Only Mad Dogs and Englishmen Compose in Anapests in the Midday Sun

The attentive, perhaps even hyperactively aware reader, might think that we seem to have diverted somewhat from the more orthodox interpretations of Lewis Carroll’s Hunting of the Snark.

Nothing could be further from the truth. By scrolling down to earlier posts, you’ll note that we are still in the very bowels of the Barrister’s Dream of Fit the Sixth, and hence, we shall refer again to that classic work of Oneiric Americana, The Dream Book of Mister Pyridine, to parse out the subtle sophistries of this legalistic nightmare …



I think it’s pretty clear by now that we are dealing with an Englishman in the classic Foucaultian Author-Function sense of the word, and times two, if you please! Primo … we have an English poet, the Admirable Carroll, doing the honors behind the pen and secundo … we have the English Barrister’s dream, within which we wander like lost sheep waiting to be legally fleeced.



Of course, our poet is long dead and safely domiciled for all eternity in the Afterlife. Our Barrister might be said to be dead also (and everyone else appearing in his dream), for are not dreams, in all their obscure, unsettling infinity of meaning and duration, not harbingers of the Afterlife?

Food for thought, eh? And when you’re done chewing on all that, you can employ the lottery numbers we’ve provided above, just like Chinese fortune cookies, and purchase the very best dreams that money can buy! Check, please!

NB. Clients From Hell …
Lewis Carroll is reputed to have been a difficult author for illustrators to deal with (although he seems to have pushed them to do their better-then-best, which might give some of us modern-day ink-slingers pause for thought) … however, for any readers who are in the business of making people's eyeballs happy, I very heartily recommend Clients From Hell … and for those of you who have ever hired an artist or designer, why, you might find yourself commemorated on this digital Wall of Shame!