Love Letters
by Fernando Pessoa
All love letters are
Ridiculous.
They wouldn't be love letters if they weren't
Ridiculous.
In my time I also wrote love letters
Equally, inevitably
Ridiculous.
Love letters, if there's love,
Must be
Ridiculous.
But in fact
Only those who've never written
Love letters
Are
Ridiculous.
If only I could go back
To when I wrote love letters
Without thinking how
Ridiculous.
The truth is that today
My memories
Of those love letters
Are what is
Ridiculous.
(All more-than-three-syllable words,
Along with unaccountable feelings,
Are naturally
Ridiculous.)
why not to read pratchett in the metro
..or in the bathroom.
no, i don't know either. in my opinion, it's perfectly normal to laugh that loud.
no, i don't know either. in my opinion, it's perfectly normal to laugh that loud.
ruskin bond
It isn't time that's passing by
Remember the long ago when we lay together
In a pain of tenderness and counted
Our dreams: long summer afternoons
When the whistling-thrush released
A deep sweet secret on the trembling air;
Blackbird on the wing, bird of the forest shadows,
Black rose in the long ago summer,
This was your song:
It isn't time that's passing by,
It is you and I.
Remember the long ago when we lay together
In a pain of tenderness and counted
Our dreams: long summer afternoons
When the whistling-thrush released
A deep sweet secret on the trembling air;
Blackbird on the wing, bird of the forest shadows,
Black rose in the long ago summer,
This was your song:
It isn't time that's passing by,
It is you and I.
snap
For a few months now, I haven't been able to bring myself to read fiction/semi-fiction set in the Real World. It started with not being able to finish Reading Lolita in Tehran. Don't get me wrong, I love that book. It is page-marked and dog eared and margin-written in so many places, that I'm pretty sure I'm never going to lend it to anyone.
But I had a moment, while reading it. I was reading about custodial violence I think, the details are a bit hazy. I teared up and closed the book for a while. It was then that something in me just snapped. I tried all evening to explain it to someone. Something snapped, and I haven't been able to read fiction about real people with real problems since.
I tell myself that I don't want to know how other people interpret people's pain and anguish. I don't want Nafisi to tell me about people she knew who went through these things, I don't want her to tell me what she went through herself, I don't want Aboulela to tell me about Sudanese women and their everyday politics. I don't want to read fiction about people's sad, miserable lives. I don't want to know, not even if it is a tale of hope and rebellion, of struggle and triumph.
But even as I say it like this, it sounds unlikely. I have no problems whatsoever with reading non-fiction. I read Urvashi Butalia's book on the partition recently, and that was terrifically evocative and powerful as well. I also read Sharmila Rege's book on Dalit women's testimonios, which relies heavily on first person narrative (women telling their stories of hope, rebellion, pain, anguish, struggle and triumph). I didn't just finish it in a day, I was also very moved by it.
May be it was the theory in these books that made it interesting and readable for me. Perhaps it was because of the perspective with which I approached the narratives - While reading a work of fiction may mean following a story and empathizing, reading someone's story as a part of an argument or a theory makes it about the argument or theory rather than the story itself. While both fictional and non-fictional works have their politics, often works of non-fiction are explicitly about their politics (as a point of view, a part of a larger debate, a theory from which it takes and adds to) while works of fiction are simply about politics.
In any case, something snapped, and I haven't been able to read books that aren't strange, hallucinatory, fantastic or somewhat historical since.
But even as I say it like this, it sounds unlikely. I have no problems whatsoever with reading non-fiction. I read Urvashi Butalia's book on the partition recently, and that was terrifically evocative and powerful as well. I also read Sharmila Rege's book on Dalit women's testimonios, which relies heavily on first person narrative (women telling their stories of hope, rebellion, pain, anguish, struggle and triumph). I didn't just finish it in a day, I was also very moved by it.
May be it was the theory in these books that made it interesting and readable for me. Perhaps it was because of the perspective with which I approached the narratives - While reading a work of fiction may mean following a story and empathizing, reading someone's story as a part of an argument or a theory makes it about the argument or theory rather than the story itself. While both fictional and non-fictional works have their politics, often works of non-fiction are explicitly about their politics (as a point of view, a part of a larger debate, a theory from which it takes and adds to) while works of fiction are simply about politics.
In any case, something snapped, and I haven't been able to read books that aren't strange, hallucinatory, fantastic or somewhat historical since.
shades of grey
Shades of Grey, Jasper Fforde
it's a dark story, with the most fascinating premise. when Something Happened, the world started go off-colour. and if different people see different things differently, so why ever not colour, yeah? what comes to my mind instantly is george orwell's 1984. control over everything, rationing spoons and sugarcubes, corrupt officials, rebellion, nothing is private except for a valise of one's own - fforde gets all of this right, and manages this in a story that's mostly fantasy. actually, fantasy might be the wrong word. (the guardian informs me that the right thing to say would be 'high-concept' fiction. yes, that sounds stupid even to me.)
i expected it to be similar to the thursday next series (of which i've only read the first book), but it's less meandering and more, let's just say serious. honestly, i still haven't come to terms with his style - it was only on the hundredth page or so that i started getting really involved in the story (which is also what happened with the eyre affair). it took me a while to quite understand what was happening, and at places, he'd say stuff that would completely unhinge what i thought i got. in any case, it was quite funny and i quite liked it, although i must say that i'm not inspired enough just yet to read the next book in the thursday next series.
it's a dark story, with the most fascinating premise. when Something Happened, the world started go off-colour. and if different people see different things differently, so why ever not colour, yeah? what comes to my mind instantly is george orwell's 1984. control over everything, rationing spoons and sugarcubes, corrupt officials, rebellion, nothing is private except for a valise of one's own - fforde gets all of this right, and manages this in a story that's mostly fantasy. actually, fantasy might be the wrong word. (the guardian informs me that the right thing to say would be 'high-concept' fiction. yes, that sounds stupid even to me.)
i expected it to be similar to the thursday next series (of which i've only read the first book), but it's less meandering and more, let's just say serious. honestly, i still haven't come to terms with his style - it was only on the hundredth page or so that i started getting really involved in the story (which is also what happened with the eyre affair). it took me a while to quite understand what was happening, and at places, he'd say stuff that would completely unhinge what i thought i got. in any case, it was quite funny and i quite liked it, although i must say that i'm not inspired enough just yet to read the next book in the thursday next series.
lily
There is a story about a girl called Lily in Daniyal Mueenuddin's collection of short stories 'In Other Rooms, Other Wonders.' As I read it, I wanted that. I wanted to fall in love like she did, I wanted that life, chaotic and wild between moments of solitude. I felt like, in many ways, I was her, seeking to leave my adolescent past behind me, hoping somehow that I'd find someone who could see me for all of that, but more than anything, help me see myself. And through the story, now familiar with the way he writes I kept thinking I want to stop here - I want to stop here -I want to stop here but I kept reading. I read till they lived happily, and then it all came tumbling down.
rumi
from enough words:
What hurts you, blesses you.
Darkness is your candle.
Your boundaries are your quest.
I can explain this, but it would break
the glass cover on your heart,
and there's no fixing that.
You must have shadow and light source both.
Listen, and lay your head under the tree of awe.
...
The soul lives there in the silent breath.
...
**
When I am with you, we stay up all night
When you're not here, I can't go to sleep.
Praise God for these two insomnias!
And the difference between them.
**
The minute I heard my first love story
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind that was.
Lovers don't finally meet somewhere
They're in each other all along.
**
from a thirsty fish:
A fire has risen above my tombstone hat.
I don't want learning, or dignity,
or respectability.
I want this music and this dawn
and the warmth of your cheek against mine.
The grief-armies assemble,
but I'm not going with them.
This is how it always is
when I finish a poem.
A great silence comes over me,
and I wonder why I ever thought
to use language.
What hurts you, blesses you.
Darkness is your candle.
Your boundaries are your quest.
I can explain this, but it would break
the glass cover on your heart,
and there's no fixing that.
You must have shadow and light source both.
Listen, and lay your head under the tree of awe.
...
The soul lives there in the silent breath.
...
**
When I am with you, we stay up all night
When you're not here, I can't go to sleep.
Praise God for these two insomnias!
And the difference between them.
**
The minute I heard my first love story
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind that was.
Lovers don't finally meet somewhere
They're in each other all along.
**
from a thirsty fish:
A fire has risen above my tombstone hat.
I don't want learning, or dignity,
or respectability.
I want this music and this dawn
and the warmth of your cheek against mine.
The grief-armies assemble,
but I'm not going with them.
This is how it always is
when I finish a poem.
A great silence comes over me,
and I wonder why I ever thought
to use language.
hush
hush.
(writer - pratheek thomas, artist - rajiv eipe, based on a story by vivek thomas. published by manta ray comics.)
a silent graphic novel (a 'quiet story' because "the rest is noise") whose art does all the talking. if you find it, take a look. it's a compelling story told effectively by the medium it employs. a heart wrenching tale about a child - very evocative, very beautiful. and the art is just absolutely stunning. sometimes some (very few so far) indian graphic novels get it right. this is one of them. i kept just looking at the pages on it when i brought it home. somehow, even though i've gone through it all, it lingers (like a good story should).
(writer - pratheek thomas, artist - rajiv eipe, based on a story by vivek thomas. published by manta ray comics.)
a silent graphic novel (a 'quiet story' because "the rest is noise") whose art does all the talking. if you find it, take a look. it's a compelling story told effectively by the medium it employs. a heart wrenching tale about a child - very evocative, very beautiful. and the art is just absolutely stunning. sometimes some (very few so far) indian graphic novels get it right. this is one of them. i kept just looking at the pages on it when i brought it home. somehow, even though i've gone through it all, it lingers (like a good story should).
vertigo
you gotta love it!
**
15.08.2011
Crazy, copious amounts of reading that is simply not getting done. I'm stuck in that rut again - When do I stop reading and start writing? When am I going to have that epiphanic moment where I know what to do with this paper? When am I going to stop fiddling with the formatting and start the actual creating tables and stuff? When when when when? (Although, I do quite like getting all wound up in my reading. You never know where the next reference is going to take you, and what argument is going to catch your fancy. :) )
**
15.08.2011
Crazy, copious amounts of reading that is simply not getting done. I'm stuck in that rut again - When do I stop reading and start writing? When am I going to have that epiphanic moment where I know what to do with this paper? When am I going to stop fiddling with the formatting and start the actual creating tables and stuff? When when when when? (Although, I do quite like getting all wound up in my reading. You never know where the next reference is going to take you, and what argument is going to catch your fancy. :) )
joker
Joker, Brian Azzarello. (Art by Lee Bermejo)
Let's, very quickly, get the basic thing out of the way. There's no loving Brian Azzarello. In fact, if you really get down to the mean, dirty detail (because that's all there is to him), there's only being repulsed. And horrified, let's not forget that. With a swagger and a smile, the Joker returns from the asylum to take back what is his. While they turn Gotham into a toilet, he just sits there. (He just shits there.) The whole comic is building up to one single punch-line, not the Joker's, although those are pretty amazing. The gruesome, the ugly, the twisted, the terrible: All these Azzarello builds, only to bring them down with a single tug. All these, Azzarello crashes - with one single panel, one beautifully chiselled jaw, one Batman - and one single line.
Let's, very quickly, get the basic thing out of the way. There's no loving Brian Azzarello. In fact, if you really get down to the mean, dirty detail (because that's all there is to him), there's only being repulsed. And horrified, let's not forget that. With a swagger and a smile, the Joker returns from the asylum to take back what is his. While they turn Gotham into a toilet, he just sits there. (He just shits there.) The whole comic is building up to one single punch-line, not the Joker's, although those are pretty amazing. The gruesome, the ugly, the twisted, the terrible: All these Azzarello builds, only to bring them down with a single tug. All these, Azzarello crashes - with one single panel, one beautifully chiselled jaw, one Batman - and one single line.
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