. . .

It could still be Tom’s imagination even then. It could still be that he has done nothing more than take the stuff of dead hats, cut and fold it into new shapes, and stick it on his head.

Everything else could be the vapors of the hat cemetery and the mercury in his home.

It is ambiguous.

The world equivocates.

Did he pour magic from a bearskin hat into his naked hand, or just rip up some old bits of cloth?

Does he refine himself towards perfection, towards being one thing, towards being a pure thing? Does he tease up the fire of himself, wind it through the magic of a hat, make it a lens for the fire of himself, to straighten and purify his thoughts? Or is he merely full of the hatter-wroth, full of the sickness and the arrogance of those who spend too much time in the company of hats?

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