Something of Myself
Friday, October 21, 2005
Phiriye Dayo
Nishyo korecho amay ki nithur cholonay
Tumi bina e hridoy amar ekaki ashohay
Peye haranor bedonay ude cholecchi sharakhon
Keno tumi meeche mayaye bendhechile amay tokhun
Phiriye dayo
Amari prem tumi phiriye dayo
Phiriye dayo
Harano din gulo, ebhabe chole jeyo na
Amar hridoy jude sudhu tumi chile
Joto sukh chilo mone keno muche dile...
Phiriye dayo...
- Miles.
Nishyo korecho amay ki nithur cholonay
Tumi bina e hridoy amar ekaki ashohay
Peye haranor bedonay ude cholecchi sharakhon
Keno tumi meeche mayaye bendhechile amay tokhun
Phiriye dayo
Amari prem tumi phiriye dayo
Phiriye dayo
Harano din gulo, ebhabe chole jeyo na
Amar hridoy jude sudhu tumi chile
Joto sukh chilo mone keno muche dile...
Phiriye dayo...
- Miles.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
'Inside Bleak House'
Bleak House is a novel that brought Mr. Charles Dickens very close to my heart. A fantastic read for those who haven't yet indulged in its(his?) pathos.
Read a very interesting article in The Guardian on BH and Dickens.
Excerpts:
H/L - Dickens' War on Filth
In his working notes for the 15th serial episode of Bleak House, Charles Dickens pondered what to do with the creation to whom every reader's heart had gone out, the pathetic street waif, Jo ("He wos wery good to me, he wos"). "Jo?" the author asked himself. "Yes. Kill him." Thus Jo went the way of Little Nell and Paul Dombey. The poor unsuspecting urchin was slaughtered by his creator as heartlessly as the turkey Scrooge ordered from another little urchin for Christmas. In May 1853, shocked Victorian readers wept inconsolably for their loss and, more importantly, signed on to Bleak House for the duration.
[...]
As a fellow serialist, Dickens would have admired the "curtain lines" (or cliffhangers), the crosscutting, the finely judged alternations of comedy, sentiment and pathos that we get today in EastEnders. As an inveterately cockney novelist - "Boz" - he would also have felt comfortable with the location. (How does Bleak House begin? With one word: "London.") (my italics)
[...]
One finds the obsession with cleanliness everywhere in Bleak House. Dickens's filthmeter is always turned on. It goes into whirring overdrive in such scenes as that of the first visit to the brickmakers' hovel in St Alban's. "Is my daughter awashin?" asks the drunken brute of a brickmaker, in response to Mrs Pardiggle's condescending inquiries as to the state of his soul and whether he has read the uplifting tracts she has kindly left him: "Yes, she is awashin. Look at the water. Smell it! That's wot we drinks. How do you like it, and what do you think of gin, instead? An't my place dirty? Yes, it is dirty - it's nat'rally dirty, and it's nat'rally unwholesome; and we've had five dirty and onwholesom children, as is all dead infants, and so much the better for them, and for us besides. Have I read the little book wot you left? No, I an't read the little book wot you left."
In a speech to the Metropolitan Sanitary Association 10 months before the launch of Bleak House, Dickens declared his great mission as a reforming novelist: "I can honestly declare tonight, that all the use I have ... made of my eyes - or nose [laughter] that all the information I have since been able to acquire through any of my senses, has strengthened me in the conviction that searching sanitary reform must precede all other social remedies [cheers] and that even Education and Religion can do nothing where they are most needed, until the way is paved for their ministrations by Cleanliness and Decency [hear, hear]. What avails it to send a Missionary to me, a miserable man or woman living in a foetid Court, where every sense upon me for delight becomes a torment, and every minute of my life is new mire added to the heap under which I lie degraded? To what natural feeling within is he to address himself? ... But give me my first glimpse of Heaven through a little of its light and air - give me water - help me to be clean."
[...]
By 1824, the Dickens family had passed beyond penury into bankruptcy. Everything in the house was pawned. John Dickens was imprisoned for debt at the Marshalsea Prison (an event that would resurface as the central plot element in Little Dorrit). At the age of 12, Charles was put to work at a shoe-blacking factory on the south bank of the Thames (where the Hungerford footbridge now stands), at a wage of six shillings (30p) a week. Although this menial labour lasted only a few months, the "secret agony of my soul" was remembered for the rest of Dickens's life. He could easily, with another push downward, have become another Jo. The abyss was never far away.
[...]
Serialised between March 1852 and September 1853, Bleak House is a pivotal novel. Dickens wrote, as the Victorians put it, "fiction with a purpose". Thus, in Bleak House, filth emerges as the true villain, surpassing the evils of the sadistic lawyer Tulkinghorn, or the homicidal Hortense, the insectoid stalker Guppy, or the vampiric Vholes. Specifically, airborne filth, rising mephitically from the open sewers, from the "nightsoil" (human excrement dumped in the gutters), and the animal droppings that caked the open streets. "Mudfog" Dickens liked to call that poisonous atmosphere - for which read (and, with the mind's nose, smell) "shitair".
Hanging on the railings outside the Jellybys' house, we are told, there are milk and beer cans. Why the latter? The household drinks milk and beer because there is no supply of mains water, and that water available from the street pumps (which served London's households) was highly dubious. On the north side of London, these public sources of water would be shallow wells. On the south side of the Thames, tidal ditches.
[...]
There had been a devastating outbreak of cholera in London a few months before the publication of Bleak House. There were two theories of how it was spread. The most popular was the "miasmic" theory, where poisonous air acted as the vector. From the introductory fog onwards in Bleak House, it is evident that Dickens inclined to the miasmic view.
In London, the main sanitation problem then (as now) was how to dispose of human waste products. Four years after Bleak House, Joseph Bazalgette began his great project to lay a sewage system beneath the city. His pioneering infrastructure purified London, and Londoners still rely on it.
Victorians, rightly, saw Dickens not merely as a great entertainer, but as a force for progress. Bleak House is what Carlyle would have called a "Condition of England" novel (my italics). Despite his reforming "mission", however, Dickens was careful - as any soap opera serialist must be - to stress human interest and, specifically, love interest. As he wrote in his (postscript) preface: "In Bleak House I have purposely dwelt upon the romantic side of familiar things" (my italics). Who will Esther, the humble, illegitimate housekeeper marry? This is the romantic question that gathers over the second half of the novel, becoming almost as pressing a question as "Who is Jo's murderer?" or "When the hell are they going to do something about that Court of Chancery?"
[...]
Bleak House was Dickens's ninth novel. He was, by this stage in his career, a master of his narrative instrument. A major novel would yield him, in today's money, about £10,000. No other author, with the possible exception of Sir Walter Scott, had earned as much. Dickens wrote all his novels in serial form - "lisping in numbers" - which he preferred for several reasons, primarily because it brought him closer to his audience. Amazingly, he himself often did not know what was coming next, as his working notes testify - Dickens loved to let his novels work themselves out; "writing to the moment", as he called it. Every month, he got a feel for the success of the story, not least by the monthly sales figures that his publisher, Bradbury and Evans, reported back to him. Readers would write to him, friends would discuss how the story was going - it was the most participatory kind of fiction.
[...]
He died in the dining room of his house at Gadshill of a cerebral aneurysm on June 9 1870. The author was buried five days later at Westminster Abbey, widely mourned as the greatest British writer since Shakespeare.
Author: John Sutherland
Title: Inside Bleak House
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Moment of Truth
She stands by the door. Dark circles under her eyes. Just like mine. Lips parted. As if wanting to say something but hesitating. Just like me. She picks up the bag. Full of clothes that she brought for herself. She is leaving behind all the ones that I had given her. It's lying by the bedside. It's her way of renouncement. Her way of walking out. Her way of walking into her glamorous future. The lights. The awards. The late nights. The men. The fancy cars. Everything awaits.
And I sit on the couch. Stinking of alcohol. Looking at her. Squinted. Images flash by. The speed of Ferrari. Inebriated as I am, all I see is a moving blur. Can't play the blame game anymore...From today, in a few seconds, it's all about me, me and more me. Don't have the comfort of her hair. Don't have the softness of her lips. Don't have the strength of her words. Just me, my laptop, the couch (that she bought) and cheap alcohol.
This is not a tale. Neither a piece of fiction. It is about a moment. A fine moment in the life of two individuals. The delicate moment when the chord is just about to snap. Like that.
And it's so incredibly difficult to put it in words.
If it were a movie, the shot would last, probably, a minute? May be less than that.
So easy to take sides. To take guard. How painfully tough to remain objective. To shed your subjectivity. To stand out of the borders of human relationships. Beyond boundaries. That to, circular ones. You at the centre. And the relationships moving around you. Blooming with conditions. And when you decide to just move away a little, like half an inch from the locus...
She stands by the door. Dark circles under her eyes...
She stands by the door. Dark circles under her eyes. Just like mine. Lips parted. As if wanting to say something but hesitating. Just like me. She picks up the bag. Full of clothes that she brought for herself. She is leaving behind all the ones that I had given her. It's lying by the bedside. It's her way of renouncement. Her way of walking out. Her way of walking into her glamorous future. The lights. The awards. The late nights. The men. The fancy cars. Everything awaits.
And I sit on the couch. Stinking of alcohol. Looking at her. Squinted. Images flash by. The speed of Ferrari. Inebriated as I am, all I see is a moving blur. Can't play the blame game anymore...From today, in a few seconds, it's all about me, me and more me. Don't have the comfort of her hair. Don't have the softness of her lips. Don't have the strength of her words. Just me, my laptop, the couch (that she bought) and cheap alcohol.
This is not a tale. Neither a piece of fiction. It is about a moment. A fine moment in the life of two individuals. The delicate moment when the chord is just about to snap. Like that.
And it's so incredibly difficult to put it in words.
If it were a movie, the shot would last, probably, a minute? May be less than that.
So easy to take sides. To take guard. How painfully tough to remain objective. To shed your subjectivity. To stand out of the borders of human relationships. Beyond boundaries. That to, circular ones. You at the centre. And the relationships moving around you. Blooming with conditions. And when you decide to just move away a little, like half an inch from the locus...
She stands by the door. Dark circles under her eyes...
Friday, October 14, 2005
Emptiness inside
Feeling lost today. Can you miss someone without really knowing that person? I guess you can miss the idea of being with that person...What it would be like...the idea of togetherness...the idea of companionship...friendship...feelings...emotions...yeah, my punctuation is going to be f***** up today...What's the point? Courtesy? To tell your reader where to pause, to hand hold her and take her through your mind...your wandering...your filth...
Spoke to Percy last night. After ages. Raised toast to Bijoya. As always. Every year. Rum and Coke. Tradition.
It's funny how we feel that if so-and-so were here, things would be so great, easier...But it's probably not the case..Things perhaps would be the way they are right now...just that it would be more bearable...My resistance would be more...The drive to resist would be greater...The shock of ordinariness would be lesser...
What can a person at the last leg of her life desire? Can memories be uprooted? Can beginnings be made? Can betrayals be vindicated? Passion re-ignited? Mistakes corrected?
My mind is the thing I love most. My mind is the thing I hate most. I wish I didn't have a mind of my own. I wish there were people whom I knew. I wish loneliness was unreal. I wish I could just think straight. I wish I could be focused.
Instead, the thoughts wander, here and there...like a meander...like the trail of blood left behind by the dying soldier...trail and then the pool...dark...red...
Feeling lost today. Can you miss someone without really knowing that person? I guess you can miss the idea of being with that person...What it would be like...the idea of togetherness...the idea of companionship...friendship...feelings...emotions...yeah, my punctuation is going to be f***** up today...What's the point? Courtesy? To tell your reader where to pause, to hand hold her and take her through your mind...your wandering...your filth...
Spoke to Percy last night. After ages. Raised toast to Bijoya. As always. Every year. Rum and Coke. Tradition.
It's funny how we feel that if so-and-so were here, things would be so great, easier...But it's probably not the case..Things perhaps would be the way they are right now...just that it would be more bearable...My resistance would be more...The drive to resist would be greater...The shock of ordinariness would be lesser...
What can a person at the last leg of her life desire? Can memories be uprooted? Can beginnings be made? Can betrayals be vindicated? Passion re-ignited? Mistakes corrected?
My mind is the thing I love most. My mind is the thing I hate most. I wish I didn't have a mind of my own. I wish there were people whom I knew. I wish loneliness was unreal. I wish I could just think straight. I wish I could be focused.
Instead, the thoughts wander, here and there...like a meander...like the trail of blood left behind by the dying soldier...trail and then the pool...dark...red...
Friday, October 07, 2005
Pulp Fiction
One of my favourite movies. Its awesome. And there is no single actor in this whole god damn world who says 'motherf*****' better than Samuel L Jackson. Here are some of the dialogues which I simply adore, enjoy:
One of my favourite movies. Its awesome. And there is no single actor in this whole god damn world who says 'motherf*****' better than Samuel L Jackson. Here are some of the dialogues which I simply adore, enjoy:
VINCENT
You'll dig it the most. But you
know what the funniest thing about
Europe is?
JULES
What?
VINCENT
It's the little differences. A
lotta the same shit we got here,
they got there, but there they're a
little different.
JULES
Examples?
VINCENT
Well, in Amsterdam, you can buy
beer in a movie theatre. And I
don't mean in a paper cup either.
They give you a glass of beer, like
in a bar. In Paris, you can buy
beer at MacDonald's. Also, you
know what they call a Quarter
Pounder with Cheese in Paris?
JULES
They don't call it a Quarter
Pounder with Cheese?
VINCENT
No, they got the metric system
there, they wouldn't know what the
fuck a Quarter Pounder is.
JULES
What'd they call it?
VINCENT
Royale with Cheese.
JULES
(repeating)
Royale with Cheese. What'd they
call a Big Mac?
VINCENT
Big Mac's a Big Mac, but they call
it Le Big Mac.
JULES
What do they call a Whopper?
VINCENT
I dunno, I didn't go into a Burger
King. But you know what they put
on french fries in Holland instead
of ketchup?
JULES
What?
VINCENT
Mayonnaise.
JULES
Goddamn!
VINCENT
I seen 'em do it. And I don't mean
a little bit on the side of the
plate, they fuckin' drown 'em in
it.
JULES
Uuccch!
You'll dig it the most. But you
know what the funniest thing about
Europe is?
JULES
What?
VINCENT
It's the little differences. A
lotta the same shit we got here,
they got there, but there they're a
little different.
JULES
Examples?
VINCENT
Well, in Amsterdam, you can buy
beer in a movie theatre. And I
don't mean in a paper cup either.
They give you a glass of beer, like
in a bar. In Paris, you can buy
beer at MacDonald's. Also, you
know what they call a Quarter
Pounder with Cheese in Paris?
JULES
They don't call it a Quarter
Pounder with Cheese?
VINCENT
No, they got the metric system
there, they wouldn't know what the
fuck a Quarter Pounder is.
JULES
What'd they call it?
VINCENT
Royale with Cheese.
JULES
(repeating)
Royale with Cheese. What'd they
call a Big Mac?
VINCENT
Big Mac's a Big Mac, but they call
it Le Big Mac.
JULES
What do they call a Whopper?
VINCENT
I dunno, I didn't go into a Burger
King. But you know what they put
on french fries in Holland instead
of ketchup?
JULES
What?
VINCENT
Mayonnaise.
JULES
Goddamn!
VINCENT
I seen 'em do it. And I don't mean
a little bit on the side of the
plate, they fuckin' drown 'em in
it.
JULES
Uuccch!
**********
Vincent and Jules, their long matching overcoats practically
dragging on the ground, walk through the courtyard of what
looks like a hacienda-style Hollywood apartment building.
We TRACK alongside.
VINCENT
What's her name?
JULES
Mia.
VINCENT
How did Marsellus and her meet?
JULES
I dunno, however people meet
people. She usta be an actress.
VINCENT
She ever do anything I woulda saw?
JULES
I think her biggest deal was she
starred in a pilot.
VINCENT
What's a pilot?
JULES
Well, you know the shows on TV?
VINCENT
I don't watch TV.
JULES
Yes, but you're aware that there's
an invention called television, and
on that invention they show shows?
VINCENT
Yeah.
dragging on the ground, walk through the courtyard of what
looks like a hacienda-style Hollywood apartment building.
We TRACK alongside.
VINCENT
What's her name?
JULES
Mia.
VINCENT
How did Marsellus and her meet?
JULES
I dunno, however people meet
people. She usta be an actress.
VINCENT
She ever do anything I woulda saw?
JULES
I think her biggest deal was she
starred in a pilot.
VINCENT
What's a pilot?
JULES
Well, you know the shows on TV?
VINCENT
I don't watch TV.
JULES
Yes, but you're aware that there's
an invention called television, and
on that invention they show shows?
VINCENT
Yeah.
*******
Vincent and Jules walk through the reception area and wait for
the elevator.
JULES
You remember Antwan Rockamora?
Half-black, half-Samoan, usta call
him Tony Rocky Horror.
VINCENT
Yeah maybe, fat right?
JULES
I wouldn't go so far as to call the
brother fat. He's got a weight
problem. What's the nigger gonna
do, he's Samoan.
VINCENT
I think I know who you mean, what
about him?
JULES
Well, Marsellus fucked his ass up
good. And word around the
campfire, it was on account of
Marsellus Wallace's wife.
The elevator arrives, the men step inside.
6. INT. ELEVATOR - MORNING 6.
VINCENT
What'd he do, fuck her?
JULES
No no no no no no no, nothin' that
bad.
VINCENT
Well what then?
JULES
He gave her a foot massage.
VINCENT
A foot massage?
Jules nods his head: "Yes."
VINCENT
That's all?
Jules nods his head: "Yes."
VINCENT
What did Marsellus do?
JULES
Sent a couple of guys over to his
place. They took him out on the
patio of his apartment, threw his
ass over the balcony. Nigger fell
four stories. They had this garden
at the bottom, enclosed in glass,
like one of them greenhouses --
nigger fell through that. Since
then, he's kinda developed a speech
impediment.
the elevator.
JULES
You remember Antwan Rockamora?
Half-black, half-Samoan, usta call
him Tony Rocky Horror.
VINCENT
Yeah maybe, fat right?
JULES
I wouldn't go so far as to call the
brother fat. He's got a weight
problem. What's the nigger gonna
do, he's Samoan.
VINCENT
I think I know who you mean, what
about him?
JULES
Well, Marsellus fucked his ass up
good. And word around the
campfire, it was on account of
Marsellus Wallace's wife.
The elevator arrives, the men step inside.
6. INT. ELEVATOR - MORNING 6.
VINCENT
What'd he do, fuck her?
JULES
No no no no no no no, nothin' that
bad.
VINCENT
Well what then?
JULES
He gave her a foot massage.
VINCENT
A foot massage?
Jules nods his head: "Yes."
VINCENT
That's all?
Jules nods his head: "Yes."
VINCENT
What did Marsellus do?
JULES
Sent a couple of guys over to his
place. They took him out on the
patio of his apartment, threw his
ass over the balcony. Nigger fell
four stories. They had this garden
at the bottom, enclosed in glass,
like one of them greenhouses --
nigger fell through that. Since
then, he's kinda developed a speech
impediment.
*******
THREE YOUNG GUYS, obviously in over their heads, sit at a
table with hamburgers, french fries and soda pops laid out.
One of them flips the LOUD BOLT on the door, opening it to
REVEAL Jules and Vincent in the hallway.
table with hamburgers, french fries and soda pops laid out.
One of them flips the LOUD BOLT on the door, opening it to
REVEAL Jules and Vincent in the hallway.
JULES
How you boys doin'?
No answer.
JULES
(to Brett)
Am I trippin', or did I just ask
you a question.
How you boys doin'?
No answer.
JULES
(to Brett)
Am I trippin', or did I just ask
you a question.
[]...
BRETT
(to Jules)
Look, what's your name? I got his
name's Vincent, but what's yours?
JULES
My name's Pitt, and you ain't
talkin' your ass outta this shit.
BRETT
I just want you to know how sorry
we are about how fucked up things
got between us and Mr. Wallace.
When we entered into this thing, we
only had the best intentions --
As Brett talks, Jules takes out his gun and SHOOTS Roger three
times in the chest, BLOWING him out of his chair.
Vince smiles to himself. Jules has got style.
Brett has just shit his pants. He's not crying or whimpering,
but he's so full of fear, it's as if his body is imploding.
JULES
(to Brett)
Oh, I'm sorry. Did that break your
concentration? I didn't mean to do
that. Please, continue. I believe
you were saying something about
"best intentions."
Brett can't say a word.
JULES
Whatsamatter? Oh, you were through
anyway. Well, let me retort.
Would you describe for me what
Marsellus Wallace looks like?
Brett still can't speak.
(to Jules)
Look, what's your name? I got his
name's Vincent, but what's yours?
JULES
My name's Pitt, and you ain't
talkin' your ass outta this shit.
BRETT
I just want you to know how sorry
we are about how fucked up things
got between us and Mr. Wallace.
When we entered into this thing, we
only had the best intentions --
As Brett talks, Jules takes out his gun and SHOOTS Roger three
times in the chest, BLOWING him out of his chair.
Vince smiles to himself. Jules has got style.
Brett has just shit his pants. He's not crying or whimpering,
but he's so full of fear, it's as if his body is imploding.
JULES
(to Brett)
Oh, I'm sorry. Did that break your
concentration? I didn't mean to do
that. Please, continue. I believe
you were saying something about
"best intentions."
Brett can't say a word.
JULES
Whatsamatter? Oh, you were through
anyway. Well, let me retort.
Would you describe for me what
Marsellus Wallace looks like?
Brett still can't speak.
[]...
JULES
What country you from!
BRETT
(petrified)
What?
JULES
"What" ain't no country I know! Do
they speak English in "What?"
BRETT
(near heart attack)
What?
JULES
English-motherfucker-can-you-speak-
it?
BRETT
Yes.
JULES
Then you understand what I'm
sayin'?
BRETT
Yes.
JULES
Now describe what Marsellus Wallace
looks like!
BRETT
(out of fear)
What?
Jules takes his .45 and PRESSES the barrel HARD in Brett's
cheek.
JULES
Say "What" again! C'mon, say
"What" again! I dare ya, I double
dare ya motherfucker, say "What"
one more goddamn time!
Brett is regressing on the spot.
JULES
Now describe to me what Marsellus
Wallace looks like!
Brett does his best.
BRETT
Well he's ...he's...black --
JULES
-- go on!
BRETT
...and he's...he's...tall --
JULES
-- does he look like a bitch?!
BRETT
(without thinking)
What?
Jules' eyes go to Vincent, Vincent smirks, Jules rolls his
eyes and SHOOT Brett in the shoulder.
Brett SCREAMS, breaking into a SHAKING/TREMBLING SPASM in the
chair.
JULES
Does-he-look-like-a-bitch?!
BRETT
(in agony)
No.
JULES
Then why did you try to fuck 'im
like a bitch?!
BRETT
(in spasm)
I didn't.
Now in a lower voice.
JULES
Yes ya did Brett. Ya tried ta fuck
'im. You ever read the Bible,
Brett?
BRETT
(in spasm)
Yes.
JULES
There's a passage I got memorized,
seems appropriate for this
situation: Ezekiel 25:17. "The path
of the righteous man is beset on
all sides by the inequities of the
selfish and the tyranny of evil
men. Blessed is he who, in the
name of charity and good will,
shepherds the weak through the
valley of darkness, for he is truly
his brother's keeper and the finder
of lost children. And I will
strike down upon thee with great
vengeance and furious anger those
who attempt to poison and destroy
my brothers. And you will know my
name is the Lord when I lay my
vengeance upon you."
The two men EMPTY their guns at the same time on the sitting
Brett.
What country you from!
BRETT
(petrified)
What?
JULES
"What" ain't no country I know! Do
they speak English in "What?"
BRETT
(near heart attack)
What?
JULES
English-motherfucker-can-you-speak-
it?
BRETT
Yes.
JULES
Then you understand what I'm
sayin'?
BRETT
Yes.
JULES
Now describe what Marsellus Wallace
looks like!
BRETT
(out of fear)
What?
Jules takes his .45 and PRESSES the barrel HARD in Brett's
cheek.
JULES
Say "What" again! C'mon, say
"What" again! I dare ya, I double
dare ya motherfucker, say "What"
one more goddamn time!
Brett is regressing on the spot.
JULES
Now describe to me what Marsellus
Wallace looks like!
Brett does his best.
BRETT
Well he's ...he's...black --
JULES
-- go on!
BRETT
...and he's...he's...tall --
JULES
-- does he look like a bitch?!
BRETT
(without thinking)
What?
Jules' eyes go to Vincent, Vincent smirks, Jules rolls his
eyes and SHOOT Brett in the shoulder.
Brett SCREAMS, breaking into a SHAKING/TREMBLING SPASM in the
chair.
JULES
Does-he-look-like-a-bitch?!
BRETT
(in agony)
No.
JULES
Then why did you try to fuck 'im
like a bitch?!
BRETT
(in spasm)
I didn't.
Now in a lower voice.
JULES
Yes ya did Brett. Ya tried ta fuck
'im. You ever read the Bible,
Brett?
BRETT
(in spasm)
Yes.
JULES
There's a passage I got memorized,
seems appropriate for this
situation: Ezekiel 25:17. "The path
of the righteous man is beset on
all sides by the inequities of the
selfish and the tyranny of evil
men. Blessed is he who, in the
name of charity and good will,
shepherds the weak through the
valley of darkness, for he is truly
his brother's keeper and the finder
of lost children. And I will
strike down upon thee with great
vengeance and furious anger those
who attempt to poison and destroy
my brothers. And you will know my
name is the Lord when I lay my
vengeance upon you."
The two men EMPTY their guns at the same time on the sitting
Brett.
To be continued... :) Jackson rocks, so does Tarantino.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Just a Quote
Poetry may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper, unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves. T.S.Eliot (my itals)
Saturday, October 01, 2005
Words?!
Bhalo thakish.
Bhalo kore khaash.
Have faith on me. Have faith on God.
Be good.
I am first class.
No problem.
I have cut down on my cigarettes. I promised you.
Give me some more time.
I will live for you.
It's incredible how words haunt you. How words mean so much more than the human being. How words remain long after the person is there, no more. How words are the only sensorial thing that you can experience. How they add up to your memories. How they fuel your desire. How they remind you of the years that you spent together. Hand holding. Soul searching. New learnings. Overcoming.
The other day I recorded one of his conversations that was there on the answer machine. It's unbelievable: his sense of devotion, his belief in the unforseen powers, his dedication towards his loved ones, his professionalism, his neat dissection of his private and public self. That's all that remains today.
The other day I was speaking to a brother of mine who knew him. He said he remembered him so fondly. He said he could be so open with him. He said he was a very 'my dear' kind of a man. And while saying all this and more, his eyes welled up. You could see the lump in his throat.
The other day I saw him in my dreams. The same old pajama, panjabi - little shorter than the present day ones. Buttons on the cuff. Nehru collared. White. Transcluscent. Khadi. Khadder. Dash of Old Spice. Italian glasses. Longines. Johnson and Johnson's Egg Shampoo. Bata. Pity, he didn't say anything. Stood there. Silent. Pregnant eyes. He was just expecting that I would know what he wants to say, what he always wanted to say...
I can only hear his words. Constantly. Driving me crazy. Making me angry at myself. For I let him down, when he needed me the most.
Bhalo thakish.
Bhalo kore khaash.
Have faith on me. Have faith on God.
Be good.
I am first class.
No problem.
I have cut down on my cigarettes. I promised you.
Give me some more time.
I will live for you.
It's incredible how words haunt you. How words mean so much more than the human being. How words remain long after the person is there, no more. How words are the only sensorial thing that you can experience. How they add up to your memories. How they fuel your desire. How they remind you of the years that you spent together. Hand holding. Soul searching. New learnings. Overcoming.
The other day I recorded one of his conversations that was there on the answer machine. It's unbelievable: his sense of devotion, his belief in the unforseen powers, his dedication towards his loved ones, his professionalism, his neat dissection of his private and public self. That's all that remains today.
The other day I was speaking to a brother of mine who knew him. He said he remembered him so fondly. He said he could be so open with him. He said he was a very 'my dear' kind of a man. And while saying all this and more, his eyes welled up. You could see the lump in his throat.
The other day I saw him in my dreams. The same old pajama, panjabi - little shorter than the present day ones. Buttons on the cuff. Nehru collared. White. Transcluscent. Khadi. Khadder. Dash of Old Spice. Italian glasses. Longines. Johnson and Johnson's Egg Shampoo. Bata. Pity, he didn't say anything. Stood there. Silent. Pregnant eyes. He was just expecting that I would know what he wants to say, what he always wanted to say...
I can only hear his words. Constantly. Driving me crazy. Making me angry at myself. For I let him down, when he needed me the most.
