“Suppose I am mad,” thought Alice, “or suppose I don’t know. Then I shall just have to live with it like an ordinary person.”
“There’s no use asking whether you’re mad or not,” said the Cat, “you’ll only find out when you die. Now, as to your business—why, you can’t help having it any way. You’re part of a whole and that whole’s mad.”
Alice thought this over and found out that, in a way, it was true. “If I’m not mad,” she said, “how come all these things happen to me, and how come I can see through walls, and–and such things?”
“You’re not mad,” said the Cat, “but you might start being if you didn’t stop to think. That’s the biggest trouble with you young ‘uns: you don’t stop to think.”
“How can you talk all that nonsense!” said Alice indignantly.
“It’s the best of ideas,” said the Cat.
“Oh, shut up!” said Alice.
“Do you think I ought to shut up?” said the Cat. “Do you think it’s going to do me any good?”
Alice began very much to wish she had not asked such questions, for the Cat only went on and on, explaining and justifying itself, till at length a look of thunder came over its face, and it said in a menacing tone:
“As I was saying, you can’t help having it any way. You’re a chicken, after all!”
“Now, you may be right,” said Alice, feeling very much calmed down at once, “and you may be wrong, but it’s a good deal better to be right than to be right foolishly, isn’t it?”
The Cat only grunted this time.
“Now, you don’t really think I ought to shut up, do you?” said Alice; “do you, in your own mind?”
“You’ve quite got it into your head,” said the Cat.
:: 04.12.2022 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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