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.”

C. P. Cavafy: "I’d rather look at things than speak about them."

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....."

Kenneth Goldsmith: "In 1969 the conceptual artist Douglas Huebler wrote, “The world is full of objects, more or less interesting; I do not wish to add any more.”1 I’ve come to embrace Huebler’s ideas, though it might be retooled as “The world is full of texts, more or less interesting; I do not wish to add any more.” It seems an appropriate response to a new condition in writing today: faced with an unprecedented amount of available text, the problem is not needing to write more of it; instead, we must learn to negotiate the vast quantity that exists. How I make my way through this thicket of information—how I manage it, how I parse it, how I organize and distribute it—is what distinguishes my writing from yours."

Tom Wolfe: "The first line of the doctors’ Hippocratic oath is ‘First, do no harm.’ And I think for the writers it would be: ‘First, entertain.’"

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

Friday, February 04, 2022

हंबरडा फोडी आर्त महात्मा जेव्हां...What Happened in Chauri Chaura on February 4, 1922 and in 1947-48?

भा रा तांबे :

"वाटले नाथ हो! तुम्ही उतरला खाली 

दे असहकरिता हाक तुम्हा ज्या काळी  ।।धृ ।।

हंबरडा फोडी आर्त महात्मा जेव्हां 

त्या यज्ञे द्रवुनी गमे धावला देवा!

फोडिली आर्त किंकाळी ।।१।।

गरिबास्तव धरली तुम्ही कांबळी काठी 

गुरगुरला होउनि पशुहि संकटापाठीं 

ती वेळ वाटली आली ।।२।।"

(माधव जूलियन यांच्या पत्नी श्री लीलाबाई पटवर्धन लिखित 'आमची अकरा वर्षे', १९४५ ह्या पुस्तकाच्या १९९४ सालच्या दुसऱ्या आवृत्तीच्या प्रस्तावनेंत गोपीनाथ तळवलकरांनी ही कविता चौरीचौराला १९२२ सालच्या घटनेबद्दल लिहली आहे असा उल्लेख केला आहे.)

Joseph Lelyveld, 'Great Soul: Mahatma Gandhi and His Struggle With India', 2011:

"...What happened in Chauri Chaura on February 5, 1922, fulfilled his worst fears. An angry crowd of roughly two thousand surrounded a small rural police station after having been fired on by a police detachment, which had then withdrawn and taken cover inside the building. The frustrated crowd, now a mob, soon set it ablaze. Driven out, policemen were hacked to death or thrown back into the flames; in all, twenty-two of them had been slaughtered with their assailants, so it was later said, shouting noncooperation catch-cries, including “Mahatma Gandhi ki jai”—“Glory to Mahatma Gandhi.”

By Gandhi’s standards, which derived from the Hindu value of ahimsa, or nonviolence, Chauri Chaura stood out as an abysmal, even frightening defeat. In his eyes, it showed that the country at large and the national movement in particular had never truly grasped the values of satyagraha. So, with more than fifteen thousand followers already in jail, he abruptly called a halt to civil disobedience, suspending it for more than ten months, until the end of 1922. It was only because he insisted on suspending the campaign that Congress leaders who’d not yet gone to jail went along with his decision. “I got the votes because I was Gandhi and not because people were convinced,” he wrote with the self-lacerating candor he could be relied on to display in his lowest moments. As “penance” for the fact that “murders were committed in my name,” he then fasted for five days.

Among those who expressed disappointment over the retreat were some, both Muslim and Hindu, who well understood that Gandhi was responding to what he deemed a moral imperative. If only they had a less exemplary, less principled leader, they seemed to say. “Our defeat is in proportion to the greatness of our leader” was the way Lajpat Rai, a Hindu and former Congress president, wryly put it. “To me,” said Maulana Abdul Bari, the leading Muslim in the North Indian center of Lucknow, “Gandhi is like a paralytic whose limbs are not in his control but whose mind is still active.” Neither statement was without a tinge of admiration, but each was more disillusioned than admiring. Gandhi had offered them satyagraha as a weapon; now, as the “expert in the satyagraha business,” he was yanking it back.

With his usual industriousness, Gandhi churned out a series of letters and articles explaining his stand to key followers and the nation at large, promising that the suspension would not be permanent, that civil disobedience would eventually be resumed and swaraj achieved, if not in a year. The clearest statement of his position turned into a prophecy. No one, Gandhi included, could have realized that what he had to say in 1922 would accurately depict the circumstances of India’s independence, still a quarter of a century in the future, or his own ambivalent reaction to its achievement. “I personally can never be a party to a movement half-violent and half non-violent,” he said, “even though it may result in the attainment of so-called swaraj, for it will not be real swaraj as I have conceived it.”..."


  courtesy: The Hindu

Tuesday, February 01, 2022

एकशिंग्या सिंधू संस्कृतीमधील बागेत....James Thurber, Satyajit Ray and The Indus Valley Civilisation


Jorge Luis Borges, “The Modesty of History”:

“A Chinese prose writer has observed that the unicorn, because of its own anomaly, will pass unnoticed. Our eyes see what they are accustomed to seeing.” 

जेम्स थर्बर या महान कलावंताने 'The Unicorn in the Garden' या नावाची गोष्ट द न्यू यॉर्कर मध्ये १९३९ मध्ये प्रसिद्ध केली. त्याची नंतर ऍनिमेशन फिल्म झाली: १९५३.

युनिकॉर्न हे नाव सिंधू संस्कृतीशी निगडीत आहे...


“...A puzzling, one-horned animal is very frequently depicted on the seals (over 60 per cent of the Mohenjo-daro seals and around 46 per cent of the Harappan), and is also modelled in several one-horned terracotta figurines (from Harappa, Mohenjo-daro and Chanhu-daro). It is generally termed a ‘unicorn’, a creature legendarily associated with India by ancient Greek writers; its zoological identity, if it actually existed, is much debated....” (Andrew Robinson , ‘The Indus: lost civilizations’, 2015)

शिवाय सत्यजित रे यांचा ह्या सगळ्याशी संबंध असा:

 “...About the aesthetic quality of the Indus seals there is virtual unanimity. Wheeler’s admiration has already been mentioned. Marshall considered the best seals to be ‘distinguished by a breadth of treatment and a feeling for line and plastic form that has rarely been surpassed in glyptic art’. Piggott – no admirer of Indus aesthetics, as we know – nonetheless conceded that the seals were ‘frequently carved with a brilliant sureness of touch’. Independent India’s great artist Satyajit Ray – a graphic designer and illustrator who became a writer and celebrated film director – was so enchanted by the seals that he wrote a short story inspired by the ‘unicorn’. Speaking for myself, I first became interested in the Indus civilization after seeing its seals...” (ibid)

(Ray’s  ‘Ek Shringo Abhijan’, adventure of Professor Shonku:

“Shonku goes to Tibet, to find out about a Unicorn which is reported to be seen there. In the adventure, Shonku discovers a place where everybody's dreams come true... a Utopia.”)



(बहुदा) पत्नी, उठवले गेल्याबद्दल प्रचंड चिडलेली : "एकशिंग्या हा पौराणिक (mythical) प्राणी आहे"

Saturday, January 29, 2022

Hafez and Heisenberg

 One of the best books I have read of all time is 'When We Cease to Understand the World', 2020 by Benjamín Labatut.

"A year before the Munich conference, Heisenberg had become a monster.

In June 1925, while he was working at the University of Göttingen, an allergic reaction to pollen had deformed his face so that he was no longer recognizable. His lips looked like a rotten peach with the skin ready to come off, his eyelids puffed up until he could barely see. Unable to tolerate even one more day of spring, he boarded a ship to travel as far as possible from the microscopic particles that were torturing him.

His destiny was Heligoland—the name translates as “holy land”—Germany’s only outlying island, so dry and inclement that trees barely rise from the ground and not a single flower blossoms amid its stones...."

"...Sweating from head to toe, he (Heisenberg) spent the day memorizing the West-Eastern Divan, a book of poems by Goethe that a previous guest had left behind in his room. He read the poems aloud, over and over, and certain verses echoed from his room and through the empty hallways of the hotel, to the bafflement of the other guests, who heard them as if they were the whispers of a ghost. Goethe had written them in 1819, inspired by the Sufi mystic Khwāja Shams-ud-Dīn Muḥammad Ḥāfeẓ-e Shīrāzī, known simply as Hafez. The German genius encountered the great Persian poet of the fourteenth century in a bad translation published in his home country and came to believe he had received the book at the behest of the divinity. He identified with him so closely that his voice changed completely, melding with that of the man who had sung the glories of God and wine four hundred years before. Hafez had been a drunken saint, a mystic and a hedonist. He devoted himself to prayer, poetry and alcohol. When he turned sixty years old, he traced a circle in the desert sand, sat down in its centre, and swore not to rise until he had touched the mind of Allah, the one and only God, mighty and sublime. He spent forty days in silence, tormented by the sun and wind, and when he broke his fast with a cup of wine given to him by a man who had found him on the verge of death, he felt a second consciousness awaken within him, superimposing itself over his own. That other voice dictated more than five hundred poems to him, helping Hafez to become the pinnacle of Persian literature...."

 inside a 19th-century copy of the Divān of Hafez (courtesy: Wikipedia)