Yesterday I went for a walk with the last un-cremated goddess of happiness, we sat by the river bank to eat some black bread by the river, imported from the Slavic territories, full of nutrients and even a Russian worm, he stood up to salute us and we cut his head, or his ass off with a fat-knife. The river bank had overflown and then the water skirted back and we sat on stones and old coins of bankrupt third world currencies rejected by a Swiss-minded Charon, stones and coins and bits of bone turned to coral pressing through our clothes. Then we noticed something horrible, luckily most nature mystics and most poets have been made extinct before seeing it, with the exception of us two: styrofoam, floating in the blessed Styx river, where we had washed our legs together as children.
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Cemeteries of empty graves. A cremation, a defiance of the necropolis, a final humiliation of the dead. It is possible to humiliate, to murder those who are already dead. The genocide in Iraq.
The academicism and its polite war against dead writers and dead artists in the West–a campaign which pales by comparison, anything in the West pales by comparison, here they have not seen the youth of the cypresses.
Ritwik Ghatak & Partition
India’s moment of liberation from the British was also a moment of rupture: with independence came partition on 15 August 1947, in what was one of the greatest ironies of 20th century history. Partition did not mean quite the same thing for Punjab and Bengal – the two provinces that got divided on the eastern and western borders of India – but there was one aspect that was common to both: most ordinary citizens found it difficult to accept the fact of partition and their lives changed beyond recognition once they became refugees.
And yet, as far as Bengal was concerned, Partition hardly had any immediate thematic impact on film or literature. The first Bengali novel to deal with partition came out only in 1955 – Narayan Sanyal’s Bakultala P.L.Camp. But it was highlighted on celluloid much earlier – in the 1950 classic, Chinnamul (“The Uprooted”)…
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Poetry is not only as Eliot said, an escape from emotion—which for him meant that only people with emotion immense enough to need escaping from it can be poets. It is also escape from intellect. Yet it is an art and form of passion, and often it is a form of meaning that is also intellectual, archetypal and of importance to all thought and intellect, to the highest forms of intuition which are also necessitated in intellectual work and theories.
But somehow thinking must not be done in the poem, intellect must not be corroding and eating the face of the poem. A pensive writer destroys, begins to eat his own poetry as soon as he writes it.