"Twinkle, twinkle little bat How I wonder what you're at! Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky."-- Lewis Carroll
Of course Lewis Carroll, the Vidkun Quisling of the gnomish agenda, out to betray humanity to the gnomes with his nonsense poetry and creepy, insane tales of Alice, must be numbered among gnomes and/or gnomish sycophants. Like nails traveling down the chalkboard of reason, he was, at least to me.
There's certainly a Cult of Carroll that embraces his mad whimsy as somehow expressive and freeing and fun, but I find his work irritating and creepy and unsettling.
Oh, and the missing diary entries for young Lewis, whatever could they be? His descendants with dustpans, cleaning up his messes, yes? Can't leave those scraps behind for the Snark to gobble up, now can we?
Carroll was a whimsical creep and a certifiable loon, which makes him certainly an A-lister among the gnomish saints. More Victorian baggage, perhaps part of the dark underbelly of Victorian social mores. Fortunately, that kind of nutballery has less currency than it once did.
Guaranteed that a fan of Carroll is a gnome, or a fellow traveler of gnomedom, or, at the very least, a pretentious eccentric.