Will

“A dear uncle of mine (after whom I was named)
Remarked, when I bade him farewell - '
'Oh, skip your dear uncle!' the Bellman exclaimed,
As he angrily tingled his bell.

'He remarked to me then,' said that mildest of men,
'"If your Snark be a Snark, that is right:
Fetch it home by all means - you may serve it with greens,
And it's handy for striking a light.

'"You may seek it with thimbles - and seek it with care;
You may hunt it with forks and hope;
You may threaten its life with a railway-share;
You may charm it with smiles and soap - "'

('That's exactly the method,' the Bellman bold
In a hasty parenthesis cried,
'That's exactly the way I have always been told
That the capture of Snarks should be tried!')

'"But oh, beamish nephew, beware the day,
If your Snark be a Boojum! For then
You will softly and suddenly vanish away,
And never be met with again!”
― Lewis Carroll, The Hunting of the Snark

“Píšu román, abych se neproměnila – v ptáka, v loutku, v něčí fantasmagorii. Trýznivé město se stalo městem proměn. Sehrávám ve vaně loutkové přestavení, abych se neproměnila. Tisknu záda k jejímu dnu. Bojím se, aby se mi vana nestala smrtelným ložem jako Jarmile Schovánkové, jejíž život uplýval do vody dvěma rudými pramínky. Píšu román, abych zachránila živé, ale také abych vyvedla z napaměti minulost, své mrtvé, abych z ní vyvedla sama sebe. Jednou se v zápalu hry přes rampu vany příliš nakloním, jednou se příliš hluboko vykloním z okna našeho bytu, abych rukou dosáhla k věži chrámu. Místo chrámu však uvidím jen ztopořený pyj televizní věže. Píšu, ale možná se už stejně proměňuji. –Mé šaty zůstaly ležet v pokoji, zmocnil se jich jakýsi stařec, utíká s nimi pryč, už budu muset zůstat proměněna. Nezadržitelně sklouzávám po hladké stěně vany jako do lůna masožravé rostliny. Údy mi tuhnou, dřevěnějí, moje tvář se mění ve strnulou masku loutky. Někdo mne pověsí na prádelní šňůru, neboť se stanu loutkou v jeho hře, jednou z tuctu, stovek loutek, románových postav, které čekají na svůj výstup.

Pomalu se proměňuji. Dokud však píšu, zůstává jiskřička naděje na cestu zpátky, na návrat k životu a vědomí, k vůli, k lidské tváři. Dokud píšu...”
― Daniela Hodrová, Théta

“For years Angus McAllister had set before himself as his earthly goal the construction of a gravel path through the Castle’s famous yew alley. For years he had been bringing the project to the notice of his employer, though in anyone less whiskered the latter’s unconcealed loathing would have caused embarrassment. And now, it seemed, he was at it again.

'Gravel path!' Lord Emsworth stiffened through the whole length of his stringy body. Nature, he had always maintained, intended a yew alley to be carpeted with a mossy growth. And, whatever Nature felt about it, he personally was dashed if he was going to have men with Clydeside accents and faces like dissipated potatoes coming along and mutilating that lovely expanse of green velvet. 'Gravel path, indeed! Why not asphalt? Why not a few hoardings with advertisements of liver pills and a filling station? That’s what the man would really like.'

Lord Emsworth felt bitter, and when he felt bitter he could be terribly sarcastic.

'Well, I think it is a very good idea,' said his sister. 'One could walk there in wet weather then. Damp moss is ruinous to shoes.'

Lord Emsworth rose. He could bear no more of this. He left the table, the room, and the house, and, reaching the yew alley some minutes later, was revolted to find it infested by Angus McAllister in person. The head-gardener was standing gazing at the moss like a high priest of some ancient religion about to stick the gaff into the human sacrifice.

'Morning, McAllister,' said Lord Emsworth, coldly.

'Good morrrrning, your lorrudsheep.'

There was a pause. Angus McAllister, extending a foot that looked like a violin-case, pressed it on the moss. The meaning of the gesture was plain. It expressed contempt, dislike, a generally anti-moss spirit; and Lord Emsworth, wincing, surveyed the man unpleasantly through his pince-nez. Though not often given to theological speculation, he was wondering why Providence, if obliged to make head-gardeners, had found it necessary to make them so Scotch. In the case of Angus McAllister, why, going a step farther, have made him a human being at all? All the ingredients of a first-class mule simply thrown away. He felt that he might have liked Angus McAllister if he had been a mule.

'I was speaking to her leddyship yesterday.'

'Oh?'

'About the gravel path I was speaking to her leddyship.'

'Oh?'

'Her leddyship likes the notion fine.'

'Indeed! Well——'

Lord Emsworth’s face had turned a lively pink, and he was about to release the blistering words which were forming themselves in his mind when suddenly he caught the head-gardener’s eye and paused. Angus McAllister was looking at him in a peculiar manner, and he knew what that look meant. Just one crack, his eye was saying—in Scotch, of course—just one crack out of you and I tender my resignation. And with a sickening shock it came home to Lord Emsworth how completely he was in this man’s clutches.

He shuffled miserably. Yes, he was helpless. Except for that kink about gravel paths, Angus McAllister was a head-gardener in a thousand, and he needed him. He could not do without him. Filled with the coward rage that dares to burn but does not dare to blaze, Lord Emsworth coughed a cough that was undisguisedly a bronchial white flag.

'I’ll—er—I’ll think it over, McAllister.'

'Mphm.'

'I have to go to the village now. I will see you later.'

'Mphm.'

'Meanwhile, I will—er—think it over.'

'Mphm.”
― P.G. Wodehouse, Lord Emsworth Acts for the Best

“PREPOSITIONS
219. Prepositions were not originally distinguished from Adverbs in form or meaning, but have become specialized in use. They developed comparatively late in the history of language. In the early stages of language development the cases alone were sufficient to indicate the sense, but, as the force of the case-endings weakened, adverbs were used for greater precision (cf. § 338). These adverbs, from their habitual association with particular cases, become Prepositions; but many retained also their independent functions as adverbs.

Most prepositions are true case-forms: as, the comparative ablatives extrā, īnfrā, suprā (for †exterā, †īnferā, †superā), and the accusatives circum, cōram, cum (cf. § 215). Circiter is an adverbial formation from circum (cf. § 215. b N.); praeter is the comparative of prae, propter of prope.[1] Of the remainder, versus is a petrified nominative (participle of vertō; adversus is a compound of versus; trāns is probably an old present participle (cf. in-trā-re); while the origin of the brief forms ab, ad, dē, ex, ob, is obscure and doubtful.

[1] The case-form of these prepositions in -ter is doubtful.”
― J. B. Greenough Joseph Henry Allen, Allen and Greenough's New Latin Grammar