“Rage, rage against the dying of the light”
Remember the dreams, old dreams, of crimson skies and velvet wavelets before I become death. No, I won’t bother with the paradox of the end or the beginning, or the edacity in the infinitude of repetitions, No it’s not theorizing, it’s only a remembrance of sky that once was crimson.
Before the realization or the question of being hits, where and when all is plausible and the sky is crimson.
In another life, in another world, I could’ve raged against the dying of the light.
Could’ve.
Imagining, travelling the time and space, watching the galaxies unfold and to stare in God's eyes.
The night is pleasantly cold, it rained today, and too bad I know it’s not the tears of angels.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Sunday, May 11, 2008
For years now , I've admired the whole concept of commedia dell'arte.
And seeing the streched fake smile of Hillary Clinton, its like a character has come to life from there:) Only, its hard to establish, she is more ugly, more ridiculous or more scary.
I cant wait for democratic race to be over, not that I care for america, but people, I do wacth TV and I dont need to see that frightening clown every time I switch to CNN.
And seeing the streched fake smile of Hillary Clinton, its like a character has come to life from there:) Only, its hard to establish, she is more ugly, more ridiculous or more scary.
I cant wait for democratic race to be over, not that I care for america, but people, I do wacth TV and I dont need to see that frightening clown every time I switch to CNN.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Verbalizing a stream of consciousness
What ?
Various muted whispers, stone causing concentric circles over the surface of a stagnant lake, flickering lamp and varying gradations of light and shadow, what meaning, what insinuations, what innuendoes, when standing right in front of you, I am conveniently invisible?
In what constellations did tiny particles of hope align, within the miasma of isolation?
In what lines did narration and fantasy coincide?
How?
To hope, to cling onto—how, by what technique, by what principle, in infinitude of incertitude, a justification materializes?
By various revisited mazes patterns of a unnavigable labyrinth emerge my very own personal labyrinth where each destination or the temporary illusion of it screameth “whither”, to where, to which corner, and each scream trapped in the high walls (Oh yes your highness, walls higher than the moon) resonates and ultimately synchronizes itself with all others in my garden of timeless echoes.
A justification?
Of limitation of language, the inconsistent structure (why not no onomatopoeic word for orgasm?), the constant struggle in search of a meaning, of words, of sentences, of whispers and of our lives (if that has a meaning), somnolent prayers, incipient resignation, imaginary osculation, still less action more contemplation, incapacity at terroritoriztion (Yes you can cut your heart in two, all you need is time), the face of her father, the distance in her eyes.
Silent nights… A mocha latte, extreme rare steak (what? Suddenly an aversion to tasting blood), concomitant euphoria with hints of nausea or vice versa (One or the other would kick in first, but my dear, wait for the other). Isn’t it a great time discussing vampire stories?
Reminiscence?
The balancing act, the good the bad and the ugly, a partial amnesia doesn’t bite either, and time… How time will obliterate these memories, equally but differently in protagonist and the author?
But to hell with that all.
She is tired, she needs to sleep.
Various muted whispers, stone causing concentric circles over the surface of a stagnant lake, flickering lamp and varying gradations of light and shadow, what meaning, what insinuations, what innuendoes, when standing right in front of you, I am conveniently invisible?
In what constellations did tiny particles of hope align, within the miasma of isolation?
In what lines did narration and fantasy coincide?
How?
To hope, to cling onto—how, by what technique, by what principle, in infinitude of incertitude, a justification materializes?
By various revisited mazes patterns of a unnavigable labyrinth emerge my very own personal labyrinth where each destination or the temporary illusion of it screameth “whither”, to where, to which corner, and each scream trapped in the high walls (Oh yes your highness, walls higher than the moon) resonates and ultimately synchronizes itself with all others in my garden of timeless echoes.
A justification?
Of limitation of language, the inconsistent structure (why not no onomatopoeic word for orgasm?), the constant struggle in search of a meaning, of words, of sentences, of whispers and of our lives (if that has a meaning), somnolent prayers, incipient resignation, imaginary osculation, still less action more contemplation, incapacity at terroritoriztion (Yes you can cut your heart in two, all you need is time), the face of her father, the distance in her eyes.
Silent nights… A mocha latte, extreme rare steak (what? Suddenly an aversion to tasting blood), concomitant euphoria with hints of nausea or vice versa (One or the other would kick in first, but my dear, wait for the other). Isn’t it a great time discussing vampire stories?
Reminiscence?
The balancing act, the good the bad and the ugly, a partial amnesia doesn’t bite either, and time… How time will obliterate these memories, equally but differently in protagonist and the author?
But to hell with that all.
She is tired, she needs to sleep.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Well, Pakistani politics has always been stupid but after reading this http://www.app.com.pk/en_/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=35290&Itemid=2
cant help laughing.
There is a limit to cheap drama and total idiocity, but MQM bhai loog seem to have gotten past that long ago:D
I ofcourse dont like anyone in politics, but I dont hate anyone as much as I hate this guy.
Altaf Hussain is a fucking cartoon.
cant help laughing.
There is a limit to cheap drama and total idiocity, but MQM bhai loog seem to have gotten past that long ago:D
I ofcourse dont like anyone in politics, but I dont hate anyone as much as I hate this guy.
Altaf Hussain is a fucking cartoon.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
She’ll become His Echo.
In a darkly dreaming reality,
she’d place him, her heart rending song of silence and regret. See the
monotones in this over-played, dully acted opera, where the range of rage of
beautiful but gutless prima donna causes if anything a soporific ennui.
She wants to remain a three
thousand and one piece puzzle that never got assembled, never got figured out, for the
fragmentation colours her existence and completion incompletes her.
All women are mothers in one
way or the other, but those who choose to adopt 25 year old babies instead of
pushing someone out their vagina command commemoration. The
degree of denial, and the heights to which you can lower your vanity to may
not be something that thrills me, but on some fucked up meter that measures these fucked up things,
that is some fucking achievement.
Some sentences love
repetitions, some stories need to be re-told.
And the perception of these
mechanical permutations, these told and retold old fables, escapes from the label of a
cliché . After a while, we pantomime
interpretations, and with elusive new awakenings ensure the survival of our
bloody becoming in the cesspit of love and all things great—A hilarious
subterfuge, but still what a shining dust of undead clichés.
On a lighter note, amidst all
the cigarette burns, and a broken nose, what is that the different one ever did different?
Was asked about reason, denied the significance. Closed her eyes, fell in love. Lived in between and at a distance. And how
and why would it ever matter to ME: a motherless child? It shouldn’t. And has I
ever deluded myself as a messiah?... Nah, never was interested in being the savior. It may be the patterns I hate, maybe, but that shouldn’t be
about me. After all, when writing about denial, I can choose denial and not all
writing should be mirrored in self and then written again.
The infinity of vanity, and
disgrace, means an insurmountable calculation of relative parameters to decide
what constitutes which. And then existing in between, neither here nor there
but itinerant, an amorous whisper between triads of slander, a gentle kiss
between angered fists, a few words that imitate care, when venom tastes sweet,
words, words, words without their meaning, hope, hope, hope without any. Comfort? None but that comforts us. Visions? Of guardian angels or the God himself? No. Swimming in the intensity on the rhythm of 'haramzadi' . Forgotten promises of care- Such diverse collections of a thousand
wounds and minute memories of a penis and making love, when she felt so revered
as mother of her lover followed by another go at strangulation, and somehow
something in between made it worth it?
She was torn apart. And love
will tear her apart again.
For all the pain she has suffered, she may love him more. Organs, the fragile and flawless arms and
legs that bear the bruises may make her value him more, for what good has been
her life, hadn’t for the pain? What good has been the story, if lovers lived
happily after? At least he didnt throw her around and kicked her on the belly ? Oh wait he did? Well they always do. The cliche needs to be accurate after all.
For immortality or the
illusion of it, she needs to be torn apart, to be remembered, to be painted and
to be mused about.
So
He’ll be her Narcissus, and she’ll become his Echo.
So
He’ll be her Narcissus, and she’ll become his Echo.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Of Authenticity of this Connection
The way desire, expectations and preconceptions influence our thematic interpretation of relations, plays havoc with any possibility of an essential connection. The imaginative effect of passing time on memories is something that troubled and fascinated me since long and in my convoluted narratives I sought immunity from it; to what extent in that seemingly insignificant effort, had I been successful, nothing can judge that, because memory can’t be videoed today and re-watched tomorrow. But I never wrote about the inherent distortion in memory to begin with. Time only adds deception to what already is maligned version of events and relations.
Living in a postmodern world with the apparent enormity of available information, results in a confused juxtaposition of notions, about every relation we ever have, about every connection we ever build.
And what fabrications these are, all lovers, all relations, we build to fit our perfect definitions for them. We conceive them to suit ourselves, our complexes, our longings and our hunger. We rob them of their existence, and re-mould those all, over years from rough diagrams to our completed masterpieces and fit them in closets, on our coffee tables, on our walls and in our beds, so that we may look from afar and see what we want to see.
This momentary accomplishment brings about a joy and sense of belonging, which inherently remains as ephemeral as the artifacts we create, and when slowly and silently, the faces we created start to erode our conquests start to crumble into disappointments. Then we start the blame game, because at some level of subconscious, we knew that this house of cards was meant to fall apart. We pick up the pieces, sometimes worship those- the idols of our imaginations and cry for them, at other times we burn them up just to feel un-betrayed.
I’ve seldom felt betrayed in such a way, not because I didn’t create my own idols, but somehow I ended up feeling that I betrayed them. I longed for and then conceded the possibility of a connection that is not defined by the notions of ‘what and how it should be’. I wanted a connection in which I am not shamed by nakedness, my own and of whoever was before me. It’d seem almost delusional, but every passing day it feels that I have that now. Funny that a stupid urge arisen from query of a colleague about never doing a socially questionable act, leads me to the conclusion. I may be delusional again, but this time it at least seems real.
Have we done it? Instead of creating a mold to substitute for a connection, have we actually built a connection? The time seems to favour that, as over the years the banalities kept fading away, and we kept evolving to our basic naked selves and connection seems to be getting stronger.
I am happy.
P.S
It almost seems unlike me to write in descriptive narratives instead of theorizing OUR bits. But then again, a lot has changed in 3 years, hasn’t it ? :)
Living in a postmodern world with the apparent enormity of available information, results in a confused juxtaposition of notions, about every relation we ever have, about every connection we ever build.
And what fabrications these are, all lovers, all relations, we build to fit our perfect definitions for them. We conceive them to suit ourselves, our complexes, our longings and our hunger. We rob them of their existence, and re-mould those all, over years from rough diagrams to our completed masterpieces and fit them in closets, on our coffee tables, on our walls and in our beds, so that we may look from afar and see what we want to see.
This momentary accomplishment brings about a joy and sense of belonging, which inherently remains as ephemeral as the artifacts we create, and when slowly and silently, the faces we created start to erode our conquests start to crumble into disappointments. Then we start the blame game, because at some level of subconscious, we knew that this house of cards was meant to fall apart. We pick up the pieces, sometimes worship those- the idols of our imaginations and cry for them, at other times we burn them up just to feel un-betrayed.
I’ve seldom felt betrayed in such a way, not because I didn’t create my own idols, but somehow I ended up feeling that I betrayed them. I longed for and then conceded the possibility of a connection that is not defined by the notions of ‘what and how it should be’. I wanted a connection in which I am not shamed by nakedness, my own and of whoever was before me. It’d seem almost delusional, but every passing day it feels that I have that now. Funny that a stupid urge arisen from query of a colleague about never doing a socially questionable act, leads me to the conclusion. I may be delusional again, but this time it at least seems real.
Have we done it? Instead of creating a mold to substitute for a connection, have we actually built a connection? The time seems to favour that, as over the years the banalities kept fading away, and we kept evolving to our basic naked selves and connection seems to be getting stronger.
I am happy.
P.S
It almost seems unlike me to write in descriptive narratives instead of theorizing OUR bits. But then again, a lot has changed in 3 years, hasn’t it ? :)
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Did he kiss her with kisses of his mouth ? :)
A stupid question just popped up my head and now I can't sleep.
Did Solomon marry Sheba?
Widely held Islamic belief is that he did, but Quran doesn't have an exact reference.
And ofcourse, my favourite part of Bible, The Song of Solomon, has various references about the supposed love between them.
Anyone who happens to read this blog, please have your say and I am interested in the account of all three religions, i.e Judaism, Christianity and Islam.
Having said that, I'll try to sleep again now :(
Did Solomon marry Sheba?
Widely held Islamic belief is that he did, but Quran doesn't have an exact reference.
And ofcourse, my favourite part of Bible, The Song of Solomon, has various references about the supposed love between them.
Anyone who happens to read this blog, please have your say and I am interested in the account of all three religions, i.e Judaism, Christianity and Islam.
Having said that, I'll try to sleep again now :(
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Something I am working on, still Incomplete
He…
He who set about to write a treatise on sadness, slowly and unseeingly has lurked beneath the darkness of his incapacity to come up with a perfect word for his inability to be sad.
The repertoire of limitlessness gives birth to a classless distaste, a sheer ennui for all minutiae of reality and a million reflections of it. One or any piece of such rotten existence sums up thoughtless vagaries of arrogance, and vanity fears, and succumbs to meaninglessness of faith or the absence of it.
Follow we must because the flowing paths of pilgrims make an eternal outcast of me, an upstream escape be cut short by the ensuing stampede that crushes all outcasts and pilgrims alike and I have yet only lived voices. I am yet described by paradoxes and questions: I am not yet my description.
A curious innocent child with shining eyes, who used to sit in the deep spatial blankness in moonlit verandahs at night, to wonder, to explicate the infinite patterns in stars has long been disfigured by images blight.
On the unsure face of his simulacrum lies resting a bestiality and ravenous desire to scavenge on dolor, to understand for once what it would mean to be truly sad.
Away! Orphan child o mine! Away! I stultify with numbness, you.
Ah! The visions of paradise and fear of hell!
We thought then, thence and thereafter, Satan shall lead us not astral through greed and desire. I know puritans would scoff at me, for losing the sense of time, of eternity of heaven and hell. They would laugh, a convulsion their laughter is, the laughter of theists, which sends me shivers down me spine. But I keep losing it. It is barely important. When we move in a circle with the speed of the sense of history, we see how imaginative and charming but deceptive and elusive idea eternity is. But Oh! These are regrets speaking. Regrets, these are beautiful egrets that fly w towards the bland translucent moon instead of the splash dash of sunset at sunset. Always felt there was something about our voices, whispers that is independent of us: but then again, what inverted times these are. Seems I’ve been going in circles.
He who set about to write a treatise on sadness, slowly and unseeingly has lurked beneath the darkness of his incapacity to come up with a perfect word for his inability to be sad.
The repertoire of limitlessness gives birth to a classless distaste, a sheer ennui for all minutiae of reality and a million reflections of it. One or any piece of such rotten existence sums up thoughtless vagaries of arrogance, and vanity fears, and succumbs to meaninglessness of faith or the absence of it.
Follow we must because the flowing paths of pilgrims make an eternal outcast of me, an upstream escape be cut short by the ensuing stampede that crushes all outcasts and pilgrims alike and I have yet only lived voices. I am yet described by paradoxes and questions: I am not yet my description.
A curious innocent child with shining eyes, who used to sit in the deep spatial blankness in moonlit verandahs at night, to wonder, to explicate the infinite patterns in stars has long been disfigured by images blight.
On the unsure face of his simulacrum lies resting a bestiality and ravenous desire to scavenge on dolor, to understand for once what it would mean to be truly sad.
Away! Orphan child o mine! Away! I stultify with numbness, you.
Ah! The visions of paradise and fear of hell!
We thought then, thence and thereafter, Satan shall lead us not astral through greed and desire. I know puritans would scoff at me, for losing the sense of time, of eternity of heaven and hell. They would laugh, a convulsion their laughter is, the laughter of theists, which sends me shivers down me spine. But I keep losing it. It is barely important. When we move in a circle with the speed of the sense of history, we see how imaginative and charming but deceptive and elusive idea eternity is. But Oh! These are regrets speaking. Regrets, these are beautiful egrets that fly w towards the bland translucent moon instead of the splash dash of sunset at sunset. Always felt there was something about our voices, whispers that is independent of us: but then again, what inverted times these are. Seems I’ve been going in circles.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
A tale of sacrifice—a heap of crap
I’ve always had an idiosyncratic sense of humour: more often mourning or exuding sadness of other people bring about fits of laughter in me. Interestingly, though I attribute such appeal to mockery and sarcasm to my own indefatigable hubris, I find narcissism and delusions of grandeur (mostly in sadness and in pain) of other people extremely comical.
Reading a tale of shattered love is always fun ( a device which according to my analysis remains by far the most popular modus operandi in blogging world, winning the race with closeted atheists and homosexuals), but recently I’ve read a piece which made me laugh even after days of reading—a classic example of rationality raped.
Our protagonist is heart-broken of course. And yes he has been mourning the lost love for ages. Of course, what is a life without a sense of loss and heartache, even if that’s an imagined one? But now in his search for grandeur, his delusions have taken a new turn. Not only he has a broken heart, an agonizing pathetic history of whining, he has assumed a new role--the most forgiving dumped lover with imagined omnipotence over the life of his unrequited love, as according to him in his fit of love or hatred, he can destroy all she has: D Now it’s actually the lowest level of stupidity, though masquerading as maturity in an impressive narrative, that I’ve come across in a while.
I don’t understand how come a act of utter desperation, not much different from a 5 year old girl who breaks her favourite doll to keep it to herself, rather than to give it to her 4 year old sister, be deemed glorious by the author, much less by a reader? And this utter animalistic desperation and selfishness is called either love or hatred, and then followed by a gigantic leap in megalomania by an assertion that not doing so is a sacrifice in love :D
Third rate affairs pretty much end in the same way, the jealous former lover exposing the old love letters, again an act which is idiotic as well as pathetic, how come not being a cry-baby for once translates into sacrifice in the name of ‘love’ is beyond me. The funny part is that the author actually is so deluded that he believes in his own crap and has added one memorabilia in his trophy closet. With Pain, Sadness, Lost love, there now rests Sacrifice, a collection of themes for his epic life, which to me appears only a pile of delusion that smells funny.
Can’t help laughing.
P.S
It’s been a conscious effort on my part to conceal the identity of said author, but in case anyone finds out (including that author), this post wasn’t meant to be a disgrace. Just that, it was becoming too hard to laugh silently. I do admire his narrative, it is just his delusions and subject that I find funny.
Reading a tale of shattered love is always fun ( a device which according to my analysis remains by far the most popular modus operandi in blogging world, winning the race with closeted atheists and homosexuals), but recently I’ve read a piece which made me laugh even after days of reading—a classic example of rationality raped.
Our protagonist is heart-broken of course. And yes he has been mourning the lost love for ages. Of course, what is a life without a sense of loss and heartache, even if that’s an imagined one? But now in his search for grandeur, his delusions have taken a new turn. Not only he has a broken heart, an agonizing pathetic history of whining, he has assumed a new role--the most forgiving dumped lover with imagined omnipotence over the life of his unrequited love, as according to him in his fit of love or hatred, he can destroy all she has: D Now it’s actually the lowest level of stupidity, though masquerading as maturity in an impressive narrative, that I’ve come across in a while.
I don’t understand how come a act of utter desperation, not much different from a 5 year old girl who breaks her favourite doll to keep it to herself, rather than to give it to her 4 year old sister, be deemed glorious by the author, much less by a reader? And this utter animalistic desperation and selfishness is called either love or hatred, and then followed by a gigantic leap in megalomania by an assertion that not doing so is a sacrifice in love :D
Third rate affairs pretty much end in the same way, the jealous former lover exposing the old love letters, again an act which is idiotic as well as pathetic, how come not being a cry-baby for once translates into sacrifice in the name of ‘love’ is beyond me. The funny part is that the author actually is so deluded that he believes in his own crap and has added one memorabilia in his trophy closet. With Pain, Sadness, Lost love, there now rests Sacrifice, a collection of themes for his epic life, which to me appears only a pile of delusion that smells funny.
Can’t help laughing.
P.S
It’s been a conscious effort on my part to conceal the identity of said author, but in case anyone finds out (including that author), this post wasn’t meant to be a disgrace. Just that, it was becoming too hard to laugh silently. I do admire his narrative, it is just his delusions and subject that I find funny.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Cant get enough of Borges :)
Even in my umpteenth re-reading of the single book I have of the old man, he manages to fascinate every time.
He said that he imagines Paradise as a library, and I imagine Paradise with his infinite narratives:)
He said that he imagines Paradise as a library, and I imagine Paradise with his infinite narratives:)
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Bergman on Imperfection of faith as well as denial
I’ve seen some of Bergman’s movies before, his perceived masterpieces, Persona and Cries and Whispers, as well as the faith trilogy and Autumn Sonata.
The most recent addition was The Seventh Seal and one of the most powerful dialogue sequence made me smile.
I went back to my blog and re-read Pantomime and Sultry mornings
and wondered, would I have written these had I watched the movie before or the self imposed compulsion of sounding original and incomprehensible—part vanity, part fear—even in most universal of conundrums might have stopped me. It seems funny, when no one reads this blog anymore, I am giving away the key to two of narratives, which I tried so desperately to conceal.
Anyways, here is some part of our protagonist’s confession to death, disguising as a priest.
Block: Is it so hard to conceive God with one's senses? Why must He hide in a midst of vague promises and invisible miracles? How are we to believe the believers when we don't believe ourselves? What will become of us who want to believe but cannot? And what of those who neither will nor can believe? Why can I not kill God within me? Why does He go on living in a painful, humiliating way? I want to tear Him out of my heart, but He remains a mocking reality which I cannot get rid of. Do you hear me?
Priest/Death: I hear you.
[Block turns to kneel before the priest behind the confessional screen.]
Block: I want knowledge. Not belief. Not surmise. But knowledge. I want God to put out His hand, show His face, speak to me.
Priest/Death: But He is silent.
Block: I cry to Him in the dark, but there seems to be no one there.
Priest/Death: Perhaps there is no one there.
Block: Then life is a senseless terror. No man can live with Death and know that everything is nothing.
Priest/Death: Most people think neither of Death nor nothingness.
Block: Until they stand on the edge of life and see the Darkness.
Priest/Death: Ah, that day.
Block: [laughs bitterly] I see. We must make an idol of our fear, and call it God.
The most recent addition was The Seventh Seal and one of the most powerful dialogue sequence made me smile.
I went back to my blog and re-read Pantomime and Sultry mornings
and wondered, would I have written these had I watched the movie before or the self imposed compulsion of sounding original and incomprehensible—part vanity, part fear—even in most universal of conundrums might have stopped me. It seems funny, when no one reads this blog anymore, I am giving away the key to two of narratives, which I tried so desperately to conceal.
Anyways, here is some part of our protagonist’s confession to death, disguising as a priest.
Block: Is it so hard to conceive God with one's senses? Why must He hide in a midst of vague promises and invisible miracles? How are we to believe the believers when we don't believe ourselves? What will become of us who want to believe but cannot? And what of those who neither will nor can believe? Why can I not kill God within me? Why does He go on living in a painful, humiliating way? I want to tear Him out of my heart, but He remains a mocking reality which I cannot get rid of. Do you hear me?
Priest/Death: I hear you.
[Block turns to kneel before the priest behind the confessional screen.]
Block: I want knowledge. Not belief. Not surmise. But knowledge. I want God to put out His hand, show His face, speak to me.
Priest/Death: But He is silent.
Block: I cry to Him in the dark, but there seems to be no one there.
Priest/Death: Perhaps there is no one there.
Block: Then life is a senseless terror. No man can live with Death and know that everything is nothing.
Priest/Death: Most people think neither of Death nor nothingness.
Block: Until they stand on the edge of life and see the Darkness.
Priest/Death: Ah, that day.
Block: [laughs bitterly] I see. We must make an idol of our fear, and call it God.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Times have changed and in these times, I don’t read at all. It’s been an year or so since I last read a book.
But still there are temptations I succumb badly and sometimes embarrassingly to. For example, anyone reading anything around me, I just have to know what it is :)
For those who knew me in my passionate days would know that is a small left-over from an addiction that mesmerized me for years though has left me now, but still with cravings.
Anyway, on my flight back home, saw a woman reading 'The Inheritance of Loss', and I, again quite stupidly sneaked around her until I found the name of the book. And during a boring shopping day with elder sister in main market, I walked into a bookshop for second hand books, while she was fighting with the tailor, and found that for 75 RS.
I haven't read it; I am not even keen on reading it.
But it starts with a passage of Borges, a passage I hadn't read before.
How bad can it be when Kiran Desai has read Borges?
I am not sure when would I read it, maybe I won't. But I know, even if it’s as bad as her mother's, I won't be hating it.
Here's Borges' Boast of Quietness
'Writings of light assault the darkness, more prodigious than meteors.
The tall unknowable city takes over the countryside.
Sure of my life and death, I observe the ambitious and would like to understand them.
Their day is greedy as a lariat in the air.
Their night is a rest from the rage within steel, quick to attack.
They speak of humanity.
My humanity is in feeling we are all voices of that same poverty.
They speak of homeland.
My homeland is the rhythm of a guitar, a few portraits, an old sword,
the willow grove’s visible prayer as evening falls.
Time is living me.
More silent than my shadow, I pass through the loftily covetous multitude.
They are indispensable, singular, worthy of tomorrow.
My name is someone and anyone.
I walk slowly, like one who comes from so far away he doesn’t expect to arrive'
But still there are temptations I succumb badly and sometimes embarrassingly to. For example, anyone reading anything around me, I just have to know what it is :)
For those who knew me in my passionate days would know that is a small left-over from an addiction that mesmerized me for years though has left me now, but still with cravings.
Anyway, on my flight back home, saw a woman reading 'The Inheritance of Loss', and I, again quite stupidly sneaked around her until I found the name of the book. And during a boring shopping day with elder sister in main market, I walked into a bookshop for second hand books, while she was fighting with the tailor, and found that for 75 RS.
I haven't read it; I am not even keen on reading it.
But it starts with a passage of Borges, a passage I hadn't read before.
How bad can it be when Kiran Desai has read Borges?
I am not sure when would I read it, maybe I won't. But I know, even if it’s as bad as her mother's, I won't be hating it.
Here's Borges' Boast of Quietness
'Writings of light assault the darkness, more prodigious than meteors.
The tall unknowable city takes over the countryside.
Sure of my life and death, I observe the ambitious and would like to understand them.
Their day is greedy as a lariat in the air.
Their night is a rest from the rage within steel, quick to attack.
They speak of humanity.
My humanity is in feeling we are all voices of that same poverty.
They speak of homeland.
My homeland is the rhythm of a guitar, a few portraits, an old sword,
the willow grove’s visible prayer as evening falls.
Time is living me.
More silent than my shadow, I pass through the loftily covetous multitude.
They are indispensable, singular, worthy of tomorrow.
My name is someone and anyone.
I walk slowly, like one who comes from so far away he doesn’t expect to arrive'
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)