From Richard Feynman’s sketches to Marilyn Monroe’s poetry to Sylvia Plath’s drawings, we’ve learned that famous creators often harbor little-known talent in a different medium. Among this tendency’s prime examples is Charles Dodgson, better-known today as Lewis Carroll. Though primarily celebrated as the author of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, he was also a masterful mathematician and logician, as well as a dedicated practitioner of the then-new art form of photography. Known for his friendships with children, Dodgson had a particular soft spot for photographing them and famously took portraits of Alice Liddell, the real little girl who inspired Wonderland. But his greatest talent of all was perhaps his good-natured humor and irreverent wit.

From the endlessly delightful Funny Letters from Famous People (public library) — the same gem that gave us the best resignation letter ever written, courtesy of Sherwood Anderson — comes Carroll’s charmingly hyperbolic apologetic letter to Annie Rogers, a young friend and photography model whom he accidentally stood up in 1867.

My dear Annie:

This is indeed dreadful. You have no idea of the grief I am in while I write. I am obliged to use an umbrella to keep the tears from running down on to the paper. Did you come yesterday to be photographed? And were you very angry? Why wasn’t I there? Well the fact was this — I went out for a walk with Bibkins, my dear friend Bibkins — we went many miles from Oxford — fifty — a hundred, say. As we were crossing a field full of sheep, a thought crossed my mind, and I said solemnly, “Dobkins, what o’clock is it?” “Three,” said Fipkins, surprised at my manner. Tears ran down my cheeks. “It is the HOUR,” I said. “Tell me, tell me, Hopkins, what day is it?” “Why, Monday, of course,” said Lupkins. “Then it is the DAY!” I groaned. I wept. I screamed. The sheep crowded round me, and rubbed their affectionate noses against mine. “Mopkins!” I said, “you are my oldest friend. Do not deceive me, Nupkins! What year is this?” “Well, I think it’s 1867,” said Pipkins. “Then it’s the YEAR!” I screamed, so loud that Tapkins fainted. It was all over: I was brought home, in a cart, attended by the faithful Wopkins, in several pieces.

When I have recovered a little from the shock, and have been to the seaside for a few months, I will call and arrange another day for photographing. I am too weak to write this myself, so Zupkins is writing it for me.

Your miserable friend,
Lewis Carroll

Funny Letters from Famous People, edited by the great Charles Osgood, remains a treat in its entirety.