A prophecy that doesn't come true is gibberish from the past. Along with other books, I am currently reading Exhalation by Ted Chiang. To put it loosely, it is a collection of science fiction short stories that also underscore the meaning of being human. In the story that I am reading presently, a corporation creates... Continue Reading →
804 words By Day Eight, I had finished reading 7 books from Oct 1 to Nov 3. I was mighty pleased with myself to have gotten back into the rhythm of reading literature (I read some really intense books) and also for starting off my November so strong. Reading a whole book in just 3... Continue Reading →
Days go badly, and if too many of them go badly, they roll into tough weeks. And I find myself obstructed from the act of living, from being able to do the things I enjoy, and sometimes even need. And how does a day go badly? In ways more than one, I suppose, but it... Continue Reading →
With a lot of hiccups and pauses, I am trying to read literature from 100 years ago. I pick up a page or two and life, usually in the form of a notification or a chore or a thoughtless distraction, gets in the way. My mind is like a room full of scattered belongings strewn... Continue Reading →
SF and I are buddy-reading One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and all I want to say is — what on God’s good green earth is happening in this book? I picked it up because I was so enthralled by his writing in Of Love and Other Demons, and SF picked it... Continue Reading →
“But memories are time beings, too, like cherry blossoms or ginkgo leaves; for a while they are beautiful, and then they fade and die.” ― Ruth Ozeki, A Tale for the Time Being A couple of years ago, I read a book titled A Tale for the Time Being. The book was unassuming, part of... Continue Reading →
I seem to have forgotten how to write about nothing - the great wide expanses of absence. Why must everything be something? Have meaning? Fall into line? Be coherent? I've beaten myself silly about not categorising thoughts inside the margins of my journals because they need to go into an essay, a piece somewhere, a... Continue Reading →
There's this collection of short stories by Raymond Carver that I read from time to time. It's a small book, the cover is teal and red, and it is light in the way library books were light when you pulled them out from the oldest shelves. It is yellowed that way too and smells like... Continue Reading →
It is very quiet in the room. I'm all alone and the small, yellow light keeps me company. Under it, I've just finished reading A Book of Simple Living by Ruskin Bond. I think about the ferns, geraniums, walnuts, oaks and deodars generously mentioned in the book. I can hear the silence float in the... Continue Reading →
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