Here i start then.
Preliminary thoughts especially pertain to this year's Nobel _ Literature and Booker _ Prize winner. Harold Pinter and John Banville. How far i wonder did they really care about these prizes, now that they have got it, and even when they created their works !
I am also intrigued by one more thing. Around this time of the year, every year, every whos who i read in the papers become a critique - should X have got it or should Y. Was the institution right, and correct n perfect, in capturing the essence of the individual's brilliance... Her or his creativity...Is that an absolute necessity, to quantify and rate and prize brilliance and how people give vent to their expressions with ratings and comments! Leave them, read them, absorb them, and possibly try to imbibe fractions of them in your daily living.
Shed your mechanical selves, express yourself, hearing me, all of you around!
~notsoquietachildtoday:)
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Here are some good thoughts from the web related to Pinter and Banville. One interesting facet, i am sure somebody will soon write about it, is that this time, the Booker and Nobel has gone to the United Kingdom (that region Ireland included)...is British literature coming into prominence again...i love it though, remember progga gifting me that Nick Hornby book, driving me complete nuts in Bombay..i guess she would be really happy looking at all this, given her strong liking for everything British in literature!
so while i cannot congratulate anybody else right now, not the least Banville or British, :) let me say cheers to you progga for you and your literary tastes...
enough of gyanbaaji...now some real stuff!!
Pinter speak right now...
----
" If I write about a lamp, I apply myself to the demands of that lamp. If I write about a flower, I apply myself to the demands of that flower.
In most cases, the flower has singular properties as opposed to the lamp...Flower, lamp, tinopener, tree..tend to take alteration from a different climate and circumstance and I must necessarily attend to that singular change with the same devotion and allowance. I do not intend to impose or distort for the sake of an ostensible "harmony" of approach.
What you want from my writing is not self-expression, but self-confession, and you're not going to get it. You want me to open wide my doors ( possibly from a "moral") standpoint. That is neither my inclination, nor, more important, my purpose."
Poetry by Pinter, as he struggles against cancer, feel black..these days...he writes..
"Sometimes, in poems, I am only dimly conscious of the grounds of my activity, and the work proceeds to its own law and discipline, with me as a go-between, as it were. But as you say, if not conscious, so much the better"
(I love the italicised lines, leaves a lot of room for thoughts, i wish he had enunciated on what then is his purpose out of writing..got to catch up with the book, Pinter: The Playwright, Martin Esslin, Methuen, London 1970, from which the above extracts have been taken).
N finally some poems...
--
Poem, 1981
The lights glow.
What will happen next?
Night has fallen.
The rain stops.
What will happen next?
Night will deepen.
He does not know
What I will say to him.
When he has gone
I'll have a word in his ear
And say what I was about to say
At the meeting about to happen
Which has now taken place.
But he said nothing
At the meeting about to take place.
It is only now that he turns and smiles
And whispers:
'I do not know
What will happen next.'
--
God, 1993
God looked into his secret heart
to find a word
To bless the living throng below.
But look and look as he might do
And begging ghosts to live again
But hearing no song in that room
He found with harshly burning pain
He had no blessing to bestow.
---
Cancer Cells, 2002
"Cancer cells are those which have forgotten how to die".
(Nurse, Royal Marsden Hospital)
They have forgotten how to die
And so extend their killing life.
I and my tumour dearly fight.
Let's hope a double death is out.
I need to see my tumour dead
A tumour which forgets to die
But plans to murder me instead.
But I remember how to die
Though all my witnesses are dead.
But I remember what they said
Of tumours which would render them
As blind and dumb as they had been
Before the birth of that disease
Which brought the tumour into play.
The black cells will dry up and die
Or sing with joy and have their way.
They breed so quietly night and day,
You never know, they never say.
---
Cancer ...that disease which gobbled up dadubhai - death he or she might be lurking around!!!
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