The (almost really) Complete Works of Lewis Carroll

No. 1

Half of the world, or nearly so, is always in the light of the sun: as the world turns round, this hemisphere of light shifts round too, and passes over each part of it in succession.

Supposing on Tuesday, it is morning at London; in another hour it would be Tuesday morning at the west of England; if the whole world were land we might go on tracing¹ Tuesday morning, Tuesday morning all the way round, till in 24 hours we get to London again. But we know that at London 24 hours after Tuesday morning it is Wednesday morning. Where then, in it’s passage round the earth, does the day change its name? where does it lose it’s identity?

Practically there is no difficulty in it, because a great part of it’s journey is over water, and what it does out at sea no one can tell: and besides there are so many different languages that it would be hopeless to attempt to trace the name of any one day all round. But is the case inconceivable that the same land and the same language should continue all round the world? I cannot see that it is: in that case either² there would be no distinction at all between each successive day, and so week, month, &cc so that we should have to say “the Battle of Waterloo happened to-day, about two million hours ago,” or some line would have to be fixed, where the change should take place, so that the inhabitants of one house would wake and say “heigh ho³! Tuesday morning!” and the inhabitants of the next, (over the line,) a few miles to the west would wake a few minutes afterwards and say “heigh ho! Wednesday morning!” What hopeless confusion the people who happened to live on the line would always be in, it is not for me to say. There would be a quarrel every morning as to what the name of the day should be. I can imagine no third case, unless everybody was allowed to choose for themselves, which state of things would be rather worse than either of the other two.

I am aware that this idea has been started before, namely, by the unknown author of that beautiful poem beginning “If all the world were apple pie &cc.⁴” The particular result here discussed however does not appear to have occurred to him, as he confines himself to the difficulties in obtaining drink which would certainly ensue.

Any good solution of the above difficulty will be thankfully received and inserted.

No. 2

Which is the best, a clock that is right only once a year, or a clock that is right twice every day? “The latter,” you reply, “unquestionably.” Very good, reader, now attend.

I have two clocks: one doesn’t go at all, and the other loses a minute a day: which would you prefer? “The losing one,” you answer, “without a doubt.” Now observe: the one which loses a minute a day has to lose twelve hours, or seven hundred and twenty minutes before it is right again, consequently it is only right once in two years, whereas the other is evidently right as often as the time it points to comes round, which happens twice a day. So you’ve contradicted yourself once: “ah, but,” you say, “what’s the use of it’s being right twice a day, if I can’t tell when the time comes?” Why, suppose the clock points to eight o’clock, don’t you see that the clock is right at eight o’clock? Consequently, when eight o’clock comes round your clock is right. “Yes, I see that:” you reply.⁵ Very good, then you’ve contradicted yourself twice: now get out of the difficulty as you can, and don’t contradict yourself again if you can help it.