मेघदूत: "नीचैर्गच्छत्युपरि च दशा चक्रनेमिक्रमेण"

समर्थ शिष्या अक्का : "स्वामीच्या कृपाप्रसादे हे सर्व नश्वर आहे असे समजले. पण या नश्वरात तमाशा बहुत आहे."

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.”

Friedrich Nietzsche: “Everybody wants the same, everybody is the same: whoever feels different goes voluntarily into a madhouse.”

Martin Amis: “Gogol is funny, Tolstoy in his merciless clarity is funny, and Dostoyevsky, funnily enough, is very funny indeed; moreover, the final generation of Russian literature, before it was destroyed by Lenin and Stalin, remained emphatically comic — Bunin, Bely, Bulgakov, Zamyatin. The novel is comic because life is comic (until the inevitable tragedy of the fifth act);...”

सदानंद रेगे:
"... पण तुकारामाची गाथा ज्या धुंदीनं आजपर्यंत वाचली जात होती ती धुंदी माझ्याकडे नाहीय. ती मला येऊच शकत नाही याचं कारण स्वभावतःच मी नास्तिक आहे."
".. त्यामुळं आपण त्या दारिद्र्याच्या अनुभवापलीकडे जाऊच शकत नाही. तुम्ही जर अलीकडची सगळी पुस्तके पाहिलीत...तर त्यांच्यामध्ये त्याच्याखेरीज दुसरं काही नाहीच आहे. म्हणजे माणसांच्या नात्यानात्यांतील जी सूक्ष्मता आहे ती क्वचित चितारलेली तुम्हाला दिसेल. कारण हा जो अनुभव आहे... आपले जे अनुभव आहेत ते ढोबळ प्रकारचे आहेत....."

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."

Justin E.H. Smith: “One should of course take seriously serious efforts to improve society. But when these efforts fail, in whole or in part, it is only humor that offers redemption. So far, human expectations have always been strained, and have always come, give or take a bit, to nothing. In this respect reality itself has the form of a joke, and humor the force of truth.”

विलास सारंग: "… . . 1000 नंतर ज्या प्रकारची संस्कृती रुढ झाली , त्यामध्ये साधारणत्व विश्वात्मकता हे गुण प्राय: लुप्त झाले...आपली संस्कृती अकाली विश्वात्मक साधारणतेला मुकली आहे."

Wednesday, August 16, 2017

जेंव्हा एक मानवी संभोग बंडाची कृती असते....G A and G O

२०१६/२०१७ साली पुन्हा  एकदा मोठ्या प्रमाणात जगभरात बेस्ट सेलर ठरलेली, जॉर्ज ऑरवेल (शीर्षकातील G O aka George Orwell) यांची 'नायन्टीन एटीफोर', १९४९ ही कादंबरी मी अजून पूर्ण वाचलेली नाही.

पण ब्रेनपिकिंग्ज.ओरजी वरील जोनाथन बर्टन यांची तिच्याकरिता काढलेली चित्रे बघून मी फार खूश झालो.

 'He knelt down before her and took her hands in his'

ऑरवेल यांची दामू व  कमळी आणि आजूबाजूला आहे पेरवाची बाग

कलाकार : जोनाथन बर्टन
वरील चित्र पहा.
आता होणार जो संभोग आहे तो साधासुधा नाही,  तर ती एक राजकीय कृती आहे,  बंड आहे.....कसे ते वाचा:

"...Quickly, with an occasional crackle of twigs, they threaded their way back to the clearing. When they were once inside the ring of saplings she turned and faced him. They were both breathing fast, but the smile had reappeared round the corners of her mouth. She stood looking at him for an instant, then felt at the zipper of her overalls. And, yes! it was almost as in his dream. Almost as swiftly as he had imagined it, she had torn her clothes off, and when she flung them aside it was with that same magnificent gesture by which a whole civilization seemed to be annihilated. Her body gleamed white in the sun. But for a moment he did not look at her body; his eyes were anchored by the freckled face with its faint, bold smile. He knelt down before her and took her hands in his.
"Have you done this before?"
"Of course. Hundreds of times—well, scores of times, anyway."
"With Party members?"
"Yes, always with Party members."
"With members of the Inner Party?"
"Not with those swine, no. But there's plenty that would if they got half a chance. They're not so holy as they make out."
His heart leapt. Scores of times she had done it; he wished it had been hundreds—thousands. Anything that hinted at corruption always filled him with a wild hope. Who knew? Perhaps the Party was rotten under the surface, its cult of strenuousness and self-denial simply a sham concealing iniquity. If he could have infected the whole lot of them with leprosy or syphilis, how gladly he would have done so! Anything to rot, to weaken, to undermine! He pulled her down so that they were kneeling face to face.
"Listen. The more men you've had, the more I love you. Do you understand that?"
"Yes, perfectly."
"I hate purity, I hate goodness! I don't want any virtue to exist anywhere. I want everyone to be corrupt to the bones."
"Well then, I ought to suit you, dear. I'm corrupt to the bones."
"You like doing this? I don't mean simply me; I mean the thing in itself?"
"I adore it."
That was above all what he wanted to hear. Not merely the love of one person, but the animal instinct, the simple undifferentiated desire: that was the force that would tear the Party to pieces. He pressed her down upon the grass, among the fallen bluebells. This time there was no difficulty. Presently the rising and falling of their breasts slowed to normal speed, and in a sort of pleasant helplessness they fell apart. The sun seemed to have grown hotter. They were both sleepy. He reached out for the discarded overalls and pulled them partly over her. Almost immediately they fell asleep and slept for about half an hour.

Winston woke first. He sat up and watched the freckled face, still peacefully asleep, pillowed on the palm of her hand. Except for her mouth, you could not call her beautiful. There was a line or two round the eyes, if you looked closely. The short dark hair was extraordinarily thick and soft. It occurred to him that he still did not know her surname or where she lived.
The young, strong body, now helpless in sleep, awoke in him a pitying, protecting feeling. But the mindless tenderness that he had felt under the hazel tree, while the thrush was singing, had not quite come back. He pulled the overalls aside and studied her smooth white flank. In the old days, he thought, a man looked at a girl's body and saw that it was desirable, and that was the end of the story. But you could not have pure love or pure lust nowadays. No emotion was pure, because everything was mixed up with fear and hatred. Their embrace had been a battle, the climax a victory. It was a blow struck against the Party. It was a political act...."

पेरवाच्या बागेत, दुपारी संभोग करून,  तसाच ठोसा लागावतात,  जी. ए. कुलकर्णींच्या 'कवठे', १९७४ या कथेतील, समाजाने वेडसर ठरवलेला हरकाम्या दामू आणि कष्टकरी कमळी.

खर म्हणजे दामू अजिबात हिंसक नाहीय  पण  त्याने संभोगानंतर त्यांना हटकणाऱ्या रखवालदाराचा नुकताच गळा दाबून जीव घ्यायचा प्रयत्न केलाय. कमळीमुळे तो रखवालदार वाचलाय.  दामू समाधानाने कमळी ला सांगतोय की बाग छान होती. त्याला कमळी ठसक्यात उत्तर देतीये:

 "… बाग छान नव्हती. आम्ही छान होतो. आम्हाला काय बागच पाहिजे, होय रे आडदांडा ? आयुष्यभर बागेतच पेरवे खात हिंडायला आम्ही काय खुळचट पोर आहोत की बडबड पोपट आहोत ? आम्ही जिथ बसू त्या ठिकाणी आमची बाग. ती बाग म्हणजे काही सगळ जग नव्हे. अरे, एवढ्या मोठ्या मातीत मरायला चार वाव जागा कशीही मिळते, मग चार वाव जागा जगायला मिळणार नाही होय?"

ती जणू समाज व्यवस्थेला सांगतीय: आम्हाला तुमचा गळा दाबायची गरज नाही, कुठल्याच हिंसेची गरज नाही कारण आमचा पेरवाच्या बागेतला संभोग हेच आमच त्या व्यवस्थेच्या विरुद्धच बंड होत.... It was a political act... Not merely the love of one person, but the animal instinct, the simple undifferentiated desire: that was the force that would tear the Party to pieces. ... Our embrace had been a battle, the climax a victory... तुम्ही कदाचित आम्हाला तुमच्या व्यवस्थेच्या परिघावरती कायम ठेवाल, आम्हाला बावळट  ठरवाल, हसाल, पण तुम्ही आमचा आनंद कधीच हिसकावून घेवू शकणार नाही..

इथे ऑरवेल यांचे आणखी एक सुंदर अवतरण आठवते:

“...At any rate, spring is here, even in London N. 1, and they can’t stop you enjoying it. This is a satisfying reflection. How many a time have I stood watching the toads mating, or a pair of hares having a boxing match in the young corn, and thought of all the important persons who would stop me enjoying this if they could. But luckily they can’t. So long as you are not actually ill, hungry, frightened or immured in a prison or a holiday camp, spring is still spring. The atom bombs are piling up in the factories, the police are prowling through the cities, the lies are streaming from the loudspeakers, but the earth is still going round the sun, and neither the dictators nor the bureaucrats, deeply as they disapprove of the process, are able to prevent it...”
(‘Some Thoughts on the Common Toad’, 1946)

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