Book I Read

26/02/06
To-Day I would like to discuss upon a book that I am reading at present. It is an intersesting and also a disturbing book. I have so far read four chapters. I read books irrespective of its author or its title. Sometimes I chose by its author name or by its celebreity status(i.e. being stood as best seller). I chanced upon 'The Outsider' accidently while browsing the internet. I read an article about the book "The Outsider". In that article the author said about how he was greatly disturbed by the book.After reading the book he left his family in Austeralia and went on soul searching wandering the world. He has finally returned to his family after spending some years and continued his life from where he left. He has said that he has read that book several times since then. It gave him new directions and peace of mind whenever he sought from it. But I would not do it at my age( I mean I would not run away from life). Anyway I was once an outsider which caused me my acadamic aspirations. I always felt I have underachieved inspite of my intelegience and background. In the book Colin Wilson discusses about problems of outsider in Literature.

In the first chapter C.W. discusses about Henri Barbuse's novel L' E lfer whose hero lives the life of man who sees other lives through the peep hole of his room. C.W. states about outsider: All men and women have their dangerous, unnamable, impulses, yet they keep pretence, to themselves, to others; their respectability, their philosphy, their religion, are all attempts to gloss over, to make look civilized and rational something that is savage, un0rganized, irrational. He is an outsider because he stands for the Truth.

C.W. says Shakespeare, Dante, Keats were all apparently norml and socially well adjusted. But D.H.Lawerance, James Joyce Sarte and Alfred Comus are all outsiders. He observes that Good Health and strong nerve can make an outsider unlikely because the men in Good health is thinking about other things and does not look in the directions where uncertainity lies. And once man has seen it the world can never be the same straight forward place.

I will discuss about other chapters shortly.

Item in Indian Express

24.02.06

Yesterday there was an item in a newspaper that caught my eyes. It is about acquittal of all the convicts of JESSICA LAL. Jessica lal was a barmaid who was shot dead at point blanc range for her refusal to serve drinks after her duty time by the son of a minister and his friends. There were eye witnesses. Yet conviction could not be awarded because of inadequqte presentation of prosecution case. The eye witneses have turned hostile. Former JUSTICE V.N.KHARE COMMENTING upon the case has observed in Indian Express that "In 1967 the conviction rate was 80 percent. In 2005 the same conviction rate dipped to 22 percent, and most successful cases concerned petty crimes. Obeviousely those petty offences are committed by the poor who are not in a position to engage an expensive Lawyer. The big fish, on the other hand, can tear their way out of the net of Law." Where we are heading? Who is going to put up a stop to this? What would become of our country in future? As rightly pointed out in the Editorial of Indian Express crime does really pay in our beloved country- Birth place of Mahatma Gandhi and Buddha. Lots of angry letters have been sent to editors of New papers. One letter said that the Penal Code should be so amended that accused if proved to be wealthy and political should be discharged without trial. This will save a lot wasteful expenditure of taxpayer's money. Some thought.

First Day

To-Day is my first day as a blogger(23/02/06)

I want to share a poem with my readers. This poem was introduced to me by My father when i was a college student.That was forty years ago. I t was written by Edgar Lee Masters. Even now it impresses me . Common, read it.

SILENCE

I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea,

And the silence of the city when it pauses,

And the silence of the man and maid,

And the silence for which music alone finds the word,

And the silence of the woods before the winds of spring begin,

And the silence of the sick.

When their eyes roam the room

And I ask: For the depths

Of what use is language?

A beast of the field moans a few times,

When death takes its young.

And we are voiceless in the presence of realities-

We cannot speak.

A curious boy asks an old soldier

Sitting in front of the grocery store,

“How did you loose your leg?”

And the old soldier is struck with silence,

On his mind flies away

Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg.

It comes back jocosely and he says” A bear bit off.”

And the boy wonders. While the old soldier

Dumbly, feebly lives over

The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon,

The shrieks of the slain,

And himself lying on the ground

And the hospital surgeons, the knives

And the long days in bed.

But if he could describe it all

He would be an artist

But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds

Which he could not describe.

There is the silence of a great hatred,

And the silence of a great love,

And the silence of deep peace of mind,

And the silence of an embittered friendship

There is the silence of a spiritual crisis.

Through which your soul exquisitely tortured,

Comes with visions not to be uttered

Into a realm of higher life.

And the silence of the gods who understand each other without speech,

There is the silence of defeat,
There is the silence of those unjustly punished
And the silence of the dying whose hand
Suddenly grips yours.
There is the silence between father and son,
When the father can not explain his life,
Even though he be misunderstood for it.
There is the silence that comes between husband and wife.
There is the silence of those who have failed;
And the vast silence that covers
Broken nations and vanquished leaders.
There is the silence of Lincoln,
Thinking of the poverty of his youth.
And the silence of Napoleon
After Waterloo.
And the silence of Jeanne d'Arc
Saying amid the flames, "Blessed Jesus"—
Revealing in two words all sorrow, all hope.
And there is the silence of age,
Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it
In words intelligible to those who have not lived
The great range of life.
And there is the silence of the dead
If we who are in life cannot speak
Of profound experiences,
Why do you marvel that the dead
Do not tell you of death?
Their silence shall be interpreted
As we approach them.

When ever I read the poem I was deeply moved .You can read and read and mullover it
The lines that I like it most:
"Thre is the silence between father and son,
When the father can not explain his life,
Eventhough he be misundersyood for it.