K-Line

Goals: This Week

2012-01-25T10:16:00.003-05:00

End of SS2D1
A Fine Balance: fin
Bayly book: fin

Spring Semester Goals - Broad Outline

2012-01-25T10:10:00.002-05:00

Hindi workbook
French workbook
Metaphysics1
4 stories
India History: without any goals

San Francisco Links

2011-12-21T15:29:00.004-05:00

Reading List: End Of The Year

2011-12-17T21:50:00.000-05:00

My Life A Fragment
Roshnai
A Bend In The River
The Death of Virgil
Mythologies: Roland Barthes

This Week

2011-11-27T20:25:00.001-05:00

Augustine
SS2D1
Phil: HW1
Book Of Memories
Conte Francais: 2 Stories

This Week

2011-11-21T12:23:00.001-05:00

Augustine
1 HW: Phil
1 Conte Francaise : after Balzac
SS2D1

This Week

2011-11-14T14:07:00.001-05:00

War & War: Fin
2 Stories : Conte Francais
SS2D1
St. Augustine: Fin
First two Assignments on Descartes

This Week

2011-10-26T20:48:00.000-04:00

SS2D1 : Finish
Concise History: Finish
L'Etranger : Finish
La Chute : 50 pgs

Tuesday: To Do List

2011-10-17T17:54:00.001-04:00

8:30-11:30: SS2D1
Midterm
Mechatronics Circuit Hookups
Muslim History

This Week

2011-10-17T17:49:00.002-04:00

L'Etranger Finish
Muslim History 100pgs
SS2D1: Police Scene, coronation buildup
On The Trinity

2011-10-10T00:53:00.003-04:00

L'etranger: pg.no.125
Indian Middle Classes: 50pgs
ON The Trinity

Wednesday To Do List

2011-10-04T16:17:00.001-04:00

Ind. MiddleClasses: 100 pages
L'Etranger 60pgs
Starbucks 5:30-onwards: 1000words

Destroyer: Painter In Your Pocket

2011-10-03T15:00:00.001-04:00

And I'm reminded
Of the time that I was blinded
By the sun
It was a welcome change
From the sight of you hanging
Like a willow
Off the arm of yet another visionary
Prophetess East Van. punk

I didn't stand a chance
I couldn't stand at all
You looked ok with the others
You looked great on your own
It was 2002 and you couldn't be bothered
To say hello or goodbye
Or stand the test of time
You did, I just tried to
Separate an ocean from these tears we cried

Where did you get that line?
Where did you get that look?
Where did you get that penchant for destruction in the way you talk?
Where did you get that ride?
Where did you get that rocket?
Where did you get that painter in your pocket?

Hey, there's Christine
And there's where she could've been
The summer season was cheap
Birds of prey stick together
And hey so do we, go

I didn't stand a chance
I couldn't stand at all
You looked ok with the others
You looked great by yourself
It was 2002 and you needed reminding to stay alive
And so did I, but at least I tried to
Fall upon that sword and never look back

Where did you get that line?
Where did you get that look?
Where did you get that penchant for destruction in the way you talk?
Where did you get that ride?
Where did you get that rocket?
Where did you get that painter in your pocket?

I didn't stand a chance
I didn't stand at all
You looked ok with the others

This Week

2011-10-03T11:57:00.000-04:00

L'etranger reread finish
Indian Middle Classes Finish
On The Trinity: pg.no.150
SSD2: police scene and fly past and concluding speech
Sat. Sunday: Metaphysics I Homeworks

This Week

2011-09-25T18:56:00.001-04:00

Indian Middle Classes 300 pgs
A Void : 150 pgs
SS2D1: 5000 words+
French Grammar Book : Finish
L'Etranger: 50 pgs

This Week

2011-09-06T19:26:00.002-04:00

Hindu Social Reform
L'Etranger
SS2D1: Electric Shock Therapy, Justice Play, Fly Past
French Grammar: Chapter 15, 16, 17
St. Augustine

Novels To Read

2011-08-30T11:11:00.005-04:00

La Chute
Marguerite Duras Novel in French
The Ambassadors
Ali Poor Ka Eli
Death Of Virgil
The Emigrants - W. G. Sebald
Shadow-Boxing Woman
A Sentimental Education, Madame Bovary
Melancholy Of Resistance
Book Of Memories - Xmas Time or maybe in one long stretch on thanksgiving

This Week

2011-08-15T14:57:00.000-04:00

L'etranger
SSD2
UP Muslim Politics
Leeches

End Of The Year Goals

2011-08-13T18:55:00.002-04:00

Metaphysics I Class
SSD2 and SSD1 and SSD3 and SSD4
La Chute
French Grammar Heminway
Persian Grammar Revision

Books

2011-08-11T23:49:00.002-04:00

On The Trinity
UP Muslims Politics
L'etranger
Shadow-Boxing Woman
Leeches

goals: august

2011-07-21T11:33:00.001-04:00

Metaphysics class MIT
books
SSD2: Draft1
some character writing

Book Cycle

2011-07-20T08:44:00.001-04:00

La Chute

On The Trinity

Shadow-Boxing Woman

Yaadon Ki Baaraat

This Week

2011-07-10T18:25:00.000-04:00

On The Trinity
Freedom 100pgs
French Ch.9.10.11
SSD2

This Week

2011-07-06T09:36:00.001-04:00

On The Trinity
SSD2 : 4000+
French Chapter8,9,10
Beautiful Days
Freedom

To Do List

2011-06-27T11:29:00.001-04:00

SSD2 1000 words+
Chapter7
Beautiful Days

This Week

2011-06-26T22:03:00.001-04:00

Beautiful Days
SSD2: Mughal Episode, Ayat Episode, Noor Jahan Episode
L'etranger: 120pgs
On Trinity : pg.200
French C7,8,9

The Book Of Job - Opening

2011-06-07T23:48:00.001-04:00

There was a man in the land of Uz, whose name was Job; and that man was perfect and upright, and one that feared God, and eschewed evil.

This Week

2011-06-05T22:24:00.002-04:00

On The Trinity : pg.50
French Chapter 7
SSD2 : Mughal Episode, and Noor Jahan Episode
The Book OF Job

On the Trinity - Opening

2011-06-04T21:46:00.001-04:00

Book 8 Outline
1. In the Divine Trinity, paradoxically, three persons are not greater than one. (I.I)

DFW

2011-06-04T20:52:00.000-04:00

"This is art – concerned less with explanation than transfiguration, less with escape than the modality of perspective, the dark presence of our century’s history, like the enframing libretto, succeeds at just that – enframing – by transcending frame to become the wild theme’s emblem. What is more [illegible]: the book deserves the care and patience it demands.”"

DFW's notes in his copy of Lost In The Funhouse

To Do List

2011-06-03T15:51:00.001-04:00

Portrait of a lady: FIN
SSD2: 1000+
SSD1: final draft

epiphany 052811

2011-05-28T14:32:00.000-04:00

to future friends ...

To Do List

2011-05-26T21:19:00.002-04:00

Cover Letter
L'Etranger
Portrait of a lady
SSD2: 1000 word+

To Do List

2011-05-25T17:24:00.002-04:00

Sample Letter
Lab and Midterm for CIS410 on thursday
L'etranger
Portrait: 300pgs

Book Cycle: Next Month

2011-05-20T13:10:00.001-04:00

Inferno: Reread
Ada or Ardor
The Portrait of a Lady
On Trinity
L'etranger

آتش

2011-05-08T13:31:00.002-04:00

زیادہ بوسے سے دشنام میں حلاوت ہے

وہ زہر ہے یہ کہ جس سے لذیذ قند نہ ہو

L'étranger - pg. 40

2011-05-04T20:13:00.000-04:00

Les lampes de la rue se sont alors allumées brusquement et elles ont fait pâlir les premieres etoiles qui montaient dans la nuit.

epiphany 04162011

2011-05-01T20:32:00.001-04:00

The great thing about writing is that a lot of writing changes on the second look although at the time of writing it looks like shit but the train of thought has a weird way of illumining itself on the second read and if it happens then that means you are in business and that the material is rewrite-worthy.

This Week

2011-05-01T20:31:00.001-04:00

SS2D1: +5000 words
SS1D4: fin?
L'Etranger
French Book2: C2

Dandelion Wine - Opening

2011-04-29T21:16:00.002-04:00

It was a quiet morning, the town covered over with darkness and at ease in bed. Summer gathered in the weather, the wind had the proper touch, the breathing of the world was long and warm and slow. You had only to rise, lean from your window, and know that this indeed was the first real time of freedom and living, this was the first morning of summer.

For Walter I. Bradbury
neither uncle nor cousin
but most decidedly
editor and friend.

AVON BOOKS, INC.
1350 Avenue of the Americas
New York, New York 10019

Introduction copyright 1975 by Ray Bradbury
Copyright 1946, 1947, 1950, 1952, 1953, 1954, 1955, 1957 by Ray Bradbury
Interior design by Kellan Peck

First Avon Books Printing: February 1999

Printed in the U.S.A

Grocery

2011-04-23T23:21:00.000-04:00

spinach
potato
tomato
cereal
eggs
bread
7ups

epiphany 04161906

2011-04-23T21:36:00.003-04:00

the greatest thing about writing is that when you think you are demoralized, fucked and left alone for no good on your broken raft in a sea of shit - that's the moment when the sun rises and fortune smiles at you. everything turns into pure gold and a way forward comes and carries you over to the magical shores ...

A Pre-Raphaelite Notebook

2011-04-22T15:27:00.001-04:00

Primroses; salutations; the miry skull
of a half-eaten ram; viscous wounds in earth
opening. What seraphs are afoot.

Gold seraph to gold worm in the pierced slime:
greetings. Advent of power-in-grace. The power
of flies distracts the working of our souls.

Earth's abundance. The God-ejected Word
resorts to flesh, procures carrion, satisfies
its white hunger. Salvation's travesty

a deathless metaphor: the stale head
sauced in original blood; the little feast
foaming with cries of rapture and despair.

The Distant Fury Of Battle

2011-04-20T13:29:00.001-04:00

Grass resurrects to mask, to strangle,
Words glossed on stone, lopped stone-angel;
But the dead maintain their ground --
That there's no getting round --

Who in places vitally rest,
Named, anonymous; who test
Alike the endurance of yews
Laurels, moonshine, stone, all tissues;

With whom, under license and duress,
There are pacts made, if not peace.
Union with the stone-wearing dead
Claims the born leader, the prepared

Leader, the devourers and all lean men.
Some, finally, learn to begin.
Some keep to the arrangement of love
(Or similar trust) under whose auspices move

Most subjects, toward the profits of this
Combine of doves and witnesses.
Some, dug out of hot-beds, are brought bare,
Not past conceiving but past care.

This Week

2011-04-17T22:47:00.000-04:00

Impressions Of Africa
SS2D1
SS1D4
Inferno
French Chapter2, 3

To Do List

2011-04-15T15:15:00.000-04:00

Shower
Pillows
Laundry
Writing
Cooking

It's still early ...

2011-04-13T13:12:00.002-04:00

from The Monogram

[...]
That I no longer have anything else
In the four walls, the ceiling, the floor
To shout for you and my own echo hitting me
To smell of your scent and people to get angry
Because the untested and foreign
People can’t stand and it’s early, do you hear me
It’s still early in this world my love

To speak of you and me.
[...]

At Swim-Two-Birds - pg. 136

2011-04-12T12:16:00.001-04:00

Maybe he is drunk, suggested the Good Fairy, I don't believe in wasting my sympathy on sots, do you?

At Swim-Two-Birds - pg. 128

2011-04-11T22:26:00.001-04:00

The stuff that I go in for, said Casey roughly, is the real stuff. Oh, none of the fancy stuff for me.

This Week

2011-04-11T14:08:00.001-04:00

At Swim-Two-Birds: FIN
SS2: Notes Draft1
Inferno
Descartes

This Week

2011-04-04T19:00:00.001-04:00

At Swim-Two-Birds : 150pgs
F Demystified: Ch3,4,5
Inferno
Draft3: SS1
Notes: SS2
Amaavas

At Swim-Two-Birds - Opening

2011-04-04T17:47:00.002-04:00

CHAPTER 1

HAVING placed in my mouth sufficient bread for three minutes' chewing, I withdrew my powers of sensual perception and retired into the privacy of my mind, my eyes and face assuming a vacant and preoccupied expression. I reflected on the subject of my spare time literary activities. One beginning and one ending for a book was a thing I did not agree with. A good book may have three openings entirely dissimilar and inter-related only in the prescience of the author, or for that matter one hundred times as many endings.

'Εξισταται γαρ παντ απ αλληλων διχα

First Dalkey Archive edition, 1998

Second printing, 2001

Third printing, 2005

Fourth printing, 2008

Partially funded by grants from the National Endowment for the Arts, a federal agency, the Illinois Arts Council, a state agency, and by the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign

Printed on the permanent/durable acid-free paper and bound in the United States of America.

A Month Of Sundays - Opening

2011-03-27T17:22:00.003-04:00

Forgive me my denomination and my town; I am a Christian minister, and an American. I write these pages at some point in the time of Richard Nixon's unravelling. Though the yielding is mine, the temptation belongs to others: my keepers have set before me a sheaf of blank sheets -- a month's worth, in their estimation. Sullying them is to be my sole therapy.

my tongue is the pen of a ready writer

-- PSALM 45

This principle of soul, universally and individually, is the principle of ambiguity.

-- PAUL TILLICH

Sale of the book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as "unsold or destroyed" and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.

A Fawcett Columbine Book
Published by Ballantine Books

Copyright 1974, 1975 by John Updike

This edition is published by arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincide3ntal.

An excerpt from this book originally appeared in Playboy magazine.

Manufactured in the United States of America

This Week

2011-03-27T15:32:00.000-04:00

French C40: End
Descartes
Dante: Fin
SS1: D3, SS2, Sketch+D1

Oblivion: Mr. Squishy

2011-03-21T19:56:00.002-04:00

Or maybe that even the mere possibility of expressing any of this childish heartbreak to someone else seemed impossible except in the context of the mystery of true marriage, meaning not just a ceremony and financial merger but a true communion of souls, and Schmidt now lately felt he was coming to understand why the Church all through his childhoos catechism and pre-Con referred to it as the Holy Sacrament of Marriage, for it seemed every bit as miraculous and transrational and remote from the possibilities of actual lived life as the crucifixion and resurrection and transubstantation did, which is to say it appeared not as a goal to expect ever to really reach or achieve but as a kind of navigational star, as in in the sky, something high and untouchable and miraculously beautiful in the sort of distant way that reminded you always how ordinary and unbeautiful and incapable of miracles you your own self were, which was another reason why Schmidt had stopped looking at the sky or going out at night or even usually ever opening the lightproof curtains of his condominium's picture window when he got home at night and instead sat with his satellite TV's channel changer in his left hand switching rapidly from channel to channel out of fear that something better was going to come on suddenly on another of the cable provider's 220 regular and premium channels and that he was about to miss it, spending three nightly hours this way before it was time to stare with drumming heart at the telephone wholly unbeknownst to her had Darlene Lilley's home number on Speed Dial so that it would take only one moment of the courage to risk looking prurient or creepy to use just one finger to push just one gray button to invite her for one cocktail or even just a soft drink over which he could take off his public mask and open his heart to her before quailing and deferring the call one more night and waddling into the bathroom and/or then the cream-and-tan bedroom to lay out the next day's crisp shirt and tie and say his nightly dekate and then masturbate himself to sleep once more.

This Week

2011-03-19T19:45:00.001-04:00

French C40: End
Descartes
Dante: Fin
SS1: D3, SS2, Sketch+D1

Home-thoughts, from the Sea

2011-03-16T22:13:00.001-04:00

NOBLY, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away;
Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;
Bluish ’mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;
In the dimmest North-east distance dawn’d Gibraltar grand and gray;
‘Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?’—say,
Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,
While Jove’s planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.

The Cantos: V

2011-03-14T20:17:00.004-04:00

Topaz I manage, and three sorts of blue;
but on the barb of time.
The fire? always, and the vision always,
Ear dull, perhaps, with the vision, flitting
And fading at will. Weaving with points of gold,
Gold-yellow, saffron... The roman shoe, Aurunculeia'a

barb of time: Perhaps an allusion to Giordano Bruno's motto vincit instans ("the instant triumphs"), of which Bruno says that the creative instant or inspiration is a barb of light which pierces the mind to give one a totally new perception beyond all mere logic chopping. This links up with Pound's notions regarding the "luminous detail" -- Companion

This Week

2011-03-14T13:17:00.002-04:00

French C34
SS D3
Inferno FIN
DESCARTES

Silk - Soie

2011-03-12T15:57:00.000-05:00

Love, my folded readers, love as a carefully folded letter.

Distant Star - Closing

2011-03-06T20:21:00.002-05:00

A taxi pulled up beside us. Look after yourself, my friend, he said, and off he went.

Distant Star - pg. 130

2011-03-06T20:20:00.002-05:00

This is my last communique from the planet of the monsters/ Never again will I immerse myself in literature's bottomless cesspools. I will go back to writing my poems, such as they are, find a job to keep body and soul together, and make no attempt to be published.

This Week

2011-03-06T11:06:00.000-05:00

French C29
SS D2
Descartes
Inferno Fin
Cantos EP

This Week

2011-02-28T11:02:00.000-05:00

French C25
SS D2
Persian :105
Inferno: FIN
Cantos EP:I-X

Epiphany #45

2011-02-26T11:47:00.003-05:00

Last night buying a used copy of Rimbaud's poetry in French and showing The Crows to someone all while not awake ... talking to fmjtf.

L'étranger - pg. 13

2011-02-26T11:43:00.001-05:00

Maman, sans être athée, n'avait jamais pensé de son vivant à la religion.

L'étranger - Ouverture

2011-02-25T17:39:00.002-05:00

I

Aujourd'hui, maman est morte. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas. J'ai reçu un télégramme de l'asile :: <<>> Cela ne veut rien dire. C'était peut-être hier.

COLLECTIONS FOLIO

Éditions Gallimard, 1957

Jeremiah 5:6

2011-02-21T11:12:00.002-05:00

"Wherefore a lion out of the forest shall slay them, and a wolf of
the evenings shall spoil them, and a leopard shall watch over the
cities."

Inferno - Canto I

2011-02-20T21:09:00.002-05:00

As when Divine Love set those beautiful
Lights into motion at creation's dawn,
And the time of day and season combined to fill

My heart with hope of that beast with festive skin --
But not so much that the next sight wasn't fearful:
A lion came at me, his head high as he ran,

Roaring with hunger so the air appeared to tremble.
Then, a grim she-wolf -- whose leanness seemed to compress
All the world's cravings, that had made miserable

Such multitudes; she put such heaviness
Into my spirit, I lost hope of the crest.
Like someone eager to win, who tested by loss

Surrenders to gloom and weeps, so did that beast
Make me feel, as harrying toward me at a lope
She forced me back toward where the sun is lost.

Israel Potter - pg. 31

2011-02-20T17:26:00.002-05:00

Continuing in the service of the king's gardener at Kew, until a season came when the work of the garden required a less number of laborers; Israel, with several others, was discharged; and the day after, engaged himself for a few months to a farmer in the neighborhood where he had been last employed. But hardly a week had gone by, when the old story of his being a rebel, or a runaway prisoner, or a Yankee! or a spy, began to be revived with added malignity. Like bloodhounds, the soldiers were once more on the track. The houses where he harbored were many times searched; but thanks to the fidelity of a few earnest well-wishers, and to his own unsleeping vigilance and activity, the hunted fox still continued to elude apprehension. To such extremities of harassment, however, did this incessant pursuit subject him, that in a fit of despair he was about to surrender himself, and submit to his fate, when Providence seasonably interposed in his favor.

Israel Potter - pg. 29

2011-02-20T17:22:00.002-05:00

Unauthorized and abhorrent thoughts will sometimes invade the best human heart. Seeing the monarch unguarded before him; remembering that the war was imputed more to the self-will of the King than to the willingness of parliament or the nation; and calling to mind all his own sufferings growing out of that war, with all the calamities of his country; dim impulses, such as those to which the regicide Ravaillac yielded, would shoot balefully across the soul of the exile. But thrusting Satan behind him, Israel vanquished all such temptations. Nor did these ever more disturb him, after his one chance conversation with the monarch.

Israel Potter - pg. 10

2011-02-20T17:16:00.002-05:00

Chapter 3
ISRAEL GOES TO THE WARS; AND REACHING BUNKER HILL IN TIME TO BE OF SERVICE THERE, SOON AFTER IS FORCED TO EXTEND HIS TRAVELS ACROSS THE SEA INTO THE ENEMY'S LAND

LEFT TO idle lamentations, Israel might now have planted deep furrows in his brow. But stifling his pain, he chose rather to plough, than be ploughed. Farming weans man from his sorrows. That tranquil meditations. There, too, in mother earth, you may plant and reap; not, as in other things, plant and see the planting torn up by the roots. But if wandering in the wilderness; and wandering upon the waters; if felling trees; and hunting, and shipwreck; and fighting with whales, and all his other strange adventures, had not as yet cured poor Israel of his now hopeless passion; events were at hand for ever to drown it.

Inferno - Opening

2011-02-20T14:25:00.002-05:00

... when I came to stop
Below a hill that marked one end of the valley
That had pierced my heart with terror, I looked up

Toward the crest and saw its shoulders already
Mantled in rays of that bright planet that shows
The road to everyone, whatever our journey.

CANTO I
Midway on our life's journey, I found myself
In dark woods, the right road lost. To tell
About those woods is hard -- so tangled and rough

And savage that thinking of it now, I feel
The old fear stirring: death is hardly more bitter.
And yet, to treat the good I found there as well

I'll tell what I saw, though how I came to enter
I cannot well say, being so full of sleep
Whatever moment it was I began to blunder

For Frank Bidart

Copyright 1994 by Farrar, Straus and Grioux
English translation copyright 1994 by Robert Pinsky
Italian text copyright 1991 Arnoldo Mondadori Editore S.p.A., Milano
Illustrations 1994 by Michael Mazur
Foreword copyright 1994 by John Freccero
Notes copyright 1994 by Nicole Pinsky
All rights reserved
Published simultaneously in Canada by Harper Collins Canada Ltd
Printed in the United States of America
First edition, 1994

This Week

2011-02-20T13:44:00.002-05:00

French C19
Persian Lesson 100
Descartes: Exercise 2 in Latex
SS: D2
Cantos: X
Inferno: Canto XX

Distant Star - Opening

2011-02-19T18:35:00.005-05:00

I
I saw Carlos Wieder for the first time in 1971, or perhaps in 1972, when Salvador Allende was President of Chile.
At that stage Wieder was calling himself Alberto Ruiz-Tagle and occasionally attended Juan Stein's poetry workshop in Concepcion, the so-called capital of the South.

"What star falls unseen?"
WILLIAM FAULKNER

For Victoria Avalos and Lautaro Bolaño

Copyright 1996 by Roberto Bolaño and Editorial Anagrama
Translation copyright 2004 by Chris Andrews

Published by arrangement with the Harvill Press, Random House UK, London.

This edition has been translated with the financial assistance of the Spanish Direccion General del Libro y Bibliotecas, Ministerio de Cultura.

Originally published by Edditorial Anagrama as Estrella distante in 1996

Manufactured in the United States of America.
New Directions books are printed on acid-free paper.
First published as a New Directions Paperbook (NDP993) in 2004.

New Directions Books are published for James Laughlin
by New Directions Publishing Corporation,
80 Eighth Avenue, New York 10011

باد ما را خود خواھد برد

2011-02-16T18:07:00.001-05:00

در شب کوچک من افسوس

باد با برگ درختان میعادی دارد

در شب کوچک من دلھرہ ویر انیست

گوش کن

وزش ظلمت را میشنوی؟

من غربیانہ بہ این خوشبختی می

نگرم

من بہ نو میدی خود معتادم

گوش کن

و زش ظلمت را میثنوی

در شب اکنون چیزیمی گزرد

ماہ سر خست و مشوش

و بر این بام کہ ھر لحظہ در او بیم فرو ریختن است

ابر ھا ھمچون امبوہ عزاداران

لحظہ باریدن را گویی منتظرند

لحظہ ای

و پس از آن ہیچ

پشت این

پنجرہ شب دارد می لرزد

و زمین دارد

باز میمانداز چرخش

پشت این پنجرہ یک نامعلوم

نگران من و توست

ای سراپایت سبز

دستاھیت را چون خاطرہ ای سوزان در دستان عاشق من بگزار

و لبانت را چون حسی گرم از ہستی

بہ نوازش ھائی لبھای عاشق من بپسار

باد ما را خود خواھد برد

This Week

2011-02-12T19:54:00.001-05:00

French C10-14
Israel Potter - Fin
Genji: 200
Descartes
Afsana: D2

ھدیہ

2011-02-10T17:30:00.002-05:00

Thanks to Hassan via

طویل مدتی منصوبی

2011-02-08T20:54:00.002-05:00

فارسی کا ایک ناول
البرٹ کامیو کا ناول فرانسیسی مین
چار افسانی
MIT کا کورس : بعد اطبیعاتی اور منطق اوْل

Five Bells

2011-02-08T12:01:00.001-05:00

Time that is moved by little fidget wheels
Is not my time, the flood that does not flow.
Between the double and the single bell
Of a ship's hour, between a round of bells
From the dark warship riding there below,
I have lived many lives, and this one life
Of Joe, long dead, who lives between five bells.

Deep and dissolving verticals of light
Ferry the falls of moonshine down. Five bells
Coldly rung out in a machine's voice. Night and water
Pour to one rip of darkness, the Harbour floats
In the air, the Cross hangs upside-down in water.

Why do I think of you, dead man, why thieve
These profitless lodgings from the flukes of thought
Anchored in Time? You have gone from earth,
Gone even from the meaning of a name;
Yet something's there, yet something forms its lips
And hits and cries against the ports of space,
Beating their sides to make its fury heard.

Are you shouting at me, dead man, squeezing your face
In agonies of speech on speechless panes?
Cry louder, beat the windows, bawl your name!

But I hear nothing, nothing...only bells,
Five bells, the bumpkin calculus of Time.
Your echoes die, your voice is dowsed by Life,
There's not a mouth can fly the pygmy strait -
Nothing except the memory of some bones
Long shoved away, and sucked away, in mud;
And unimportant things you might have done,
Or once I thought you did; but you forgot,
And all have now forgotten - looks and words
And slops of beer; your coat with buttons off,
Your gaunt chin and pricked eye, and raging tales
Of Irish kings and English perfidy,
And dirtier perfidy of publicans
Groaning to God from Darlinghurst.
Five bells.

Then I saw the road, I heard the thunder
Tumble, and felt the talons of the rain
The night we came to Moorebank in slab-dark,
So dark you bore no body, had no face,
But a sheer voice that rattled out of air
(As now you'd cry if I could break the glass),
A voice that spoke beside me in the bush,
Loud for a breath or bitten off by wind,
Of Milton, melons, and the Rights of Man,
And blowing flutes, and how Tahitian girls
Are brown and angry-tongued, and Sydney girls
Are white and angry-tongued, or so you'd found.
But all I heard was words that didn't join
So Milton became melons, melons girls,
And fifty mouths, it seemed, were out that night,
And in each tree an Ear was bending down,
Or something that had just run, gone behind the grass,
When blank and bone-white, like a maniac's thought,
The naphtha-flash of lightning slit the sky,
Knifing the dark with deathly photographs.
There's not so many with so poor a purse
Or fierce a need, must fare by night like that,
Five miles in darkness on a country track,
But when you do, that's what you think.
Five bells.

In Melbourne, your appetite had gone,
Your angers too; they had been leeched away
By the soft archery of summer rains
And the sponge-paws of wetness, the slow damp
That stuck the leaves of living, snailed the mind,
And showed your bones, that had been sharp with rage,
The sodden ectasies of rectitude.
I thought of what you'd written in faint ink,
Your journal with the sawn-off lock, that stayed behind
With other things you left, all without use,
All without meaning now, except a sign
That someone had been living who now was dead:
"At Labassa. Room 6 x 8
On top of the tower; because of this, very dark
And cold in winter. Everything has been stowed
Into this room - 500 books all shapes
And colours, dealt across the floor
And over sills and on the laps of chairs;
Guns, photoes of many differant things
And differant curioes that I obtained..."

In Sydney, by the spent aquarium-flare
Of penny gaslight on pink wallpaper,
We argued about blowing up the world,
But you were living backward, so each night
You crept a moment closer to the breast,
And they were living, all of them, those frames
And shapes of flesh that had perplexed your youth,
And most your father, the old man gone blind,
With fingers always round a fiddle's neck,
That graveyard mason whose fair monuments
And tablets cut with dreams of piety
Rest on the bosoms of a thousand men
Staked bone by bone, in quiet astonishment
At cargoes they had never thought to bear,
These funeral-cakes of sweet and sculptured stone.

Where have you gone? The tide is over you,
The turn of midnight water's over you,
As Time is over you, and mystery,
And memory, the flood that does not flow.
You have no suburb, like those easier dead
In private berths of dissolution laid -
The tide goes over, the waves ride over you
And let their shadows down like shining hair,
But they are Water; and the sea-pinks bend
Like lilies in your teeth, but they are Weed;
And you are only part of an Idea.
I felt the wet push its black thumb-balls in,
The night you died, I felt your eardrums crack,
And the short agony, the longer dream,
The Nothing that was neither long nor short;
But I was bound, and could not go that way,
But I was blind, and could not feel your hand.
If I could find an answer, could only find
Your meaning, or could say why you were here
Who now are gone, what purpose gave you breath
Or seized it back, might I not hear your voice?

I looked out my window in the dark
At waves with diamond quills and combs of light
That arched their mackerel-backs and smacked the sand
In the moon's drench, that straight enormous glaze,
And ships far off asleep, and Harbour-buoys
Tossing their fireballs wearily each to each,
And tried to hear your voice, but all I heard
Was a boat's whistle, and the scraping squeal
Of seabirds' voices far away, and bells,
Five bells. Five bells coldly ringing out.
Five bells.

Israel Potter - Opening

2011-02-07T14:08:00.002-05:00

TO
His Highness
THE
Bunker-Hill Monument

BIOGRAPHY, in its purer form, confined to the ended lives of the true and brave, may be held the fairest meed of human virtue -- one given and received in entire disinterestedness -- since neither can the biographer hope for acknowledgment from the subject, nor the subject at all avail himself of the biographical distinction conferred.

This Week

2011-02-07T11:18:00.001-05:00

Second Draft
French: C6-9
Persian: Lessons80-95
Tale of Genji: pg. 300
Descartes Paper: First Draft

I The Supreme - pg. 225

2011-01-31T19:54:00.002-05:00

Take Benjamin Franklin, steel-engraved, down from the wall. The Porteno pettifogger gazes, frowning, at the inventor of the lightning rod. Manuel Belgrano opens his eyes. This, my friends, is the first democrat of these new worlds. The model that we must imitate. Forty years from now, our countries may have men like him. If and when, naturally, the great country of the north continues to produce men like Franklin. If it does, we may enjoy in the future of the freedom for which we are not prepared today. By some misfortune, it may so happen that North America will not produce more men of the stamp of the inventor of the lightning rod and that in our countries the lightning bolt of anarchy will strike down our best men. It may so happen that they will invent the Big Prod up there and that down here we'll all die of the croup, carbuncle, and tick, like the cattle in our fields. We must take care not to fall into the hands of master-butchers.

I The Supreme - pg. 207

2011-01-31T19:52:00.002-05:00

Above all, senor dean, if we do not observe the formalities of an elementary urbanity. Is the bathroom door a proper place to enrue that all our disagreements will come out in the wash? We are in accord on that point, doctor. Let us proceed to the salon d'a-grement.

I The Supreme - pg. 197

2011-01-31T19:49:00.002-05:00

I believe that at one time the pen must also have possessed a third function: reproducing the phonic space of writing, the sound-text of the visual images; which could have been the spoken time of those words without forms, of those forms without words, that allowed El Supremo to conjoin three texts in a fourth intemporal dimension turning around the axis of an undifferentiated point between the origin and the extinction of the writing; that thin shadow between tomorrow and death.

This Week

2011-01-31T11:43:00.001-05:00

The Idiot: Finish
Descartes Paper
Persian lesson 80
French Chapter 4, 5 & 6
Second Draft SS

Destroyer : New Ways Of Living

2011-01-28T13:21:00.000-05:00

Maybe I should have loved you.
Maybe I should have sworn
Not to be born
Of this wretched glove too soon,
But a dragon needs room
A dragon needs room
A dragon needs room
To run, run, run, run...

I was a desert in love with extremes.
You married well, a gentlewoman of means who
Kept the word "Destroyer" embroidered on her jeans, too

(La la la)

I wore skins. I didn't care who survived.
The band foretold trends from Spring of '85.
They're calling it "The New Decay"...
Hey, so am I.

(La la la)

Treacherous fop, don't be embarrassed
For looking good at your table on the terrace
That you call home. I'm sold
Paris, London, Rome's too old for you
And your kind
Explosions want to see what they can find:
New ways of living...

It's you and your kind:
The New Ways of Living

This Week

2011-01-24T15:49:00.001-05:00

The Idiot - 350 pgs
Descartes FIN: Paper
Short Story First Draft
Persian Lesson 80
French First Chapter

ھوای گریہ دارم

2011-01-23T14:17:00.000-05:00

Ghazal - pg. 266

2011-01-21T19:32:00.002-05:00

کوئےجاناں چمن سے بہتر ہے اس کا کتا ہرن سے بہتر ہے

گل قبا پر ہو جامے سے باہر کب ترے پیرہن سے بہتر ہے

گور میں بھاگ اہلِ دنیا سے خلوت اِس انجمن سے بہتر ہے

چمن دہر کا ہے ہر گل خوب نسترن، یاسمن سے بہتر ہے

ہنسنے والا نہیں ہے رونے پر ہم کو غربت وطن سے بہتر ہے

ترک دنیا سمجھ جواں مردی نفرت اس پیرِ زن سے بہتر ہے

بازو اس کا مکاں، شکم اس کا دھکدکی نورتن سے بہتر ہے

نہیں کھلتا کسی طرح سے پھر عیب پوشی کفن سے بہتر ہے

سیب ہے یہ تو پھر بہی ہے وہ غبغب اے دل زقن سے بہتر ہے

مانگئے کیا خدا سے چشمئہ خضر کیا صنم کے دہن سے بہتر ہے

دشمنِ جاں اجل کو جان آتش
دوستی گورکن سے بہتر ہے ۔

Correspondence - Opening

2011-01-21T14:15:00.003-05:00

1
Paul Celan to Ingeborg Bachmann, poem and dedication in a book of Matisse paintings, Vienna 24(?) June 1948

'In Egypt'
For Ingeborg

Thou shalt say to the strange woman's eye: be the water!
Thou shalt seek in the stranger's eye those whom thou knowest to be in the water.
Thou shalt call them from the water: Ruth! Noemi! Miriam!
Thou shalt adorn them when thou liest with the stranger.
Thou shalt adorn them with the cloud-hair of the stranger.
Thou shalt say to Ruth, to Miriam and Noemi:
Behold, I sleep next to her!
Thou shalt adorn the stranger next to thee most beautifully of all
Thou shalt adorn her with the pain over Ruth, over Miriam and Noemi.

Thous shalt say to the stranger:
Behold, I slept next to these!

Vienna, 23 May 1948

To the meticulous one,
22 years after her birthday,
From the unmeticulous one

I The Supreme - pg. 196

2011-01-20T12:16:00.001-05:00

The figure of the typical Brazilian macaque stands out against the whiteness of the wall. I study it from my window. Unknown animal: lion in front, ant behind, pudenda inverted. Leopard, more pard than leo. Illusory human form. Its most amazing particularity, however, lies in the fact that when the sun strikes it, it casts the shadow of a human being and not that of its bestial figure.

I The Supreme - pg. 195

2011-01-20T12:12:00.002-05:00

Not enough. Not red enough. Not as red as real blood. Perhaps it suffices to simulate it beneath the marginal sun of Brazil, to the west of Africa. The incendiary sun of Asuncion is another matter. Continually beating straight down, splitting stone. The glare bares, betrays, bleaches out the treasures of this card-board carnival. Blurs the dancing girls, the capoeiras. The white hand against the black lacquer of the carriage clutching the ibis of the hat. Royal-heron. Bird-of-Paradise. Alchemical buttons. Colored sequins. Wear more if you like. Pile on as much as you please. To me it will be mere theater. To me the imperial envoy is just another messenger boy. An empty-headed suitor come to seek my hand. But I don't give my hand away to anyone.

The Shampoo

2011-01-18T17:28:00.001-05:00

The still explosions on the rocks,
the lichens, grow
by spreading, gray, concentric shocks.
They have arranged
to meet the rings around the moon, although
within our memories they have not changed.

And since the heavens will attend
as long on us,
you’ve been, dear friend,
precipitate and pragmatical;
and look what happens. For Time is
nothing if not amenable.

The shooting stars in your black hair
in bright formation
are flocking where,
so straight, so soon?
– Come, let me wash it in this big tin basin,
battered and shiny like the moon.

(shigekuni.wordpress.com posted originally)

This Week

2011-01-18T00:34:00.000-05:00

The Idiot: 100 pgs
Bastos: Complete
Short Story First Draft
Persian: Revision, Lesson 75
Descartes: FIN

I The Supreme - pg. 194

2011-01-17T17:31:00.002-05:00

There comes forth from the souvenir-pen another reception that I shall offer the envoy from Brazil, fifteen years later. I can allow myself the luxury of mixing up the facts without confusing them. I thus save myself time, paper, ink, and the trouble of searching through almanacs, calendars, dusting shelf lists. I don't write history. I make it. I can remake it as I please, adjusting, stressing, enriching its meaning and truth. In the history written by publicans and pharisees, they invest their lies at compound interest. Dates to them are sacred. Particularly if they are erroneous. To those rodents, error consists precisely of gnawing holes in documented truth. They turn into rivals of moths and rats. As for this perpetual-circular, the order of the facts does not alter the product of the factors.

I The Supreme - pg. 193

2011-01-17T17:26:00.002-05:00

A plain chicken done up in fancy dress. A monocular chicken. Any creature of the animal kingdom except a man to be trusted. No, doctor, this was the setting for another performance. The thing is that in Paraguay time is so hard-pressed that it slows way down, mixing up facts, shuffling things about, misplacing them. Fortune is born here every morning and by noon it's already an old lady, according to an old saying that's new and true all over again each day.

I The Supreme - pg. 193

2011-01-17T17:23:00.002-05:00

[(In the margin): The catfish of Takuary had turned into a prickly bone. The fish is born of a thorn. The monkey of a coconut. Man of the monkey. The shadow of Christopher Columbus's egg wheels round and round above the Land of Fire. The shadow is not more difficult than the egg. The shadow flees before itself. Everything eventually gets to where it's going. Merely to be on the way is already to be arriving. ]

The Idiot - Opening

2011-01-17T15:32:00.004-05:00

TOWARDS THE END of November, during a warm spell, at around nine o' clock in the morning, a train of the Petersburg-Warsaw line was approaching Petersburg at full stream. It was so damp and foggy that dawn could barely break; ten paces to right or left of the line it was hard to make out anything at all through the carriage windows.

FIRST VINTAGE CLASSICS EDITION, JULY 2003
Copyright 2001 by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky
Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage Classics and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Printed in the United States of America

The Man-Moth

2011-01-17T14:58:00.001-05:00

The Man-moth
Here, above,
cracks in the buldings are filled with battered moonlight.
The whole shadow of Man is only as big as his hat.
It lies at his feet like a circle for a doll to stand on,
and he makes an inverted pin, the point magnetized to the moon.
He does not see the moon; he observes only her vast properties,
feeling the queer light on his hands, neither warm nor cold,
of a temperature impossible to records in thermometers.

But when the Man-Moth
pays his rare, although occasional, visits to the surface,
the moon looks rather different to him. He emerges
from an opening under the edge of one of the sidewalks
and nervously begins to scale the faces of the buildings.
He thinks the moon is a small hole at the top of the sky,
proving the sky quite useless for protection.
He trembles, but must investigate as high as he can climb.

Up the façades,
his shadow dragging like a photographer's cloth behind him
he climbs fearfully, thinking that this time he will manage
to push his small head through that round clean opening
and be forced through, as from a tube, in black scrolls on the light.
(Man, standing below him, has no such illusions.)
But what the Man-Moth fears most he must do, although
he fails, of course, and falls back scared but quite unhurt.

Then he returns
to the pale subways of cement he calls his home. He flits,
he flutters, and cannot get aboard the silent trains
fast enough to suit him. The doors close swiftly.
The Man-Moth always seats himself facing the wrong way
and the train starts at once at its full, terrible speed,
without a shift in gears or a gradation of any sort.
He cannot tell the rate at which he travels backwards.

Each night he must
be carried through artificial tunnels and dream recurrent dreams.
Just as the ties recur beneath his train, these underlie
his rushing brain. He does not dare look out the window,
for the third rail, the unbroken draught of poison,
runs there beside him. He regards it as a disease
he has inherited the susceptibility to. He has to keep
his hands in his pockets, as others must wear mufflers.

If you catch him,
hold up a flashlight to his eye. It's all dark pupil,
an entire night itself, whose haired horizon tightens
as he stares back, and closes up the eye. Then from the lids
one tear, his only possession, like the bee's sting, slips.
Slyly he palms it, and if you're not paying attention
he'll swallow it. However, if you watch, he'll hand it over,
cool as from underground springs and pure enough to drink.