Category: books

Two Thoughts of the Day

Miminality6 Comments

One

In my opinion, the only goals worth pure respect and ambition are ones that (a) a very brilliant person (b) has to work very hard for. Is it my inherent cynicism or do very few goals in the world seem to fill both the criteria? For example, JUDE (excellent as it may be) fills both (a) and (b) but not necessarily at the same time. (I. e. a very brilliant person can get on at JUDE with moderate-to-zero effort; and a moderately brilliant person can do the same with substantial effort put in. At times it is even possible for individuals to get on with neither (a) nor (b), with a little help from the Google-enabled phone or other comforts of a similar vein. Which disqualifies JUDE from that elusive category.)

Two

I think I was in Class 12 (or 11?) when Günter Grass visited Calcutta and spoke extensively on The Tin Drum. I had even attended the panel discussion at Kala Mandir (where he shared space with Tariq Ali, if my memory does not deceive; I have still not managed to read Tariq Ali though I’ve intended to for ever) but I did it out of sheer curiosity: I had not read any of Grass’s books yet, I knew little about him except the name. Right now, as I read The Tin Drum, I am wishing for nothing more than to be able to rewind to that evening and listen to the discussion with a better receptivity. Right now, I remember how wise and well-spoken and impressive Grass had seemed to my little school-going self but regrettably I remember nothing else.

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Sundays are wrapped in a gentle glow of happiness, of waking up mid-morning perfectly rested and restored, turning over sloooowly in languid anticipation of a cup of steaming sweet tea, a pile of newspaper supplements and updates on Postsecret and a handful of webcomics, copious amounts of home-cooked food (a rarity on weekdays) and afterwards, a good book to see one through the rest of the day. I think I have finally begun to love the His Dark Materials trilogy. The first book I had found readable enough, but three chapters into The Subtle Knife (late last night) I was really drawn in and 150 pages into The Amber Spyglass it’s still going great. Next on my reading list may very well be the last two books of the Bartimaeus trilogy (I read the first one months ago and it seemed promising) and Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, which is a thick book; I liked it greatly when I started reading it but the timing had been unwise — being right before my sixth semester exams — and somehow I never managed to return.

Today I painted a clock. My mother isn’t too happy about this. Let’s wait and watch (haha!) if the clock still works.

Earlier this evening there was a grasshopper on my glass windowpane. It was long and a very cheerful shade of green, but I got frightened of it and shooed it away because I didn’t know what it was and whether it would bite. The other day (Thursday? Friday?) at university a wasp had taken a fancy to me and just wouldn’t stop trying to sting my face. It followed me round and round and round for about an hour. Wasps are also a very cheerful shade of yellow. I really like the stripes. But Ma tells me grasshoppers are quite harmless that way so maybe I could’ve let it stay. (I feel a little lousy about this right now.)

Yesterday (N and) I went to say hello to a pair of dogs. They were very nice dogs, overflowing with slobber and friendliness. I should upload photos but at the moment I am feeling too lazy. I think I’ll just go back to the book, then.

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All morning there were alternating clouds and sunbursts and a little whimsical rain, and curled up in my bed with the light not lit I could sometimes see the page of the book in my hands and sometimes not. When it was too dark to decipher the words anymore I would roll over and lie on my back and think about the lines I’d just read and how fast my eyesight was going and ohmygodarghhowmuchthishurts and then the room would fill with sunshine again and I’d go back to reading some more of Flowers for Algernon which was finished late in the afternoon, just before the tubelight had to be decisively turned on and then I went to sleep. Flowers for Algernon is the first book borrowed from the DL with my new library card, which was issued yesterday. It makes me feel a little more grounded to this place though there is still time to fly away (and I’ll stare and stare at the days and watch them pass, tick-ticking away, I’ll stare hard and steady and faithful until it’s too late and then I’ll shake my head, look away and forget). The novel is creepy, well thought-out and absorbing, just the way I like all stories to be. (The beginning, though, reminded me that I never finished reading A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man which I began long ago: a small, rather familiar pang of guilt.)

Physical pain amuses me by the sheer tangibility of it unlike emotional pain. You can contain it, exclude it and forget all about it. These days are like 2004-05 all over again except that in 2004-05 I used to think the future would be different. But the “different” seems to have been just an interlude and now the waters are closing in again and I’m trying to remind myself that in 2004-05 I was not unhappy. Quite a few negatives but I was strong and independent and unafraid to love and infinitely curious about everything. I would love to have that curiosity back. Let’s see, let’s see.

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I have Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? with lovely dedication. Thank you, Mormegil. I have a clean room with fresh sheets and things laid out in neat stacks. Thank you, Mum. I am happy.

There is no balance on my phone, no unread email in my account, no deadline or stranger to meet. I think I may want nothing from the world except love and ice cream. That, and a few interesting things to read.