“Who are you ?” said the Caterpillar.
This was not an encouraging opening for a
conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, “ I—I
hardly know, sir, just at present—at least I
know who I was when I got up this morning,
but I think I must have been changed several
times since then.”
“What do you mean by that ?” said the
Caterpillar sternly. “Explain yourself !”
“ I can’t explain myself, I’m afraid, sir,”
said Alice, “because I’m not myself, you see.”
“I don ’t see,” said the Caterpillar.
“ I’m afraid I can’t put it more clearly,”
Alice replied very politely, “for I can ’t understand it myself to begin with ; and being so
many different sizes in a day is very confusing.”
“It isn’t,” said the Caterpillar.
“Well, perhaps you haven’t found it so yet,”
said Alice; “but when you have to turn into a
chrysalis—you will some day, you know—and
then after that into a butterfly, I should think
you’ll feel it a little queer, won’t you?”
“Not a bit,” said the Caterpillar.
“Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,” said Alice; “all I know is, it would feel
very queer to me.”
“You!” said the Caterpillar contemptuously.
“Who are you ?”
Which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation. Alice felt a little
irritated at the Caterpillar’s making such very
short remarks, and she drew herself up and
said, very gravely, “I think, you ought to tell
me who you are, first.”
“Why?” said the Caterpillar.
Here was another puzzling question ; and, as
Alice could not think of any good reason, and
as the Caterpillar seemed to be in a very unpleasant state of mind, she turned away.
“Come back !” the Caterpillar called after
her. “I’ve something important to say!”