The Dord, the Diglot, and an Avocado .... and The Dead

The Dord, the Diglot, and an Avocado or Two has been released today; had reserved it and expecting it soon. Having been a member of wordsmith I can say for sure that a story a day from the book would make the day more interesting. Evening teas would be tastier than ever.

Speaking of books, it is very annoying to see every Tom Dick and Harry who is a chef or telly presenter or beautician or wrestler or one of those who had carved a career out of their cleavage taking up space and time for their book-signing sessions at the book stores. I had to put up with all the drama in many a bookshops across many a cities lately. In fact countries. The pain entails putting up with hordes of pop-ulations who cant maintain any decorum and generally make a Leicester square at the ground floor. Moreover they drift off here and there with their cameras cramping up space, getting in way of the regulars demanding to be trampled. It would be immense relief to all the parties if a bus is parked in one of the adjacent side alleys with the writer or their ghost-writer inside ready with a pen and make all the admirers walk into the bus with their book copies and cameras. As a bonus they would all get a cctv footage with the author. It would be still more wonderful if the bus drives away with all of them and their idol aboard. They can claim for rest of their lives that they had been on a bus with so and so . Eejits.
If not for the pleasure of slowly wading through racks and racks of books, Amazon would have done the job.


Amongst other things, this article made me recollect my thoughts on the short story. With all my conviction I believe that short story is the real tangible unit of writing as against a novel where the content might easily overrule the craft of writing. Also, a novel as an art form is less restrictive and has more room for one ’s self expression thereby limiting the art per se. By this I mean, with some direction and commitment, one can search a material in one’s experience and convert it into decent novel. A short story on the other hand is more demanding on the imagination as well on the technicalities of writing.

Coming to the list , I haven’t read three in there, but I see it’s a decent list. Still there are gross overlookings- No Borges, No Dahl, No Calvino No Nabokov et al
But to be fair it’s a personal list -- but It would have felt better if The Dead had moved up to the top. Nose is a brilliant satire but like any satire, is limited in its depth. Just like a good animation. But The Dead is multi layered and deeply universal. It is my personal favourite; the ending is agreeably the most tender that literature has known. I remember reading it for the first time in a public library when I was young - a dogeared Dubliners in a bit of a state; no cover and no healthy spine.
I still recall the feeling; it is very hard to put into words. I didn’t know the author and the book at that time and moreover was devouring relentlessly everything so gradually I forgot about it. But the second time , a few years later , as I started reading it I instantly knew I had read it. It all came back in one instant. As I said before, tender. See even after all these years and after so many readings that's all I can bring myself to say.
The latter half of the story is a reflection of the delicate sharpness of Joyce’s mind. In the last paragraphs, if you can, you can find, Dostoevsky, Nietzsche, Stendhal and even Henry James.

Pure Bliss!!

PS- Sometimes I wonder how it would feel to pen such great prose ?

But we know the answer for that dont we? It would simply feel like writing the greatest prose starting somewhat stately and ending in a yes.

Cellini's Revenge

Writes Eric Newby introducing Benvenuto Cellini* as a Florentine of violent and homicidal predisposition who was the most skilful metal worker of his day.

Cellini’s autobiography which he has tastefully named Autobiography is a must read; Wikipedia regards it as one of the most important autobiographies of the renaissance era. Without a doubt. To say the man is fascinating is to put it mildly. Perhaps it is for their confident eccentricities that I associate him with Herbert Spencer.

Here is an extract where he plots revenge against an innkeeper.

A few days afterwards we set out on our return to Florence. We lay one night at a place on this side Chioggia, on the left hand as you go toward Ferrara. Here the host insisted upon being paid before we went to bed, in his own way; and when I observed that it was the custom everywhere else to pay in the morning, he answered: 'I insist on being paid overnight, and in my own way.' I retorted that men who wanted everything their own way ought to make a world after their own fashion, since things were differently managed here. Our host told me not to go on bothering his brains, because he was determined to do as he had said. Tribolo stood trembling with fear, and nudged me to keep quiet, lest they should do something worse to us; so we paid them in the way they wanted, and afterwards we retired to rest. We had, I must admit, the most capital beds, new in every particular, and as clean as they could be. Nevertheless I did not get one wink of sleep, because I kept on thinking I could revenge myself.


He goes on further musing about plans of arson or how he can manage to sever the throats of four fine horses in the stable that he had noticed earlier. But eventually he abandons his tall plans and settles for shredding into ribbons the four fine beds (most capital) and after the deed is pleased with himself for having caused a damage of at least fifty crowns. The escape is quite cinematic.

The book is full of such adorable pulp.

*I gather from Italian friends that though is pronounced as Chellini not to be mistaken with Giovanni Chellini at V&A.

Three...

Elle , picked it from the ether like she usually does.
So they are bothered if its three times a day or thrice.

To improvise Mr. Henry Ford, you can have whichever you want as long as it is sex.
Im a thrice man myself, whiskey whiskey whiskey.
Just like Talaaq Talaaq Talaaq!
I find three times a day bit, hmmm, well, rural. Hell with the teachers. If at all have to use three times a day It sounds better in Latin Ter in Di TID

Amen.

This reminds the trivia that Pythogoras believed number three embodied the universe. Or was it four?

Post-modern pregnancy

Well. What is the goddamn term for the space and time in your consciousness when you carefully weigh in whatever you wish to say when you enter a post-modern party; Yeah like the ipod or Bluetooth what is this exclusive moment of our times - one is from Fiji and someone is from some town in Netherlands with so many js and so many ks , all together or in a queue that you cant even think of pronouncing it properly even when you are most sober; then someone is a blonde, so no blonde jokes, someone’s dad is an accountant ; and then someone could be a Tory or a Jew ; someone is always a Malayali; someone just broke up, someone is going out with Greek girl, someone who pronounces schedule as the Americans do, someone in a loss, gorgeous looking Muslim women who always make you wonder if they drink or not and there is always someone who has seen a documentary on channel four and believes people would be killed in India if they don’t agree for arranged marriage; yes, there is always an ex addict, and people with disagreeing views on charity or American foreign policy, there is always the covert communist of course, and a feminist with whom you end up arguing after a few drinks because you asked her if the feminists get the headache too? and a geek boy who knows by rote all the frames of all the David Lean Movie; there are left-handers invariably - so you don’t wanna offend their sensibilities too.
Between walking in and knowing the composition of the revellers, the post-modern mind has to register and process so much global information and make sure it comes across as politically correct and sensible for everyone in the motley crew. So its about time we had a term ?

Turner 2007

Response wall at the Turner Prize Exhibit; Tate Liverpool.

Chinese Whispers

The measure of your worth is your judgement, not information.

~extracted from an im convo. context: It aint cool to know a lot when you dont know what the heck you're talkin about.

Yes, Hell is the other blogger.

Mcguffin

Ha! How wonderful! The Hitchcock collection has come down to 30 quid from 99 quid. This was at Meadowhall Leeds. So remember dear reader good things happen to those who wait.

Btw whatever happened to that Coppola laptop with rushes of latest Matt Damon movie? Any joy?

Blend

One of the most relatable Post-modern poems Ive come across recently, From Michael O'Siadhail's Globe.

Blend

Beyond each heartland over millennia
exodus, migration, scattering,
eternal Jew, Chinese sojourner
Or wherever green is worn.

Remember how many thrived in Babylon,
exile and rover making good
Or darker musics of belonging
Blues, calypso, reggae.

As both before Europe's lines and maps
And in gaps and interstices then,
Even more so now that all
Our frontiers shift and leak.

Every homeland falls short of our desire.
...che retro la memoria non pio ire--
memory can't backtrack-
Dante dreams onward.

Uprootedness, estrangement, our starting again.
As in the beginning and maybe always
blends of memory, story, myth ;
cross oceans of longing.

~Michael o’ Siadhail

Ficcione -1

For T

Someone suggested we move to the upper deck; we stood near the railings open to the grey sea and watched the gulls fly home. Through the distance we could make out the hazy cliffs of Dover. We stood there and conversed about something I wasn’t particularly interested in. As the night fell, I kept on gazing into the growing darkness.
A young man sat at the far end of the deck and was strumming a guitar. People listened, gently clapping around him. It reminded me of something which I couldn’t remember anyway.
I was so occupied with myself I had forgotten she was still beside me.

I realised only when a pleasant breeze gathered momentum and swept her untasselled hair over my face. After all these days, after all what had happened I still found my heart swelling like a night sea in front of me. It was unbearable.

~ Dublin

iwinter...

Yes , summer’s officially over.

And this one’s been not too bad.
Enter winter.Through the ajar arms of autumn.
All the sought after books , movies and other essentials have been collected and hoarded.
Do what we have to now.
Escape.
To somewhere below the equator.
Godspeed.
Sri Lanka and India.
Christmas back in Netherlands.

Levi
Bellow
Saidhail
And
Spinoza.
Bit of Upanishads if time permits.
And Orson Welles of course.


Somewhere over Ireland.

Blog Find

Meaning to write about this for a while, but couldn’t get around to. Of all the writing in Indian blogs I have checked this one is a damn neat find . When I say writing I mean writing , not feminist gimmicks, not desperate attempt at humour , not projecting images of poet-scholar, not pathetic attempts of eastern European movie reviews . The lady’s writing is uniquely charming as what the critics would call the voice. Well. Whatever. If you overlook some general inexperience and rites of passages there is quite definite flair for sure. Especially the earlier blogs.

By the way

Red army, Royal Mile , Edinburgh

Radiohead In Rainbows.. Its really up to you

Well Well. Radiohead have gone ahead and done it. What was begging to be done since ipod revolutionised the concept and melody of music.

Radiohead’s aversion to the music industry is as well known as their innovation and creative talent. Now as we all learnt over the last few days, they are selling their albums directly from their website from today for a price that you are willing to pay. As they see its really up to you.This could range from free to up to hundred quid for downloading their latest ten tracks.Whatever that you want to pay. I am told that the site doesn’t accept more than one hundred pounds.

And I am still mulling over and discussing this idea just like anyone on the island. At the moment I find it wonderful and I have neither thought for myself nor have been presented with any argument to disfavour the idea. The only concern is with music lobby going contract happy creating a hierarchy of useless music. But hey it cant get any worse than it is now. And then there is a also a risk of decadence of music in general, making it hard to discover your kind of music amongst loads of substandard garage bands. But it’s all speculative, got to wait and see. I have a feeling this is just a first throw of stone. Things would take a different course as we go along.

Anyway talking of the music as such, I paid a fiver ( which I believe is a reasonable price considering that all of it directly goes to the band) and downloaded the ten tracks.

Its good mostly and brilliant at parts. Typical Radiohead but not complexly fragmented as Kid A(I don’t dislike it). But to my taste I did not find it extraordinary. But we ought to bear in mind we almost subconsciously compare any of their album to OK Computer which perhaps is the best album of the last century. Except perhaps one. Well Never mind.

Download Website

Yellow

And it was all yellow....

~Somewhere abouts Yorkshire