Recently, when I described this moment in the play to my therapist and the scenes of Dodgson’s rejection by Alice in Dreamchild, I tried hard to talk about my anger at being made to feel sad for the grown man instead of for the child, but all that came out of me was the sadness itself, a sadness so fierce I couldn’t speak for my sobbing. My therapist said, quietly, “There is something tremendously sad about being a pedophile. To love a creature you can’t have. To know that that love is bad. To know that you are bad for having these feelings, even if you don’t act on them. It’s tremendously sad.”