text is a hand written inscription or whether it is a trade mark on the paper itself.

So it might be an inscription. But who would write it? Why was it written? What does it mean? This might place Legeay as a Walloon, a French speaking Belgian. However it was made, it appears to have been a mistake. If the word is supposed to be Hollogne, it is spelled wrong. But why would Legeay write the place of origin on his own work? The word might have been erased because of the spelling error or because the attempt to place the origin of the work in Hollogne was unfounded.

We might just never really know, with any real certainty, where exactly this work was created.

But what we can be more certain of is that Legeay is probably middle class, that he is a decent illustrator, and that he is not a good speller. This brings us to the final panel:. The tricolour banner, using the three colors of the French flag, directs the possible origin of the work back towards France; or at least informs us that Legeay is a Francophile. In the bottom right hand corner of the work we get our autograph: J M Legeay. A common name of this form, was and still is Jean-Marc. A few minutes later, the baby turns into a pig and walks away. Alice next meets the Duchess at the royal croquet game, where the Duchess is more friendly.

As she and Alice chat, the Duchess finds a moral in every topic and practically every sentence. None of the morals make any sense, but the Duchess is proud of them. Hatter With the March Hare and the Dormouse, the Hatter presides over a long tea table set with dozens of empty chairs.

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He's 4. He bafflingly explains that the previous March, he "murdered the time" sang off the beat and that time punished him by stopping the clock at six o'clock in the evening, so that it's always teatime. Caterpillar When Alice meets the Caterpillar, he's sitting on top of a mushroom and smoking a hookah. He contradicts everything Alice says, but he does make her think.

He also tells her that eating from one side of the mushroom will make her grow taller and eating from the other side will shrink her. After that, Alice is better able to control her size.

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He appears and disappears without warning, but when he's around, he listens to her sympathetically. However, he's disconcertingly sure that he, Alice, and everyone else in Wonderland are insane. Another disconcerting feature of the Cheshire Cat is that he can disappear gradually, leaving only his smile floating in the air. Sensible, brave, and polite, she's fascinated by Wonderland—but also determined to abide by what she knows is true. White Rabbit The White Rabbit leads Alice into Wonderland when she chases him down a rabbit hole; he's a fussy, anxious character who's terrified of being late and making the Queen of Hearts angry.

Queen of Hearts The Queen of Hearts is the story's ridiculous antagonist; she shrieks nonstop and constantly orders that her subjects be executed. Duchess The Duchess is a less violent version of the Queen of Hearts and can find a moral in anything Alice—or she herself—says. Hatter The Hatter is an irritable little man who presides over an endless tea party on the lawn and behaves insultingly to Alice. Caterpillar The Caterpillar sits on a mushroom, smoking a hookah; he's cranky and combative, though he does help Alice control her size.

Cheshire Cat The Cheshire Cat, who can appear and disappear when he wants, first appears in a tree in the woods and tells Alice, "We're all mad here.