Something of Myself
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Dickens!
Find of the year: www.archive.org For all those who love reading.
And I couldn't help downloading one of my favourite texts: Bleak House (Dickens). Here's the beginning...what can you say about a novel that begins with the word 'London'? And then see how he plays with the word 'fog.' Brilliant. Orgasmic. Excerpts from the first chapter:
London. Michaelmas term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln's Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snowflakes--gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another's umbrellas in a general infection of ill temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if this day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.
Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls deified among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little 'prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.
Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time--as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard
and unwilling look.
The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation, Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln's Inn Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.
Find of the year: www.archive.org For all those who love reading.
And I couldn't help downloading one of my favourite texts: Bleak House (Dickens). Here's the beginning...what can you say about a novel that begins with the word 'London'? And then see how he plays with the word 'fog.' Brilliant. Orgasmic. Excerpts from the first chapter:
London. Michaelmas term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln's Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snowflakes--gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another's umbrellas in a general infection of ill temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if this day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.
Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls deified among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little 'prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.
Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time--as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard
and unwilling look.
The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation, Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln's Inn Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.
Monday, December 19, 2005
Looking within...
With 2006 round the corner, here's a bit of introspection...or may be wild dreams?!
Three things I would want to change about myself
1. Height
2. Temper
3. Sensitivity
Three things I would do if I could
1. Become a Doctor (PhD)
2. Own the British Library
3. Teach at Oxford
Three things I wish I could give up
1. Smoking
2. Drinking
3. Dreams
Three things I hate about myself
1. Believing people at face value
2. Always thinking about the other person's perspective
3. Wearing my heart on my sleeve
Three things I will never change about myself
1. My principles
2. My idea of 'love'
3. Forgive but n'er forget
With 2006 round the corner, here's a bit of introspection...or may be wild dreams?!
Three things I would want to change about myself
1. Height
2. Temper
3. Sensitivity
Three things I would do if I could
1. Become a Doctor (PhD)
2. Own the British Library
3. Teach at Oxford
Three things I wish I could give up
1. Smoking
2. Drinking
3. Dreams
Three things I hate about myself
1. Believing people at face value
2. Always thinking about the other person's perspective
3. Wearing my heart on my sleeve
Three things I will never change about myself
1. My principles
2. My idea of 'love'
3. Forgive but n'er forget
Thursday, December 15, 2005
And then there was Jeanette Winterson
Reading her collection of essays - this one is on Poetry - the following just swept me off my feet:
Poetry always bears witness, but it is witness of a different kind to the front page of The Times. Only by imagining our lives can we fully understand them, or re-make them. Recording them is not enough.
This is not to say that we have no need of history, or politics, or daily news – of course we do, and poetry that is made separate from life is not poetry at all. But the poet speaks differently to the historian or the politician or the journalist. The poem itself has other work to do. In a world drowning in useless information, poetry returns us to what is meaningful. The poem acts a pocket of air in an upturned boat.
To the bean counters and economic gurus, a poem looks like the most useless thing on earth. It is not a money machine, you can’t sell it to Hollywood or use it for product placement. You can’t say long it will take to make, or how long it will last, (how maddening in an economy that depends on throwaways, that a poem can last forever). The poem, by its very nature, questions the dominant values of our world, and as William Carlos Williams put it, ‘it is hard to get the news from poems/ but men die miserably every day/for lack of what is found there.’
Reading her collection of essays - this one is on Poetry - the following just swept me off my feet:
Poetry always bears witness, but it is witness of a different kind to the front page of The Times. Only by imagining our lives can we fully understand them, or re-make them. Recording them is not enough.
This is not to say that we have no need of history, or politics, or daily news – of course we do, and poetry that is made separate from life is not poetry at all. But the poet speaks differently to the historian or the politician or the journalist. The poem itself has other work to do. In a world drowning in useless information, poetry returns us to what is meaningful. The poem acts a pocket of air in an upturned boat.
To the bean counters and economic gurus, a poem looks like the most useless thing on earth. It is not a money machine, you can’t sell it to Hollywood or use it for product placement. You can’t say long it will take to make, or how long it will last, (how maddening in an economy that depends on throwaways, that a poem can last forever). The poem, by its very nature, questions the dominant values of our world, and as William Carlos Williams put it, ‘it is hard to get the news from poems/ but men die miserably every day/for lack of what is found there.’
Untravelled world & Colliding thoughts
Read a thoughtful interview at Guardian early this morn, when my mind was dazed and all confused. It's about an author called Philip Roth - seemingly popular. I want to read him now. Definitely. Excerpts:
Jews appear everywhere in Roth's books, but this one seems to be Roth's great Jewish history. "Jewish?" he says. "It's my most American book. It's about America. About America. It's an American dystopia. You would never tell Ralph Ellison that Invisible Man is his most Negro book, would you?" He looks at me. "Would you?"
"Maybe not ..."
"Those kinds of considerations are newspaper cliches. Jewish literature. Black literature. Everyone who opens a book enters the story without noticing these labels."
[...]
"Are you satisfied with your life?" I ask.
"Eight years ago I attended a memorial ceremony for an author," he says. "An incredible man full of life and humour, curiosity. He worked for a magazine here in New York. He had girlfriends, mistresses. And at this memorial ceremony there were all these women. Of all ages. And they all cried and left the room, because they couldn't stand it. That was the greatest tribute ..."
"What will the women do at your funeral?"
"If they even show up ... they will probably be screaming at the casket." He looks out of the window, across the buildings of midtown. "You know, passion doesn't change with age, but you change - you become older. The thirst for women becomes more poignant. And there is a power in the pathos of sex that it didn't have before. The pathos of the female body becomes more insistent. The sexual passion is always deep, but it becomes deeper."
[...]
"But you know that you can do it now, right?"
"I have no idea that I can do it again. How can I know? How do I know that I won't run out of ideas tomorrow? It's a horrible existence being a writer filled with deprivation. I don't miss specific people, but I miss life. I didn't discover that during the first 20 years, because I was fighting - in the ring with the literature. That fight was life, but then I discovered that I was in the ring all by myself."
He gets up. "It was the interests in life and the attempt to get life down on the pages which made me a writer - and then I discovered that, in many ways, I am standing on the outside of life".
So that is that. There have been myriad thoughts colliding in my head over the last few days. Thoughts of ordinariness. Thoughts of happiness. Of demystifying betrayal. It's like the molecular structure of an atom. Atoms. Drifting, jostling, colliding, rushing...In a way I guess it's ok. Way of life, is it?
Like they say, it doesn't really matter. Or may be it does. May be it matters so much that I am forced to belittle it. As if it were nothing. May be I am just trying to fool myself. Just trying to pretend, everything's alright. Who knows?
Life seems like an eternal wait. An empty drawing room. Ironed curtains. Polished furnitures. Crystal glasses. Fancy ashtrays.
And then, that most dreadful thing - The Wait. Reminds me of Samuel Beckett.
Read a thoughtful interview at Guardian early this morn, when my mind was dazed and all confused. It's about an author called Philip Roth - seemingly popular. I want to read him now. Definitely. Excerpts:
Jews appear everywhere in Roth's books, but this one seems to be Roth's great Jewish history. "Jewish?" he says. "It's my most American book. It's about America. About America. It's an American dystopia. You would never tell Ralph Ellison that Invisible Man is his most Negro book, would you?" He looks at me. "Would you?"
"Maybe not ..."
"Those kinds of considerations are newspaper cliches. Jewish literature. Black literature. Everyone who opens a book enters the story without noticing these labels."
[...]
"Are you satisfied with your life?" I ask.
"Eight years ago I attended a memorial ceremony for an author," he says. "An incredible man full of life and humour, curiosity. He worked for a magazine here in New York. He had girlfriends, mistresses. And at this memorial ceremony there were all these women. Of all ages. And they all cried and left the room, because they couldn't stand it. That was the greatest tribute ..."
"What will the women do at your funeral?"
"If they even show up ... they will probably be screaming at the casket." He looks out of the window, across the buildings of midtown. "You know, passion doesn't change with age, but you change - you become older. The thirst for women becomes more poignant. And there is a power in the pathos of sex that it didn't have before. The pathos of the female body becomes more insistent. The sexual passion is always deep, but it becomes deeper."
[...]
"But you know that you can do it now, right?"
"I have no idea that I can do it again. How can I know? How do I know that I won't run out of ideas tomorrow? It's a horrible existence being a writer filled with deprivation. I don't miss specific people, but I miss life. I didn't discover that during the first 20 years, because I was fighting - in the ring with the literature. That fight was life, but then I discovered that I was in the ring all by myself."
He gets up. "It was the interests in life and the attempt to get life down on the pages which made me a writer - and then I discovered that, in many ways, I am standing on the outside of life".
_______________________________
So that is that. There have been myriad thoughts colliding in my head over the last few days. Thoughts of ordinariness. Thoughts of happiness. Of demystifying betrayal. It's like the molecular structure of an atom. Atoms. Drifting, jostling, colliding, rushing...In a way I guess it's ok. Way of life, is it?
Like they say, it doesn't really matter. Or may be it does. May be it matters so much that I am forced to belittle it. As if it were nothing. May be I am just trying to fool myself. Just trying to pretend, everything's alright. Who knows?
Life seems like an eternal wait. An empty drawing room. Ironed curtains. Polished furnitures. Crystal glasses. Fancy ashtrays.
And then, that most dreadful thing - The Wait. Reminds me of Samuel Beckett.
Friday, December 09, 2005
Feel like a Thorn Bird
"There is a legend about a bird which sings just once in its life, more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. From the moment it leaves the nest it searches for a thorn tree, and does not rest until it has found one. Then, singing among the savage branches, it impales itself upon the longest, sharpest spine. And, dying, it rises above its own agony to out-carol the lark and the nightingale. One superlative song, existence the price. But the whole world stills to listen, and God in His heaven smiles. For the best is only bought at the cost of great pain.... Or so says the legend."
"There is a legend about a bird which sings just once in its life, more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. From the moment it leaves the nest it searches for a thorn tree, and does not rest until it has found one. Then, singing among the savage branches, it impales itself upon the longest, sharpest spine. And, dying, it rises above its own agony to out-carol the lark and the nightingale. One superlative song, existence the price. But the whole world stills to listen, and God in His heaven smiles. For the best is only bought at the cost of great pain.... Or so says the legend."
In Memoriam - A H Tennyson
I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.
But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
A use in measured language lies;
The sad mechanic exercise,
Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.
In words, like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold:
But that large grief which these enfold
Is given in outline and no more.
[...]
That loss is common would not make
My own less bitter, rather more:
Too common! Never morning wore
To evening, but some heart did break.
[...]
Expecting still his advent home;
And ever met him on his way
With wishes, thinking, ‘here to-day,’
Or ‘here to-morrow will he come.’
[...]
A hand that can be clasp’d no more–
Behold me, for I cannot sleep,
And like a guilty thing I creep
At earliest morning to the door.
He is not here; but far away
The noise of life begins again,
And ghastly thro’ the drizzling rain
On the bald street breaks the blank day.
[...]
For this alone on Death I wreak
The wrath that garners in my heart;
He put our lives so far apart
We cannot hear each other speak.
[...]
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Amitabh Bachchan
My first memory of watching a Hindi movie dates back to late 1980s. It was a Mithun Chakravarty movie. Mum was working during those days. And she was a movie freak. Hindi movie freak to be more precise. And she used to get these VHS tapes everyday. And I used to love the dhishum dhishum bit of it.
As I grew up, I realised there was one man who always caught my attention, so much so that I wanted to be like him. I started following his career, read up his biographies (whatever was available at that time), kept newspaper cutouts of him and finally even managed to get one of his film posters as my 21st birthday gift! Yeah, 21st, no kidding! *Blushing*
The man who was to be named Inquilab, finally came to be known as Amitabh Bachchan. Quite frankly, whatever you write about him will perhaps never do justice to the 63 year old who is still the 'dude' in Bollywood - on whom most directors and producers are more than willing to put their money on.
Professionally, his work speaks of him. Personally, he is a fighter.
After all it takes guts to come to Bombay with a driver's license and a dream of making it as an actor. After all it takes guts to fight back after being rejected by All India Radio for having a 'disgusting' voice. After all it takes guts to work with stalwarts like Rajesh Khanna and Dharmendra at their prime and still be noticed (just remember Anand and Sholay). However, after Zanjeer, there was no looking back. Abhimaan, Deewar, Shakti, Don, Lawaris, Silsila, Namak Haram...the man bore the weight of an entire industry on his shoulders. Rumours of an affair with a fellow actor (Rekha) did not help. The actor stayed focused - determined to fight and let his work speak for itself.
Anyways, what's the point in going on about someone on whom I can actually write a thesis?! His recent admission to the hospital and immediate surgery left millions praying...Thank God, the man is recovering now.
Just one thing more: if there is one personality I want to be like, it would be him. If there is one voice I would want to have, it would be his. And of course, the humility, the grace, the talent, the etiquette...
He was voted BBC's Actor of the Millennium, overshadowing the likes of Brando and Chaplin. Perhaps because of the sheer number of Indians who must have voted for him. Whatever said and done, if you want to know how hard and difficult the journey of a legend can be, then read To Be Or Not To Be Amitabh Bachchan. You will read what struggle is about. You will, I promise, be left with a heavy-heart, a bagful of admiration and some profound learnings that this man has to offer.
God Bless Amitabh Bachchan.
My first memory of watching a Hindi movie dates back to late 1980s. It was a Mithun Chakravarty movie. Mum was working during those days. And she was a movie freak. Hindi movie freak to be more precise. And she used to get these VHS tapes everyday. And I used to love the dhishum dhishum bit of it.
As I grew up, I realised there was one man who always caught my attention, so much so that I wanted to be like him. I started following his career, read up his biographies (whatever was available at that time), kept newspaper cutouts of him and finally even managed to get one of his film posters as my 21st birthday gift! Yeah, 21st, no kidding! *Blushing*
The man who was to be named Inquilab, finally came to be known as Amitabh Bachchan. Quite frankly, whatever you write about him will perhaps never do justice to the 63 year old who is still the 'dude' in Bollywood - on whom most directors and producers are more than willing to put their money on.
Professionally, his work speaks of him. Personally, he is a fighter.
After all it takes guts to come to Bombay with a driver's license and a dream of making it as an actor. After all it takes guts to fight back after being rejected by All India Radio for having a 'disgusting' voice. After all it takes guts to work with stalwarts like Rajesh Khanna and Dharmendra at their prime and still be noticed (just remember Anand and Sholay). However, after Zanjeer, there was no looking back. Abhimaan, Deewar, Shakti, Don, Lawaris, Silsila, Namak Haram...the man bore the weight of an entire industry on his shoulders. Rumours of an affair with a fellow actor (Rekha) did not help. The actor stayed focused - determined to fight and let his work speak for itself.
Anyways, what's the point in going on about someone on whom I can actually write a thesis?! His recent admission to the hospital and immediate surgery left millions praying...Thank God, the man is recovering now.
Just one thing more: if there is one personality I want to be like, it would be him. If there is one voice I would want to have, it would be his. And of course, the humility, the grace, the talent, the etiquette...
He was voted BBC's Actor of the Millennium, overshadowing the likes of Brando and Chaplin. Perhaps because of the sheer number of Indians who must have voted for him. Whatever said and done, if you want to know how hard and difficult the journey of a legend can be, then read To Be Or Not To Be Amitabh Bachchan. You will read what struggle is about. You will, I promise, be left with a heavy-heart, a bagful of admiration and some profound learnings that this man has to offer.
God Bless Amitabh Bachchan.
Monday, December 05, 2005
VO script of the first advert of Apple Inc
A treat for you ladies and gentlemen, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did. It's quite stunning. :-)
"Here's to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They're not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo. You can praise them, disagree with them, quote them, disbelieve them, glorify or vilify them. About the only thing you can't do is ignore them. Because they change things. They invent. They imagine. They heal. They explore. They create. They inspire. They push the human race forward. Maybe they have to be crazy. How else can you stare at an empty canvas and see a work of art? Or sit in silence and hear a song that's never been written? Or gaze at a red planet and see a laboratory on wheels?We make tools for these kinds of people. While some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do.
Apple. Think Different."
A treat for you ladies and gentlemen, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did. It's quite stunning. :-)
"Here's to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They're not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo. You can praise them, disagree with them, quote them, disbelieve them, glorify or vilify them. About the only thing you can't do is ignore them. Because they change things. They invent. They imagine. They heal. They explore. They create. They inspire. They push the human race forward. Maybe they have to be crazy. How else can you stare at an empty canvas and see a work of art? Or sit in silence and hear a song that's never been written? Or gaze at a red planet and see a laboratory on wheels?We make tools for these kinds of people. While some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do.
Apple. Think Different."
Friday, December 02, 2005
Broken Thoughts
It's been quite sometime since I wrote my last post. Time just seems to fly. Thoughts wander and then collide inside my head. At times I feel there is nothing 'happening' in my life. And then there are times when I feel, a lot is 'happening'. I don't know why I am writing this post. Agenda-less.
* * *
Was flicking through Anna Karenina at work. Tolstoy says that once a man learns about death, there is nothing worse than life. Interesting thought...
* * *
A friend from Exeter mailed after ages. Her thesis cooking well. Writing on the concept of 'desire.' From the writer's point of view. How difficult it must be to articulate thoughts on such a tricky idea. Well, not quite an idea...
A friend is leaving town. Going far, far away. Leaving me sad and tearful. Going for a purpose. Here's wishing all the very best. Don't worry, you'll be a star!
A friend is not returning home. Making money. Building dreams.
* * *
I want to go away from this place, for sometime. It's been almost a year now. I need to be free. Soul free. Or something like that. Chasing something elusive. Don't even know why.
I want to build a fort. I want to have cannons at my disposal. I want to tickle myself. And laugh. Laugh out loud.
* * *
In some dark alley, filled with the scent of marigold, a dreamer walks by, kicking the crushed coke can...visits the soothsayer and asks - 'Tell me the way out of this mess. Tell me what my future holds. Oh tell me how many children will I have? Tell me where all this is leading to. Tell me about myself."
And she wisely answers - 'It's too early my friend. Hang on a bit more. For good things come to those who wait."
It's been quite sometime since I wrote my last post. Time just seems to fly. Thoughts wander and then collide inside my head. At times I feel there is nothing 'happening' in my life. And then there are times when I feel, a lot is 'happening'. I don't know why I am writing this post. Agenda-less.
* * *
Was flicking through Anna Karenina at work. Tolstoy says that once a man learns about death, there is nothing worse than life. Interesting thought...
* * *
A friend from Exeter mailed after ages. Her thesis cooking well. Writing on the concept of 'desire.' From the writer's point of view. How difficult it must be to articulate thoughts on such a tricky idea. Well, not quite an idea...
A friend is leaving town. Going far, far away. Leaving me sad and tearful. Going for a purpose. Here's wishing all the very best. Don't worry, you'll be a star!
A friend is not returning home. Making money. Building dreams.
* * *
I want to go away from this place, for sometime. It's been almost a year now. I need to be free. Soul free. Or something like that. Chasing something elusive. Don't even know why.
I want to build a fort. I want to have cannons at my disposal. I want to tickle myself. And laugh. Laugh out loud.
* * *
In some dark alley, filled with the scent of marigold, a dreamer walks by, kicking the crushed coke can...visits the soothsayer and asks - 'Tell me the way out of this mess. Tell me what my future holds. Oh tell me how many children will I have? Tell me where all this is leading to. Tell me about myself."
And she wisely answers - 'It's too early my friend. Hang on a bit more. For good things come to those who wait."
