G C Lichtenberg: “It is as if our languages were confounded: when we want a thought, they bring us a word; when we ask for a word, they give us a dash; and when we expect a dash, there comes a piece of bawdy.”

H. P. Lovecraft: "What a man does for pay is of little significance. What he is, as a sensitive instrument responsive to the world's beauty, is everything!"

Werner Herzog: “We are surrounded by worn-out, banal, useless and exhausted images, limping and dragging themselves behind the rest of our cultural evolution.”

John Gray: "Unlike Schopenhauer, who lamented the human lot, Leopardi believed that the best response to life is laughter. What fascinated Schopenhauer, along with many later writers, was Leopardi’s insistence that illusion is necessary to human happiness."

Art Spiegelman: "You know words in a way are hitting you on the left side of your brain, music and visual arts hit on the right side of the brain, so the idea is to pummel you, to send you from left brain to right brain and back until you're as unbalanced as I am."

विलास सारंग: "संदर्भ कुठलेही असोत, संस्कृत, इंग्रजी, बुद्धिवादी, तांत्रिक, इतिहासाचे, खगोलशास्त्राचे, आधुनिक पदार्थविज्ञानाचे, शिवकालीन व पेशवाईतील बखरीचे, अगणित ज्ञानक्षेत्रांचे, अशा वैविध्यपूर्ण ज्ञानावर लेखन- विशेषत: कवितालेखन- उभं राहत."

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Aujourd'hui maman est morte...

Today October 10 2012 is 75th Birth Anniversary of my Mother

I have 'liked' FB page of Albert Camus.

In August 2012 following was posted there:

"Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday; I can't be sure." [In French: "Aujourd'hui maman est morte. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas."]  (from 'The Stranger' / 'L'Étranger', 1942)

A person had commented on FB:

"Difficult to say if the above statement " Mother died today......" symbolises nihilism,absurdism or plain foray into existentialism or all three. But it remains timeless. One of my favorite from the world of anguish and melancholy."

I wrote:

"is it just confusion on mother's death...because that's what happened to me."

It really was confusion first and foremost. Just about everything was same as before. Only she was hiding. Or hidden...

"It was noisy in the main marketplace; there were swings going up and down, barred organs playing, an accordion wheezing away, and drunken voices calling out. And then pony-rides began on the main street in the afternoon- it was all great fun, in a word; everything went well, just as it had the previous year, and as it probably would the following one." ('The Bishop', 1902 by Anton Chekhov)

 Artist: Hippolyte Delaroche commonly known as Paul Delaroche 

Name of the painting:  "Louise Vernet on her Deathbed", 1845-46

courtesy: Musée des Beaux-Arts de Nantes and SPIEGEL ONLINE

My father talked about Camus's book the day after my mother's death. I knew the author and the celebrated book but I had not read it.

Since then I have read it. Was I then- now I feel- like Meursault in some ways? (Or was it my father?)

Like my mother, the book has given me so much...