You've been told the story, or it's been read to you, or you've read it yourself. The girl in blue finds herself in a new place where everything's backwards or wrong or insane, and the plot is a mess, and the innuendo is prevalent and rather disturbing.
Being a character, I can tell you, this piece of 'great, classic literature' is true drivel.
My name is Alistair Raven, or A. Raven, if you prefer. I'm a writer, but most of my books have never been published. Really, I'm considered to have such a quirky and odd personality that books have been written about me, if you can believe that. As a certain fellow I know who works at the local haberdashery says, I've 'been written on'. That's why I'm like a writing desk, you see; we've both been written on. It's a silly pun, but it's been babbled at me over a million times, and I truly can't stand it. "Ooh, it's this great mystery, why is a raven like a writing desk, what could Lewis Carroll have meant?" and foolish prattle of that sort. I know why A. Raven is like a writing desk; I am A. Raven, for the love of mercy!
Anyway, Lewis Carroll—or the Reverend—or whoever he really was…he probably overheard the stories of a child who'd been exposed to opium, leaving her with the idea that she'd seen things that she couldn't possibly have seen. At least, I hope.
For if she had, I would need to find a new job.