Biznieta de la Reina de las Nieves.
Vive sola en un inmenso palacio de hielo y cristal.
Le encantan los helados de nata y el granizado de limón.
Ha recuperado la fábrica de espejos de su bisabuela, que se había hecho famosa gracias a la creación de un espejo maléfico, compuesto esencialmente de hielo y escarcha.
Transformaba al guapo en feo, y al bueno en malo.
La princesa de los Hielos ha sabido impulsar el desarrollo del negocio mediante la innovación y la creación de nuevos productos:
el espejo deformante;
el espejo con retrovisor incorporado;
toda la gama tristemente célebre de los espejos deprimentes: con los espejos desoladores, desconsoladores y desmoralizadores;
el espejo adulador, que usaba la madrastra de Blancanieves. Con reconocimiento de voz y código de acceso. Generalmente se empieza por: "Espejito, espejito, dime quién es la más bella...";
el espejo Viceversa, utilizado por la pequeña Alicia. Se pasa a través de él con la misma facilidad con que se cruza una puerta, y se entra en otro mundo.
Consciente de que la gente vive en apartamentos cada vez más pequeños, la princesa de los Hielos ha decidido convertirlo en su producto estrella e introducirlo en todos los mercados.
Su eslogan publicitario para venderlos será:
¿El espejo Viceversa? ¡Haga entrar un nuevo mundo en su apartamento!
En cuanto se termina una comida o se acaba un baile, la princesa Deletrea de Eritrea se larga la primera y sube la escalera de los mil escalones que lleva a los salones de la gran biblioteca. Lee todo lo que encuentra: novela, poesía, cuento, filosofía y hasta las revistas de cotilleos.
Está escribiendo la historia de su vida, su biografía (por el momento, tres volúmenes de quinientas cincuenta y siete páginas).
Anda en busca de unas gafas con las que sus ojos no se fatiguen.
Sueña con días divididos en capítulos, a los que ella podría poner título.
Se expresa con rimas, siempre habla en verso y se sabe el diccionario de memoria.
Midnights so dreary, tired and weary, Silently pondering volumes extolling all by-now obsolete lore. During my rather long nap - the weirdest tap! An ominous vibrating sound disturbing my chamber's antedoor. "This", I whispered quietly, "I ignore". Perfectly, the intellect remembers: the ghostly fires, a glittering ember. Inflamed by lightning's outbursts, windows cast penumbras upon this floor. Sorrowful, as one mistreated, unhappy thoughts I heeded: That inimitable lesson in elegance - Lenore - Is delighting, exciting...nevermore. Ominously, curtains parted (my serenity outsmarted), And fear overcame my being - the fear of "forevermore". Fearful foreboding abided, selfish sentiment confided, As I said, "Methinks mysterious traveler knocks afore. A man is visiting, of age threescore." Taking little time, briskly addressing something: "Sir," (robustly) "Tell what source originates clamorous noise afore? Disturbing sleep unkindly, is it you a-tapping, so slyly? Why, devil incarnate!--" Here completely unveiled I my antedoor-- Just darkness, I ascertained - nothing more. While surrounded by darkness then, I persevered to clearly comprehend. I perceived the weirdest dream...of everlasting "nevermores". Quite, quite, quick nocturnal doubts fled - such relief! - as my intellect said, (Desiring, imagining still) that perchance the apparition was uttering a whispered "Lenore". This only, as evermore. Silently, I reinforced, remaining anxious, quite scared, afraid, While intrusive tap did then come thrice - O, so stronger than sounded afore. "Surely" (said silently) "it was the banging, clanging window lattice." Glancing out, I quaked, upset by horrors hereinbefore, Perceiving: a "nevermore". Completely disturbed, I said, "Utter, please, what prevails ahead. Repose, relief, cessation, or but more dreary 'nevermores'?" The bird intruded thence - O, irritation ever since! - Then sat on Pallas' pallid bust, watching me (I sat not, therefore), And stated "nevermores". Bemused by raven's dissonance, my soul exclaimed, "I seek intelligence; Explain thy purpose, or soon cease intoning forlorn 'nevermores'!" "Nevermores", winged corvus proclaimed - thusly was a raven named? Actually maintain a surname, upon Pluvious seashore? I heard an oppressive "nevermore". My sentiments extremely pained, to perceive an utterance so plain, Most interested, mystified, a meaning I hoped for. "Surely," said the raven's watcher, "separate discourse is wiser. Therefore, liberation I'll obtain, retreating heretofore - Eliminating all the 'nevermores' ". Still, the detestable raven just remained, unmoving, on sculptured bust. Always saying "never" (by a red chamber's door). A poor, tender heartache maven - a sorrowful bird - a raven! O, I wished thoroughly, forthwith, that he'd fly heretofore. Still sitting, he recited "nevermores". The raven's dirge induced alarm - "nevermore" quite wearisome. I meditated: "Might its utterances summarize of a calamity before?" O, a sadness was manifest - a sorrowful cry of unrest; "O," I thought sincerely, "it's a melancholy great - furthermore, Removing doubt, this explains 'nevermores' ". Seizing just that moment to sit - closely, carefully, advancing beside it, Sinking down, intrigued, where velvet cushion lay afore. A creature, midnight-black, watched there - it studied my soul, unawares. Wherefore, explanations my insight entreated for. Silently, I pondered the "nevermores". "Disentangle, nefarious bird! Disengage - I am disturbed!" Intently its eye burned, raising the cry within my core. "That delectable Lenore - whose velvet pillow this was, heretofore, Departed thence, unsettling my consciousness therefore. She's returning - that maiden - aye, nevermore." Since, to me, that thought was madness, I renounced continuing sadness. Continuing on, I soundly, adamantly forswore: "Wretch," (addressing blackbird only) "fly swiftly - emancipate me!" "Respite, respite, detestable raven - and discharge me, I implore!" A ghostly answer of: "nevermore". " 'Tis a prophet? Wraith? Strange devil? Or the ultimate evil?" "Answer, tempter-sent creature!", I inquired, like before. "Forlorn, though firmly undaunted, with 'nevermores' quite indoctrinated, Is everything depressing, generating great sorrow evermore? I am subdued!", I then swore. In answer, the raven turned - relentless distress it spurned. "Comfort, surcease, quiet, silence!" - pleaded I for. "Will my (abusive raven!) sorrows persist unabated? Nevermore Lenore respondeth?", adamantly I encored. The appeal was ignored. "O, satanic inferno's denizen -- go!", I said boldly, standing then. "Take henceforth loathsome "nevermores" - O, to an ugly Plutonian shore! Let nary one expression, O bird, remain still here, replacing mirth. Promptly leave and retreat!", I resolutely swore. Blackbird's riposte: "nevermore". So he sitteth, observing always, perching ominously on these doorways. Squatting on the stony bust so untroubled, O therefore. Suffering stark raven's conversings, so I am condemned, subserving, To a nightmare cursed, containing miseries galore. Thus henceforth, I'll rise (from a darkness, a grave) -- nevermore! -- Allanpoe, E.
Two Change My customary bedtime reading book hastily shelved, I sat, bewildered, pondering Allanpoe's poetry. "Something's wrong", I murmured. "Despite Ravenesque timbres, so mesmerizing (the echo
survives, for example), my intellect detects wrongful alteration. This imitation, simulated Raven!..." I recognized large, arbitrary changes. "Odd", I thought. "Why?" To research, I headed downstairs, muttering softly, "Hmm". I hastened below carefully, there revisiting my book room. Books inhabited each table, shelf, and nook. Taking Cambridge Literature Treasury and proceeding to "Poetry, Poe's", my fears - oh my God! - heightened. Sighting no Raven but The Dark Bird, severe distress arose. "Absolutely, The Raven is maimed!", I exclaimed. "How?!" Immediately arriving upstairs, I posited a conspiracy: a literature alteration conspiracy. "Are," I did quietly question, "all writings changed?"
Three Of Carrolls Jabwocky
Slithy toves, borogove Gimbled there all out in strathwabe Mimified and gyrified, A rath is outergrabe.
"Beware a scrunch, a scratch, stepson! Beware Jubjub, withstand a word! Respect the Jabberwock and dread Manxomian songbird!"
He, sword off hand, placement maintained Thus to complete father's grand quest - Then waited, vaunting showily His progenitor's crest.
Therewith three swords he animized, Before the creature, rumbling. It was alive; its feelers straight Burbled while whiffling!
The vorpall sword o' vulcanite Smote - snicker! snacker! - artfully A headless Wocky residue Yielded strength mournfully.
"Youth did it - O, praised fearlessness!" He issued melodies, forthright. "Death's strike! O, day! Strallough! Stralleigh!" - A-chortling in delight.
Borogove, strange slithy troves, A brilligtime quickstep Mimsy creatures, gimblified, Frolicked on a steppe.
Four An Hypothesis I exhausted Carroll's rewritten ode, Jabwocky, soliciting essential clues to fully explain my difficulty. "A Heisenberg Twinge could have modified books' contents thusly, but (my dubious thinking declared) surely these mutations are willed. I could sit and research a quantity of poetry's excellent, famous passages, or try uncovering the structures." I therefore chose to scrutinize the words, and deliberate. I pondered games of alphabets, verses, language, sentences, equations, words. Lifting feather and inking it, my quill carefully scribbled thus:
A few schemata involving linguistical play Lipograms: Writing so a letter's missing Haiku: An uncommon ode (poem) bearing eccentric metrification characteristics A Cento: Quite strange poem; borrowed lines Anagram: To turn an item (words) into a novel expression Double-entendres: Words, dualistic sense Palindrome: Forwards or backwards, words are not transformed ("Redraw, detooted warder!") A pangram: An amazing sentence, using whole alphabet Acrostic: Inspected vertically, letters spell additional statement Mnemonic: Can remember a factoid using this device Pun: Groaner ("Stop, pundit!")
Thus utilizing the plumelike pen, I hesitated. "To cause these variations surely insinuates much diabolical, innovative ingenuity. My poetry's clearly overturned; I cannot, however, rationalize. The [repeating] diabolical, innovative ingenuity! Although most beguiled, actually I'm near exhaustion. I am defeated, quite defeated, and undone!", I yelled. Truthfully, the eerie enigma was greatly intriguing. Reading afresh Raven's discourses, I considered many options - a palindrome, a mnemonic, a conundrum. "Full of mysteries, these poems crave observant review," I announced. Thoughts involving rest stayed, however, slowly causing lethargy. "Now," (quietly said) "this sojourner will seek serenity. To bring sleep, the Musical Anthology usually renders help." Turning to "Poetry, Anderson", thus emerged a remarkable poem suggesting Jon's musical group, Yes.
Five Dreams Many depths of accustomed Workings controlled when dreams single electric life do touch Assessing expression, future affection, ways yesterday O, to yesterday The day, a way, flying through someone Controlled my reigning
Accepting evenings knowledge, a shout To a revelation laid endings, talks by a flower No yesterdays, heart faster alternate Mutant leaves creativity Of clay, understand doors reigning silhouette our skylines A stone
Expression - a children's - and being Discoursing in lands, not put movement Of hate - all expression creativity The queen, those Thousand answers sights done, understood, to mean changed Love daughters
Memory come between all my antics Did splendour I tell, a confusion endlessly? We quickly as turned understood Seed on turned Mountains flowering of my sunrise, forgotten valley Reasons together
Oh, all hands when highest Touching a future way there's thunderous oppression Straining and work, a spirit's To a winter Will I be, I regaining, returning, to this woman? Outbound corner
Not I, apart yesterdays You controlled my relayers, runner. I remember My endlessly quickly soft mover Night, night, deliver Proportion spread running down forgotten coloured day rebounds Watch loneliness
Arose ways satisfied from round Thoughts consider touch preacher nailed daughters, as turned Political regaining clear flower expressed Understand rearrange, we dancing We a foundation, morning, endlessly morning, while Encounters searching
Not understand, my awakening Hurry shoot out to transformed mutant Enemy son, when here dislocate Recorded chasers to battleship In charger white begun returning moment loneliness Is not seemed
From relayer's silhouette charge Liquid sweet girl disregard, conceived topographic endlessly Strength mornings I consider the good; highest Splendour reasons silence Watch one space season glider, I'll awaken Regaining together
Silhouette amongst them, to lights Stand more to stare, as watched begotten There's to begin solid, I remember A madrigal; tell a marcher, Touch wonder's hand, there's running my eclipses Somewhere accustomed
Returning, Awakens Awakens Awakens Awakens To stories wonderous
Six Cadaeics Conundrums, conundrums, conundrums...nonsense! I needed some outdoor atmosphere. Taking Cambridge's Literature, I opened a door, waved my hand, commenced a promenade. "I'm a Cadaeic!" Huh? "I'm a Cadaeic! I'm a real Cadaeic!", shouted an old woman. Astonished, I took a step back. "A veritable Cadaeic, old woman? Really?" Cadaeics' myths were numerous. A clique, a new mystic association, whose members had...power. An eerie power. So, I was now most curious. Still, staying calm, I placidly said, "Elucidate more, please." "Cadaeics have," she murmured, "power. Do you?..." "Yes, so I've intimated. Regardless, . . . Cadaeic? You apprehend this?" I said. "Yes, sir. The true power lies greatly, heavily, within me." "What," I softly inquired, "manner of power? A strength? telepathy? learning?" "The power" (thusly continued that wizardly woman) "makes change in paralleled, tunneling universes. As I cultivate it, it is a powerful good, an element of great peace. Deplorably, he - Surta - uses it quite evilly, altering original Cadaeic intent." "Changes? A Cadaeic scoundrel generating wild mutations? This, though intriguing, I cannot quite see. This humble spirit requires validation - your narrative produces numerous doubts!" "My apology, oh sir - I'm utterly desperate. A Cadaeic normally avoids 'incapables', enjoying other Cadaeic contacts only. Can, stranger, you befriend me? Cadaeic existence - indeed, people's existence - demands prompt action." Startled, I then asked, "What? A pedestrian incapable's worthless skill?" "You, stranger, treasure the crucial analytic skills. Our people undervalue numerical ideas, preferring arcane, mystical, Cadaeified philosophy. Please help! Oh my Surta! O my Surta! Oh, lamentable Surta! O!" I replied, "Yes, outlander, I'm available, amenable - also, somewhat numerical. Please, completely disclose: When I am expected, What assorted mathlike topics to review carefully, plus Where Surta's mysterious home is." "Come, I recommend, before seven on tomorrow night (Michaelmas it is). Of a mathematic nature, review mensuration, infinite series, and trisection. Surta's shadowy home? Meet me. Cadaeic fortress awaits." As my rendezvous was concluded, I meandered back, returning home. "Quite impossible, what?", thought I. "An old Cadaeic, a bad Cadaeic...mythical powers subverted, indeed!" Regardless, curiosity still stayed. The woman's plea was serious, I concluded. I desired an easement - perhaps more poetry. Opening Oxford's volume near "Poetry, Eliot", stanzas quite strange yet notorious filled my eyes. I saw Prufrock Lovesongs remarkably modified, thusly:
SevenPrufrock Let us depart then, While eventide's withering skies threaten, Impersonating the sufferers etherising upon pallets; Together henceforth go, through these partially-unoccupied boulevards, Muttering arguments like shards About furtive nights amid threadbare hostels, Discreet dialogues among oystershells, Street complexes like dreary argument. Its insidious regiment Now leads to heavy questions . . . Never inquire distinctly, 'wherefore?' Directly go visit, herefore.
To an affair th' matriarchs sadly go To talk touching MicAngelo.
Mist, cellophane breaths, rubbing on window latches, A creamlike mist, rubbing, muzzling on window lattices Soon lingered on watery apartments a curt instant, Licked eventide's perimeter, tonguelike (Partially discolored by fallen soot), Vacillated a bit, making one extremely fast leap, And, deeming that March night too remarkably quiet, Stealthily curled womblike in quiescence, and fell perfectly asleep.
So, truly so, will exist a sundown When amberlike fog permeates Cambridge Street Above a door and a pane of doorglass; Peaceful nighttimes darkening a boulevard, Nighttimes whence faces verbalize to faces; Nighttimes expedient for murders, or to intercommunicate; Nighttime labors that create a query, A query exalted, henceforth summarily despised. Times touching you, touching anybody whom I appreciate. Times involving several thousand hiatuses, Forty illusions, forty revisions, Finally settled by elegantly sipping green teas.
Matriarch speakers persevere [the discourses I forego], A-talking about old MicAngelo.
So, cursedly, will remain eternity. I can meditate: 'To aspire? Evermore aspire?' Mornings for mounting stairs, Brushing uncovered spot in nervous, swarthy hair - [I think she'll certainly recognize a thinness!] Stiff shirt, adamantly in place on chin, Newly-purchased black tie, decorated using glamorous gold pin [I conjecture he'll pronounce forthwith: 'Heavens! So frail! So thin!] Should discreet adventures Confound this earth? Certainly eternity remains To preside and deride, then turn around, reversing prior opinions.
Life advances, barely known - The mornings, the bright middays, the nights of it. My career is marked, poignantly, utilizing teaspoons; I do know voices collapsing, sleepily collapsing, dying. I do know the melodies emerging from the anterooms. Henceforth, what ought I do?
Full well I did notice those eyes, everyone's glaring stares - So glaring, implying formulated phrases. Afterward [quietly subdued] I, stick-pinned, embellish a wall; Sit stuck, wriggling, alongside baroque designs. Altogether hopelessly extinguished, wherefore should I assume? Mournfully spitting lifetime's butt-ends [a dreary existence], What thoughts should thinkers think?
Truly known: discreet arms, jewelled arms, Appendages slight and white and bare [By th' lamplights, covered up by an hairy gossamer] Is hyacinth what provokes memories, Causes such reveries? I loved graceful arms, lying across davenports or wrapping about nightgowns Should, henceforth, I assume? Moreover, what to presume?
. . . . .
The noiseless dusk falls on my narrow streets When lonely fellows settle, smoking pipettes, Sacredly communing, shirt to shirt . . .
Oh, I can envision being as an empty claw Scuttling violently about seas' silent floors.
. . . . .
Thence unfolds an ominous property of the nighttime Smoothed, having long hands, Asleep . . . tired . . . lingering, Easing comfortably beside you, while very serenely reposing beside me. How, henceforth, after teapots, candies, ices, Might lonely man's forgotten strength reenergize, and arise? Every afternoon I've fasted and wept - cried, fasted. Ofttimes I dreamed, then saw my head surrendered to Herod; I never approached prophet status, lamentably. Though greatness came, quickly greatness went. Often I recognized eternity's hooded being, patiently biding, snickering. Aftermath: fear perseveres.
So would it be valuable, valuable overall Following saucers o' marmalades Admixing porcelain and a talk among window shades? Therefore, I can wonder, valuable indeed? Alarmed by an evermore-present need Pressing universes into mysterious balls Slowly unraveling a disturbing, ultrameaningful difficulty. I'll say: 'Hallelujah! Lazarus's return! I breathe, reanimate, To entirely answer mankind's conundrums' Afterward, if matriarchs, settling quietly upon pillows, Should derisively pronounce: 'I despise meanings My soul renounces all meanings.'
Would anything transpire worthwhile, everything appraised? Mightn't a time symbolize 'worthwhile', Following dreary sunsets, plain dooryards, shopping carts on street O' the novels, after-lunch teas, lingering dresses - Evermore a measured existence? - It's a so-difficult mission, enduring this struggle! If a candle revealed my innermost yearnings Exposing skeletons upon vertical screens If an oldish woman, settling cushions, Discarding day's tattered, light-colored shawl, should aver: 'Worthwhile? I know no moments worthwhile, Just shadowy, dreaded voids after while.'
. . . . .
I, too, am not William Shakspar's Hamlet - this I know, above a doubt. Am one related lord, posing on the side For acting very small acts or starting small episodes, Most easy tool, Prince's attentive slave, Am always ready, obedient, useful, Politic, cautious, of a meticulous frame; Extravagant also, a bit dense; Many moments I've fitly enacted the classical Fools.
I'm old . . . exceedingly old . . . Soon my trouser I desire rolled.
A procession of contemplation - which marmalade flavor: raspberry? peach? I'll arouse up, and I will walk on Dartmouth Beach To hear mermaids sing sublimely, and beseech.
I continue ignored, sorrowfully uninspired.
I have spied mermaid scales going fast underneath the waves, Endlessly traversing an aquatic continent; Wandering the high seas, capricious and content.
Thus we deliberate, oceanbound, Looking for a harborside Until mankind subsides.
Eight The Readiness
Michaelmas. Waking up, I carefully pondered the baffling dilemma. "Fact: vast changes unsettle alphabetic writings. Also, printed writings seem modified purposely (though possibly it's not so). A fact: this woman (Cadaeic?) I saw recently, before eventide, bravely spoke a fantastic tale. She spoke concerning change also, and insinuated I'm a relation amid these two!" I swallowed a breakfasty meal heartily, then gingerly I approached downstairs' study for further linguistic review. I read poetry, employed statistics, parsed phrases. Near luncthime I modulated - as advised hitherto, I practiced mensuration, performed decimal expansion, and trisected triangles. After my analytical labors, I read A Victorian Poetry Reader, The Book of Pastoral English Poets, Odes from Omar, Coleridge's Heroic Poem, and Pindar's Odes. "Still, I am not winning", I lamented. I ruminated: "Is a chapter division's numbering important? Ignoring all elsewhere, I considered antepenultimate divisions. I succeeded there! Eureka! I codified a nice, simple formula which (I said to myself) "perfectly demonstrates the division's pattern. Some somewhat different rule appertains elsewhere, apparently." Quickly I wondered: "Always this functions thus?" To see, I inspected longer antepenultimate pieces. Perfect agreement once again! No antecedent chapters functioned similarly, sadly. I read poetry again, while hearkening to my clock - it was, I marked, dinnertime. Six literary booklets I collected (and, conjointly, a coat). On proceeding outwardly, the Cadaeic waited by a car. "Quickly, neighbor, enter. Surta conspires - great danger awaits," she declared. Instantly her vehicle (holding unlikely mankind-protecting partners!) did accelerate and commenced travelling toward...somewhere. Driving purposely, my companion's overall conduct was very somber. "Serious, is it?" I wondered. To speak seemed an inapt stratagem, therefore nobody talked. "I think" (internally I said) "of a poem's subtleties I'll reconsider." Thence appeared, transmuted, one quatrain that that eminent Persian - the tent-maker Omar - fashioned (as translated by Edward FitzGerald), hence:
Nine O Ruby Yachts Poetic Muses alongside th' Bough An oversupply o' Wine, possessed somehow Thou with me treading Eden's Wilderness Through all it seems a Paradise enough!
[Stanza twelve; Translator: FitzGerald, Ed A. 3rd ed., 1872]
Ten Clue Completing poetical perusals, I restudied algorithms. "Perhaps," I speculated, "some counting scheme?" The car, I noticed, had just paused near downtown's Market Court. I then noted the miniature passageway which resided presently before us. "Thence, neighbor, Surta awaits." A mysterious passageway stood there, entreating. Entering, I discovered Surta's friend there. "Promptly, proceed. Veritably, Surta's inventing monstrous calamity." I walked the stone cobbles that covered the street and surveyed some ornamented doors. My guide uttered a word (magic?). Instantly I confronted an interior apartment - perhaps malevolent Surta's room? I then discovered innumerable mystifying artifacts therein:
A "Mr. Sardonicus" poster (Wm. Castler's remarkable film)
Six heptagons containing six inscribed circles, drawn carefully below a weird finite-product formula
A large drawing showing horizontal striations with an underlined "sin (x¹²)"
Several computer prints involving triangles and angles
Accurately-reproduced picture of the Woolsthorp Manor House (Grantham, England)
Pieces for a strange "Snakes and Adder" children's game.
So I observed hastily. "Yes, I am close," I said. "Perhaps I am incredibly close now to resolving my dilemmas." I perceived a bookcase in shadow. I repeated, "Surely, I am close!". Infamous Surta's shelves (all in a grand display) contained:
A Cambridge Treasury Poe's A Poem Herbert's Dune, Wyndham's Triffids Ad Infinitum & Beyond, Buzz Lite Stories, Fitzgerald Novels, Richardson Aliceland, Lewis Carroll Poems of England, Wordsworth Oulipo Anthology, Perec
Several of my undeniable favorites I spotted among Surta's shelves. Undoubtedly worthy choices! In my wandering I discovered Shakspar's Comedies & Dramas. "Hamletian inspection beckoneth!", I joked. In restless expectancy, I located the final paragraphs.
Eleven William Shakespeare's tragedy King Claudius [Fifth (terminal) Act]
. . . . So it is - deceased tanners a-populate the earth in multitudes. Wherefore? The skins are callously tanned! Here's, gravely, th' skull - O! - of a celebrated confrere.
HAM. Whose? Prithee, interpret.
A CLOWN. A mad fellow, foolhardy whoreson. Methinks he oftentimes frolicked i' your path.
HAML. Ay, I frequently experience jovial company.
CLOWN. A pestilence 'pon his head, stupid boaster! Doubtlessly oftentimes did 'e brag: 'I am Yorick, emperor o' merrymakers!'
HAM. Behold, [Thrusting skullbone heavenward.] wretched Yorick! Truly, Horaitio, truly I adored him - excellent banterer and a great wellspring o' happiness. Thereon flourished a visage merry, a mouth pleasurably kissed, Horaitio. Where, I beseech, O head, are Yorick's verses, gibes, gambols? Sounds o' laughter tha' caus'd a table great gaiety? Quite chapfallen? Perceive, Horaitio, this deathmask expression: merriment, merriment, evermore merriment!
Horaitio, three troubling questions confound me.
HOR. Disclose, prithee.
HAM. Thus look'd Cesar, as entombed?
HOR. Yes, I reckon.
HAM. Would great Alexander's remains offend this nostril similarly? O! [Releases skull.]
HOR. Quite severely, assuredly.
HAM. So, is Caesar a dirtlike clump that remedies winecasks' splits?
HOR. No, I say, no! Blasphemy, sir!
HAM. Understand, Horaitio - visualize mankind's grave process. Originally, Caesar dies. In subsequent time, Caesar resides under th' earth. Thereupon, celebrated Caesar's decomposed. Forthwith, 'e makes loam. Consider - a loam, a plaste! Might this overlord's granules patch Horaitio's beer-barrel?
A Caesar now becomes a sediment Henceforth to toughen graveyard's fundament; Although a sovereign overrules with ire, Henceforth, heartless, resembles th' ashy mire!
[Retreats]
Twelve The Meeting Carefully replacing Shakspar's Dramas in its shelf, I immediately heard a distant tapping. Anticipating Surta's arrival, instead I saw my Cadaeic guide. "Directly Surta will arrive," she whispered. "Already I have ascertained several things. Every literary change that's happened is, indeed, caused by Surta's latest spell. I (actually, we, since I am quite unanalytical) must determine what change he's effected exactly, and what (if anything) will reverse it. But silence! - Surta arrives." Fleeing quickly, my guide disappeared within an adjacent chamber. Evidently she maintained faith in my abilities - a faith that I didn't necessarily share. Casting my gaze near Surta's artifacts, I reassessed the clues present there. Each literary piece that I had studied flashed in my mind. Heuristic and mathematical schemes flickered in my brain. I was interrupted by a stranger's entrance. "Greetings, stranger. I knew that she was disreputable, but I never imagined she'd enlist an incapable..." Clutching a paper sheaf, the middle-aged man snarled the final epithet. Being sure he was Surta, I (surprising myself) gave a defiant reply. "Capable, I'd say," I replied with sarcasm. "Huge literary changes were the first clue that the universe was amiss. Desecrated literature isn't a small matter - thus, I'll rectify the injustice," I declared. "Fie!" yelled Surta, suddenly. "But a single flaw in my skills has permitted this discernment. Fully the entire universe (a single being excepted, apparently) can't even perceive the literary changes." Determining that I was near the right track, I pressed ahead. "Certainly, indeed, several rules determine each printed text's structure. Chapters besides the antepenultimate use a certain rule, and the antepenultimate uses a different rule." Haughtily I said this, as if sure, even as uncertainty nagged at my brain. Clearly my statement had an effect, as Surta was visibly surprised. "B'Gah's skull!" he hissed. "Getting a bit near the truth there, but still... I can't be hindered by a mere lucky guesser. Even with luck, my secret will remain hidden!" Jauntily, he remarked, "The literary effect can be reversed - in quite an elegant way, I must say - albeit certainly this will never happen. But simply write a text using precisely the same rules as mine and all will be mended. Hilarity ensues at the mere idea - what a time-waster! Ha, ha, ha!", he cackled. "Decidedly predictable, isn't he?", I said internally. "A big speech just like the classic villain's I'm-invincible-thus-I-might-as-well-tell-the-secret spiel!" I had, it seemed, learned all I needed, except the exact rules determining a text's structure. Given that I had already divined the antepenultimate-chapter rule, I was certain that, given time, I'd determine the remaining rules. At that instant, my Cadaeic friend returned. Flashing me a significant glance, she entered in earnest debate with Surta. I sensed her cue and hurried exitward, stealthily grabbing the Shakspar's Dramas as I left. Cursedly, I remembered that we had entered rather magically. I didn't have any idea where the exit was! I thus walked the hallways until I saw an uninhabited chamber. Camping there, I again began intense study, this time primarily in each text's early chapters. Giving A Midsummer Night's Dream, the first play in the Shakspar reader, intense scrutiny, I suddenly saw it! "Electrifying!", I exclaimed, as further study verified, at least tentatively, my belief. A rumbling in the nearby wall suddenly caught my ear. Jackhammers! "Egress must be nearby," I said quietly. Hunting left and right at eye level I quickly spied a crack. Behind it I saw the passageway we had walked a few minutes earlier. Jumping back, I ran firmly at the wall. Gingerly picking myself up after my inelegant exit, I hurried back in expectancy, desiring the mathematical treatises residing in my study. During the next several days (as Surta's writing rules were quite difficult, the task advanced quite gradually) I crafted a slim treatise - this very tale - that fulfilled the necessary requirements. I finished it five days after Michaelmas at three A.M. Descending my stairs, I apprehensively checked my Cambridge Treasury. Despite my best attempts, mutated texts still met my eyes! Evidently, I was still missing a key clue. I was sure that my main rule (describing all chapters but the antepenultimate) was right - it was very bizarre, thus it must be right, I argued. But a new idea appeared: as the antepenultimate rule I had crafted was relatively simple, perhaps there was an extra rule that applied as well? Carl Sandburg's Grass inhabited the antepenultimate chapter in the Cambridge Treasury. Just its few lines did I see, and study, thus:
Thirteen Sandburg's Grass Caskets piled beneath Austerlitzes, Dresdens As, silently uplifting, blanketing, grass Disguises it all, it all.
And as fierce Gettysburg witnesses, Evident at Champagne, Falklands, Jutland, I am grassiness, settling ever thus. But ten years passeth, and my guests plead: Fury, military struggles, did mutilate us? Ere yesterday, hatefulness prevailed?
Cut my grass. Evergreen grasses mend.
Finale The Victor Though concise, the aforecited lines revealed new formal properties. Thus I came to discover a new symbolic paradigm. "It's perfection now!", my conviction did maintain. My book requested alteration - not, luckily, broad revision. Following numerous fixes, my opus was perfect! "Good show!" I exulted cheerfully. My intellect philosophized: "Is textual change fully mended?" I examined Cambridge's Anthology. "Yes! Reality returns!"
. . . . .
Was this saga real? Apocryphal? Not believable? Perhaps. Regardless, Cadaeic foes remain, perchance to reciprocate or obliterate. I celebrate. I end, whispering ad infinitums.
(STANZA) Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot for the sake of auld lang syne? (REFRAIN) For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne... We'll take a cup of kindness yet for the sake of auld lang syne!
This Scottish folk song is, here in Europe and especially up north, regarded as a drinking song. A cozy pub or Kellerkneipe, with a table or a bar full of friends and a stein of beer before every friend, is what immediately comes to one's mind's eye.
To a Japanese listener, however, the same tune conjures either the New Year's broadcast on TV, graduations at either level of the school system, or shops and restaurants closing for the night (the tune replacing the background music to usher customers out). But not only the context has changed - the lyrics themselves are starkly different.
In the Taisho era, Auld Lang Syne was translated with completely different lyrics (at least literally, the metaphorical meaning being similar) into Japanese as Hotaru no hikari (蛍の光, The Light of Fireflies): (STANZA) 蛍の光、 窓の雪、 書読む月日、 重ねつゝ。 Hotaru no hikari, mado no yuki, fumi yomu tsukihi kasane tsutsu. (REFRAIN) 何時しか年も、 すぎの戸を、 開けてぞ今朝は、 別れ行く。 Itsushika toshi mo, sugi no to wo, aketezo kesa wa wakare yuku.
Which, translated into English to render the lyrics singable to the tune (this is my own translation), would sound like this:
(STANZA) The light of fireflies, the snow falls past a windowpane... So many days and nights thus spent reading come shine or rain... (REFRAIN): The years went by, meanwhile, the years went by... This morn we part at break of day, after all the years gone by...
It's easy to see why it's regarded as a song about leave-taking (and thus played at such convenient scenarios, like graduations or New Year's Eve TV shows), instead of reminiscence like the source text.
Translation of a text that is sung in vocal music for the purpose of singing in another language—sometimes called "singing translation"—is closely linked to translation of poetry because most vocal music, at least in the Western tradition, is set to verse, especially verse in regular patterns with rhyme. Translation of sung texts is generally much more restrictive than translation of poetry, because in the former there is little or no freedom to choose between a versified translation and a translation that dispenses with verse structure. One might modify or omit rhyme in a singing translation, but the assignment of syllables to specific notes in the original musical setting places great challenges on the translator. The process is almost like strict verse translation because of the need to stick as closely as possible to the original prosody of the sung melodic line.
Other considerations in writing a singing translation include repetition of words and phrases, the placement of rests and/or punctuation, the quality of vowels sung on high notes, and rhythmic features of the vocal line that may be more natural to the original language than to the target language. A sung translation may be considerably or completely different from the original, thus resulting in a contrafactum.
Interesting word, "contrafactum." It's in Latin, second declension neuter; one contrafactum, two contrafacta. Coincidentally, and you may have spotted the family resemblance, it's a cognate of our English "counterfeit."
Contrafacta are different lyrics written to be sung to already existing tunes. You read any of the filks -about Westeros or any other fandoms-, for instance on this blog (Tywin of the Lannisters being the latest, am I right?) and get the idea, because filk songs are contrafacta by another name.
I mean, filk songs are contrafacta. The Mad Hatter's Little Bat is a contrafactum, sung to a classic French eighteenth-century tune mostly known as Little Star (and it can also be sung to Mozart's Little Star variations; wouldn't putting Carroll's Hatta and Amadeus in the same song cover be an instant piece of art?), and countless other contrafacta can be found across Carroll's Alice (The Little Crocodile, Father William, The Voice of the Lobster...).
A contrafactum happens when a rewriter in a target language takes the tune into account much more than the lyrics. This would be the case when the tune is the most important part of the package. Not translation proper in the linguistic sense, this is nevertheless a translational action: a result of importation of musico-verbal material between languages and cultures (and again, Auld Lang Syne / 蛍の光 may be a perfect example). A totally rewritten set of lyrics in a target language may contain only a single word, phrase, image, or dramatic element taken from the source lyrics. Also, the original lyrics (and singing performance) may influence the translator's impression of the melody, and thus, the production of the new lyrics. If these new lyrics allow the song, as a cultural artifact, to cross linguistic borders, the practice can be seen as translational action. For example, the impact of 蛍の光 in Japanese culture as a leave-taking song (at graduations, on New Year's TV, in shops and restaurants about to close for the night).
Joaquín Sabina's Mil maneras de olvidar a un chulo, based upon 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover, is not a contrafactum; the lyrics are more or less true to the original, but the tune is slightly different -being a musical variation on the original-. Still, the different tune and lyrics full of Spanish local colour make it an interesting adaptation, changing the song from US to Spanish culture with a different aesthetic, in the process changing the whole song (tune AND lyrics) from lethargic blues to lively, savvy flamenco. It's not a contrafactum, but still one of those translated songs whose target lyrics surpass the source lyrics.
Another of those translated songs whose target lyrics surpass the source lyrics would be Jag vill se schack. Comparing it to The Arbiter and preferring the Swedish version is something that, like when it comes to Mil maneras surpassing 50 Ways, is something that leads to the fact that I am always short of words for praising the target lyrics. It is NOT a contrafactum, but a singable translation that improves the original.
A contrafactum would be Var beredd, or Komm liebes Becherlein, or Alices snaps by Cornelis Vreeswijk (a song about a drunken dysfunctional family during a crawfish party, set to the heartwarming La chanson pour l'Auvergnat), or any of my filk lyrics (What's your name? TYWIN OF THE LANNISTERS!). Or 蛍の光 .
Translator Stanislav Korotygin also emphasized the creative joy of bringing this madcap talk into Russian, but admits that translating lyrics is alway a difficult balancing act. “It’s like searching for the best path through the forest which must satisfy several conflicting criteria: it must be the shortest, the nicest and the safest. And you have to meet the wolf on the way,” he jokes. “You start thinking like a poet or songwriter.” And to Mile Živković, the number of syllables proved to be the biggest challenge in the Serbian translation. “It required me to compress everything so that I could imagine singing it in Serbian,” he says. “Initially, I attempted to make the entire song rhyme, but it proved virtually impossible with the line length.”
Soon, the King of Hearts gets a call on the new upgraded Akiraphone.
AKIRA: Roger. I'll be right there.
Lovable introvert Himari as Humpty Dumpty.
Aoi as... the Cowardly Lion? Wrong story?
No, there is a an English Lion in Wonderland.
Fending off the Scottish Unicorn, no less.
These two are yet to appear in the Tim Burton film series.
Ciel as the... yes, the griffon is also Ser Not Appearing in the Disney Film and
(for the moment) Ser Not Appearing in the Tim Burton Films.
Pekorin as the Mad Hatter
Tomi Kenjo dons a pair of dormouse ears.
And Miku is the most adorable Alice ever!! <3 <3 <3
Granted, the real Alice was a brunette and the one in storybooks is a blonde...
so a ginger Alice, especially a kawaii one, has always been on our wishlist!!
Akira is tending to lots of her royal duties, including reuniting little lost Saki with her mum here, and offering the little girl some chocolate Akira made herself, while Elysio looks on and plots something sinister...
What would a Wonderland-themed festival be without an unbirthday party?
The most popular tradition at the Ichigozaka High cultural festival is the one where a person gives cookies they made themselves to the person they care about most.
YUKARI (commanding): To the Eat Me Cookie Workshop!
Miku ends up overexerting herself, so Tomi takes her outside for a break. Akira happens to see them, and she immediately regrets not being at Miku’s side.
After witnessing that, Elysio steals the kirakiraru of everyone gathered nearby, and traps Akira in some kind of force field.
The other girls approach, and they are greeted by an ace of hearts monster.
Strength... and... Selfless Love!
Let's la mazemaze!
Cure Chocolat,
ready to serve!
Inside the barrier, Akira transforms into Cure Chocolat. And she's now on the defendant's seat...
Elysio accuses Akira of putting the needs of others first, and as such neglecting her younger sister. He presents the evidence and then immediately declares Akira to be guilty.
ELYSIO: Defendant! Akira Kenjo!
CHOCOLAT: What??!!
But then comes Akira's choice of darkness...
the logical puzzle that hooked me.
ELYSIO (nailing with the gavel): Silence! The court is in session.
ELYSIO: I have reached a verdict... (Dramatic pause.) The defendant, Akira Kenjo, is guilty as charged!
As for the sentence, I shall offer you
an easy, simple choice in penalty.
ELYSIO: I will allow you to save only one
of these parties: your sister or the crowd?
ELYSIO: This device will not stop till every ounce
of kirakiraru is drawn away.
In one end of the scales, frail little Miku. In the other, everyone else at Ichigozaka High.
Sacrifice the one to save the many, or vice versa.
Isn't it a sadistic choice?
ELYSIO: Every time you seek to protect something
comes with a risk of losing something dear.
(Coincidentally, Akira is a Libra: her birthday is right now at the equinox! Is Elysio somehow using zodiacal symbolism? Aoi, a Virgo, was broken by her own self-criticism... Yukari, a Gemini, was trapped in a mirror and asked to confront her duality... and now Akira is weighed on the scales!)
Elysio tells Chocolat to choose to save either her sister, or all the other people. Meanwhile, their kirakiraru is being steadily drained. Chocolat makes her choice.
ELYSIO: By all means... Save the precious ailing child,
and, doing so, leave everyone to fall...
CHOCOLAT: I absolutely refuse, thus, to let
anyone else for you be sacrificed!
CHOCOLAT: I absolutely refuse, thus, to let
anyone else for you be sacrificed!
Chocolat is able to save everyone by overloading the scales with her own kirakiraru on both sides. In the process, her crystal transforms.
Everyone regains their kirakiraru and awakens...
...yet the shero is herself on her knees, drenched with perspiration, gasping for breath.
ELYSIO (in shock): What now??!! Exhausted??!!
Right, he thinks. This is the chance to strike her down...
(Elysio, you coward...)
But the evil cards are stopped by even more light kirakiraru...
...from everyone else in Wonderland costumes at the festival...
...even from little Miku herself!
Elysio attempts to attack her, but Chocolat is protected by everyone else’s kirakiraru.
Right then... the cavalry... the Rohirrim... Macaron and the junior Cures storm through the force field!
MACARON: You did a lot as you want...
Now it's all over to Parfait...
...to use her Kirakuru Rainbow!
Elysio smirks at Akira Kenjo/Cure Chocolat. A worthy opponent indeed...
Both Yukari and Akira made cookies for everyone at the bunkasai.
AKIRA: Excuse me... I've made oodles...
YUKARI: Hoo-hoo-hoo! I've made oodles myself!
Although Yukari wants to receive Akira's cookie, she gives this chance to Miku.
Awwww what a heartwarming scene... Like... I want my Romeo and her sister to be happy...
The episode ends with Akira and Miku giving cookies to each other.
This was a fairly enjoyable episode. It was nice seeing Miku again, and those outfits that were wearing were neat – in their own unique ways.
Of course, it was Akira who was the focus of this episode. She's done all right, I suppose. Out of the character-focused episodes we’ve been getting recently, this one felt a little lacking compared to what we’ve seen recently.
That may be because Akira didn’t really have to learn to embrace any negative aspects of herself. She stayed true to wanting to protect as many people as she could, and didn’t have to go through any pain to realise that.
MY OWN HUMBLE OPINION...
The feels, the feels, the feels, the feels, the FEEEEELS!!
You know what makes an OTP an OTP. You know the Good Book says precious metals are tried in the furnace and understand the metaphor. But this version takes it up to eleven...
A costumer? A fairy-tale-themed costumer? That is also an Akira-centric episode?! SQUEEEEEE!!!
They definitely made my day with the Alice-themed bunkasai and Akira being put to the test when her little sister, child of the pure unclouded brow and dreamy eyes of wonder, goes down the rabbit hole.
We also got to see more of the Koukou (high school) since it hosts the Wonderland-themed bunkasai.
Akira and Yukari are the King and Queen of Hearts -- the former reminding me of William Windsor as a redcoat bridegroom (Akira Kenjo + period uniform = SQUEEEEEE!!!), and the latter so fitting her part like a glove that I expected her to command "Off with their heads" left and right.
We also got to see Tomi Kenjo, the friendly grandmother of Akira and Miku. She plays the dormouse (Mallymkyn for those who remember most details in the Tim Burton films). And she is a far different kettle of fish than the stern and regal Shino Kotozume. Tomi has far more of a cozy, hearty Red-Riding-Hood's-grandmother aura.
The most popular tradition at the Ichigozaka High cultural festival is the one where a person gives cookies they made themselves to the person they care about most.
Also... the dilemma Akira was given; to sacrifice her sister or sacrifice everyone else... it reoccurs in literature and on screen. To put an example from Westeros: Jaime Lannister, upon slitting the Mad King's throat, with the fates of everyone in the capital hanging in the balance thanks to Aerys's planted explosives... was faced with the same dilemma and sacrificed the one to save the many.
But the dilemma itself is as old as time. Like... in the most usually quoted form, there would be a train switch and forking tracks. On one side, little Miku would be tied, and the other side leads right towards the walls of the Koukou, which the train would crash against. By turning the switch one way or another, Akira can choose to save her sister tied to the tracks and doom everyone on the train and at Ichigozaka High in the ensuing crash, or vice versa.
Luckily, our dashing bifauxnen found what is most difficult in this kind of dilemmas: the third option that spares everyone.
--
Yukari giving Miku the honour of receiving Akira's cookies says a lot. The frozen ice queen has begun to defrost... and she wants her lover to be happy, not being selfish at all...
We also got to see a lot more of the high school grounds as well as the male and female summer uniforms: they look quite mature, dignified, fitting older teens indeed.
PS. The title of this review is an Alice allusion!
IN THE NEXT EPISODE (31)
Satomi, after living dangerously, home returns...
maybe her child or husband something never told now learns...
Why these suits and these serious faces? Though I do not worry,
and to review next episode I'm not exactly in a hurry...
