Alice, having impulsively imbibed the entire bottle and grown into a giant within the White Rabbit’s house.
“There ought to be a book written about me, there ought! And when I grow up, I’ll write one-but I’m grown up now,” she added in a sorrowful tone: “at least there’s no room to grow up any more here.”
“But then,” thought Alice, “shall I never get any older than I am now? That’ll be a comfort, one way-never to be an old woman-but then-always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn’t like that!”
I love Alice. She’s young, impulsive, and fearless. And she’s afraid of growing up, which makes me think of my twenty-second birthday coming up…