A moment, a twinkling of an eye and nothing remains — but a clot of mud, of cold mud, of dead mud cast into black space, rolling around an extinguished sun. Nothing. Neither thought, nor sound, nor soul. Nothing.
. . . No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one’s existence—that which makes its truth, its meaning—its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream—alone. . . .”
Recently I turned 50.
And so once one clown.
His life was aptly described by a poet.
B S Mardhekar (बा. सी. मर्ढेकर):
पंक्चरली जरि रात्र दिव्यांनीं,
तरी पंपतो कुणी काळोख;
हसण्याचें जरि वेड लागलें,
भुंकतात तरि अश्रू चोख.
("Punctured though night is by lightbulbs,
Someone keeps pumping darkness;
Though laughter crazed,
tears bark alright.")
He then fell ill.
He knew the saying: laughter is the best medicine.
But one day that medicine stopped working.
Artist: Charles Barsotti, The New Yorker http://www.barsotti.com/
Some more days passed and then one day...
Artist: Oliver Gaspirtz http://www.gaspirtz.com/
He was often heard quoting a borrowed line: life is habit – that it is all just a series of motions devoid of meaning.
