Schlagwort-Archive: Lewis Carroll

HCH026 Advi liest: Jabberwocky

Ich mache mal etwas neues, weil ich das neue Equipment und Kapitelmarken testen möchte und ihr habt davon, dass ich Jabberwocky lese, etwas dazu erkläre und euch auch eine kleine Aufgabe gebe.

Im folgenden seht ihr den Jabberwock in der Originalzeichnung von John Tenniel, Deutlich erkennbar: KEIN DRACHE!

Und hier ist Humpty Dumpty’s Explanation of Jabberwocky, für diejenigen, die sich wundern und diejenigen die mir gerne etwas malen wollen.

“You seem very clever at explaining words, Sir”, said Alice. “Would you kindly tell me the meaning of the poem ‘Jabberwocky’?”

“Let’s hear it”, said Humpty Dumpty. “I can explain all the poems that ever were invented–and a good many that haven’t been invented just yet.”

This sounded very hopeful, so Alice repeated the first verse:

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“That’s enough to begin with”, Humpty Dumpty interrupted: “there are plenty of hard words there. ‘Brillig’ means four o’clock in the afternoon–the time when you begin broiling things for dinner.”

“That’ll do very well”, said Alice: “and ‘slithy’?”

“Well, ‘slithy’ means ‘lithe and slimy’. ‘Lithe’ is the same as ‘active’. You see it’s like a portmanteau–there are two meanings packed up into one word.”

I see it now”, Alice remarked thoughfully: “and what are ‘toves’?”

“Well, ‘toves’ are something like badgers–they’re something like lizards–and they’re something like corkscrews.”

“They must be very curious creatures.”

“They are that”, said Humpty Dumpty: “also they make their nests under sun-dials–also they live on cheese.”

“And what’s to ‘gyre’ and to ‘gimble’?”

“To ‘gyre’ is to go round and round like a gyroscope. To ‘gimble’ is to make holes like a gimlet.”

“And ‘the wabe’ is the grass plot round a sun-dial, I suppose?” said Alice, surprised at her own ingenuity.

“Of course it is. It’s called ‘wabe’, you know, because it goes a long way before it, and a long way behind it–”

“And a long way beyond it on each side”, Alice added.

“Exactly so. Well then, ‘mimsy’ is ‘flimsy and miserable’ (there’s another portmanteau for you). And a ‘borogove’ is a thin shabby-looking bird with its feathers sticking out all round–something like a live mop.”

“And then ‘mome raths’?” said Alice. “If I’m not giving you too much trouble.”

“Well a ‘rath’ is a sort of green pig, but ‘mome’ I’m not certain about. I think it’s sort for ‘from home’–meaning that they’d lost their way, you know.”

“And what does ‘outgrabe’ mean?”

“Well, ‘outgribing’ is something between bellowing an whistling, with a kind of sneeze in the middle: however, you’ll hear it done, maybe–down in the wood yonder–and when you’ve once heard it, you’ll be quite content. Who’s been repeating all that hard stuff to you?”

“I read it in a book”, said Alice.

–Through The Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll


to Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll

Child of the pure unclouded brow
And dreaming eyes of wonder!
Though time be fleet, and I and thou
Are half a life asunder,
Thy loving smile will surely hail
The love-gift of a fairy-tale.

I have not seen thy sunny face,
Nor heard thy silver laughter:
No thought of me shall find a place
In thy young life’s hereafter—
Enough that now thou wilt not fail
To listen to my fairy-tale.

A tale begun in other days,
When summer suns were glowing—
A simple chime, that served in time
The rhythm of our rowing—
Whose echoes live in memory yet,
Though envious years would say “forget”.

Come, hearken then, ere voice of dread,
With bitter tidings laden,
Shall summon to unwelcome bed
A melancholy maiden!
We are but older children, dear,
Who fret to find our bedtime near.

Without, the frost, the blinding snow,
The storm-wind’s moody madness—
Within, the firelight’s ruddy glow,
And childhood’s nest of gladness.
The magic words shall hold thee fast:
Thou shalt not heed the raving blast.

And, though the shadow of a sigh
May tremble through the story,
For “happy summer days” gone by,
And vanish’d summer glory—
It shall not touch with breath of bale,
The pleasance of our fairy-tale.