This morning I was quickly going to write about how I decided to re-include reading in my schedule. I told myself – no matter if my travel is just 15 mins in the train, I shall dedicate those 15 mins solely for reading. Also, I decided to read a book written by a male author. This has got nothing to do with slotting books by gender, but because there is a noticeable difference when you read what men have written and what women have penned. You just know. Unless of course, it’s Ayn Rand. Also, because I had to get to the bottom of whatever this nihilism is, and absurdism, and existentialism, and whatever the big words that, somehow, I tend to skip in pursuit of prose about buttercups and blades of green, tall, grass. I’m not trying to “stifle my natural instincts” like Boy said I could be trying to do. Past, angry posts aside, being a woman is fantastic because it largely involves wearing summer dresses above the knee which flutter in the wind, and I am always up for that kind of skin show.
Reading happened. Just not the way I would have liked it. Because the woman who sat next to me was on the phone and was screaming away in rapid Bengali right in my ear. To be honest, it kinda pissed me off. By the end of the day, I have gotten through the first chapter of The Outsider (L’Etranger) by Albert Camus. When I was reading the translator’s note about how she has translated some French sentences to stay true to the original text, an idea occurred to me. Since I have seen a play based on this book, and because I understood the translations mentioned in the Foreword, maybe, I should read this book in French. In the language that it was written. It will help me appreciate it more, and I will also brush up my French.
As this is a nascent idea, I am not sure if it is wholly good. I shall mull over it a little as and when I get the time to think for myself in the day.
Also, I decided this morning to write at least 250 words each day no matter where I wrote them – on the blog, adding to my book, letters, notes at work *rolls eyes* or just about anywhere.
Work is work, but reading and writing must happen.
1) Do write to me if you’ve read/have the original book by Camus.
2) This post was supposed to be a poem about a girl who took a chance and failed. Ah! What the heck.