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Sunday, March 22, 2009

After rushdie

After reading rushdie I read Paulo Choelho. He is a magnificent writer, by all standards. The books are a bit philosophical, dwelling on the subject of human psychology and process of psychological growth. Really magnificent. Choelho's book really have the potential to contriubute towards the growth of ones personality.


On a different note, tomorrow is a national holiday, supposedly for some declaration signed around 60 years ago. But considering the extent to which our history has been twisted to meet the needs of our rulers, tomorrow may have been the birthday or an anniversery of someone... anyways whos celebrating ??!!??

Friday, March 13, 2009

SATANIC VERSES and tales of beedle the bard

I recently finished reading the famed SATANIC VERSES by salman rushdie and tales of beedle the bard by JK Rowling. I just don't understand what was all the fuss about.

First of all satanic verses isn't that great a book, why the hell did they give a literary noble to rushdie for that book. Its not that great a read... I mean it feels like some &&*@# just wrote a blog. only the chapters in which the dreams are described are readable, the rest is just like shit. Niether did I find any thing in that book that tries to defame Islam, yes he does try to defame the great continent of India and its people(Pakistanis and Bengalis included) and hes quite successful in that, other than that there is nothing in that book that can be termed as heresy towards Islam.I think our leaders are EDEEOUTS(they donot deserve to be called idios), they made a fool famous just because of their rantings.

Secondly, the tales of beedle the bard wasn't that fun either. It just a short book that Rowling wrote to pass her time.

I am disappointed. from beedle the bard because it did not like upto the reputation of rowling and from our edeeouts of leaders who made a worthless man like rushdie famous because of their rantings and chantings.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

After the exams

My exams have ended and I have nothing worth doing to do. Really doing CA is hell...especially if you don't study much. But that's that...having nothing to do has really made me become depressed like... bored, lounging around uselessly, aimlessly. Even while doing nothing,I get into constant trouble with my parents. I JUST DON'T GET IT.

I have heard that the country is brewing with something or the other... I don't give a damn.
Its a moth eaten country that's gone to the dogs and will soon end up being hell on earth.

But hey be optimist... but personally optimism is for those who can't stand the reality.

Saturday, March 7, 2009

William Blake - Auguries of Innocence

William Blake - Auguries of Innocence

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.

A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell thro' all its regions.
A dog starv'd at his master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.

A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.

A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fight
Does the rising sun affright.

Every wolf's and lion's howl
Raises from hell a human soul.

The wild deer, wand'ring here and there,
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misus'd breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher's knife.

The bat that flits at close of eve
Has left the brain that won't believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever's fright.

He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be belov'd by men.
He who the ox to wrath has mov'd
Shall never be by woman lov'd.

The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider's enmity.
He who torments the chafer's sprite
Weaves a bower in endless night.

The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the last judgement draweth nigh.

He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar's dog and widow's cat,
Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.

The gnat that sings his summer's song
Poison gets from slander's tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of envy's foot.

The poison of the honey bee
Is the artist's jealousy.

The prince's robes and beggar's rags
Are toadstools on the miser's bags.
A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.

It is right it should be so;
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro' the world we safely go.

Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.

The babe is more than swaddling bands;
Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;

This is caught by females bright,
And return'd to its own delight.
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar,
Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.

The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Writes revenge in realms of death.
The beggar's rags, fluttering in air,
Does to rags the heavens tear.

The soldier, arm'd with sword and gun,
Palsied strikes the summer's sun.
The poor man's farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Afric's shore.

One mite wrung from the lab'rer's hands
Shall buy and sell the miser's lands;
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole nation sell and buy.

He who mocks the infant's faith
Shall be mock'd in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.

He who respects the infant's faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
The child's toys and the old man's reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.

The questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out.

The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar's laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race
Like to the armour's iron brace.

When gold and gems adorn the plow,
To peaceful arts shall envy bow.
A riddle, or the cricket's cry,
Is to doubt a fit reply.

The emmet's inch and eagle's mile
Make lame philosophy to smile.
He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne'er believe, do what you please.

If the sun and moon should doubt,
They'd immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you.

The whore and gambler, by the state
Licensed, build that nation's fate.
The harlot's cry from street to street
Shall weave old England's winding-sheet.

The winner's shout, the loser's curse,
Dance before dead England's hearse.

Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born,
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.

Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.

We are led to believe a lie
When we see not thro' the eye,
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.

God appears, and God is light,
To those poor souls who dwell in night;
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.