Kabbalah of Milan Kundera

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The Kabbalah of Milan Kundera [1]

Everything has a beginning and an end, my truth has been a long time refining [*an aptly fractured sentence]. I have explored and drilled for it with hope and intuition, filtered and condensed it the best I could with reflection, and then run it through my engines, wary at first, to see what would happen. There have been a few backfires, all right, all right, an explosion or two on this paper when I learned how volatile any homemixed [*home-mixed would work, I think] philosophy must be. Sooty but wiser [*beautiful], I blinked a while ago to realize I have been running my mind on this peculiar fuel much of my life. Even today, cautiously reckless, drop by drop, I am gradually raising the octane [*Beautiful: first the image of the engine didn't settle too well for me amidst the blood—the biological—but this has torque].

Everything has a beginning and an end. As the [*omit] time passes and the memories float further and further away from what once created them, the doubt always come[s*] sneaking to my mind. I don't know what I want to find. I don't know if I actually exist or reality is simply eluding my mind. How in the world will I autograph [*the explanation you gave me for this probably holds, but this still hits me awkwardly: author's call, keep it] the Kabbalah of Milan Kundera?

Again nothingness, try hard, everything has a beginning and an end. I need to cut my nails but I can't find my nailcutter.

Then Joker whispered in my ear; Jo mil jaey woh dori [*duri] nahin Jo mit jaey woh khuda nahin

And lo and behold; go back to the previous page and you will find a full stop right in the middle of the blank page, magic begins. [The] Joker is here…He crept in the landscape of my paper like a poisonous snake, wearing funny clothes with jingling bells.

This was not the first time I mediated on the words. The modus operandi was always constant. I got stoned [*I would advise against this sentence, for your sake]. I sat on the floor, holding big blank drawing pads. Pens ready to run through cosmic athletics [*Excellent, this is all in the heart and heat of the matter]. Staring at the nothingness in walls. Then painting a rudimentary Kabbalistic diagram, ten circles in an exotic architecture. These were the ten Holy spheres, each exhibiting a divine attribute, one of the Sefirot. Or else they were the ten branches on the Tree of Life, each showing an aspect of divine power. Or else they were ten names of God, ten ways in which He is made manifest. The ten Commandments. They were also the ten body parts of Adam. The first man. The ten globes of light from which the world was made. Ten faces of the King. [*This is very well depicted and articulated, but this is an academic paper, so at least an endnote here, elaborating the sources for your reading on Kabbalah would fortify this in terms of immersed poetics.] Ten steps to probe in the philosophy of Kundera and deciphering what actually Kunderian means [*Aesthetically I prefer Kunderan: it aligns with his baap the Kafkan]. Seven is the most important figure in the works of Kundera, so 7:10.

But they really don't seem to connect. Wait, I am not cracking a code or formulating a conspiracy theory. [*This is creative, but rather than a rapid return, I would have liked to see you play with the equation a little more; explain it, logically, why it doesn't hold – all playfully of course. Currently this appears to me as half-baked trickery. The consequent transition and sentence also don't work for me] Back to Kundera and words.

Staring at them for hours in silence though that takes a certain commitment. The journey to Kundera. It [*omit] is very long and quite dull. And always at the moment when I was [*tense consistency] feeling ready to give it up. [*,] I would begin to visualize my spine as a palm leaf. Off I would go from there, travelling through the spheres, losing myself. But for me, there was no merging, no loss of self. I didn't understand this idea of unity in nothingness. That sort of thing eluded me. I felt no magic. Just the thick useless marijuana fug [*again, as advised above at stoned], staring at the spheres, sensing nothing much except vague anthropomorphisms [*love this last clause particularly]: Didn't that one look like a man waving his fist? A crown? Half a menorah? A table? A sleeping fetus? A long haired sprite? [*brilliant]



We take an itinerary for guidance, we think; we need a compass to take us through jungles. Logical and sensible religions for me are teeter bridges, weak-tied twigs that snapped at the first pressure, a child's question turning impossible mystery. A whodunit. Why do religions cling to Unanswerable questions? Don't they know that The Unanswerable is no answer? Over and again I do meet a new theology. Tried my weight on it, the spider-stick jackstraws quaked and groaned, then all at once collapsed in front of me, steps ripping off, plummeting down right out of sight. I do grab the world, cringe back from the edge thankful not to have killed myself in the fall. [Compelling, broken form mirroring vacuous innards.]

What is novel?

What is the art of novel?

What are its literary aesthetics?

Is the novel can only be [*horrid, fix] interpreted as amusing, edifying, entertaining stories or is there more to it?

Kundera identifies [*word choice] the novel as "the great prose form in which an author thoroughly explores, by means of experimental selves (characters), some great themes of existence."

Homo sapiens, when cut down from his [*sapiens-his: fix] umbilical cord is in the progression of exploring the world, exploring the machinery [*again this does jar me: the rest is organic] that breeds sunlight, scrutinizing the gravity that glues us to the Earth, dissecting the atoms of which we are made of [*omit], understanding the mind of God or His absence. And I think where he has made lucid scientific and technological breakthroughs on the frontiers of Genetics, Physics, Cosmology and Courage, he has subjugated something unfeasible. Conceiving of an apparatus, to grapple with the existence of his own self, As Kundera points out, to explore the “inexplicable in that strange… creature man is for Fielding the prime incitement to writing a novel, the reason for inventing it.” [citation! – para works but needs slight reworking.]

Probing into the lingual history and origin of Invention, from Latin invenīre to find, come upon, as by study or inquiry; to find out; to devise; contrive or produce for the first time; to discover. To discover, is the pivotal contention of [*the] novel, to discover the very human nature, and his existence, novel is an inquiry into the character and scenery of life, as we don't know it. Kundera states; A novel that does not uncover a hitherto unknown segment of existence is immoral. Knowledge is the novel's only morality. [*quotation marks, citation]

For Kundera, the novelist is an "explorer of existence," not a prophet or a historian. Such "explorers" prefer questions to answers. As kundera, himself says [*says – poor form]; “For a novelist, a given historic situation is an anthropologic laboratory in which he explores his basic question: What is human existence?” Kundera often seems to think that only novelists are endowed with this peculiar inclination: "Outside the novel, we're in the realm of affirmation: everyone is sure of his statements: the politician, the philosopher, the concierge. Within the universe of the novel, however, no one affirms: it is the realm of play and of hypotheses. In the novel, then, reflection is essentially inquiring, hypothetical." [*]

As Gabriel Garcia Marquez in Love in the Time of Cholera [*italics], explores the depths of parody of almond bitter love [bitter almond love would make more sense, and ‘depths of parody of needs' work]; Stephen King in his novella, The Mist [*], plays with the hypothesis of a father killing his own son, [*no comma] in order to save his son from death itself; Gulzar in Do Par Ravi [*], basis [*bases] his inquiry on parentage and its blindness,[:] if somebody can throw one of their alive twin[*s], in mighty waves, considering him dead [*last clause awkward, ncomplete]. Micheal Ondaatje in, The English Patient, discovers rhapsodic tale of human pleasure, fluttering in the darkness of war; Arahundati Roy, examines in the God of Small Things "the extent of human existence"; that is to say "the realm of human possibilities, everything that man can become, everything he's capable of. [*this is a great effort but this para needs more deliberation: are you pinning the central questions or the discoveries; at this stage go with pinning the central questions, which you might nearly have done – but it all becomes a unwieldy towards the end.]

Kundera, in "The Art of the Novel," continues [*poor transition, lead-in]: “all the great existential themes Heidegger analyzes in Being and Time – [*—]considering them to have been neglected by all earlier European philosophy - [*—]had been unveiled, displayed, illuminated by four centuries of the novel (four centuries of European reincarnation of the novel). In its own way, through its own logic, the novel discovered the various dimensions of existence one by one: with Cervantes and his contemporaries, it inquires into the nature of adventure; with Richardson, it begins to examine 'what happens inside,' to unmask the secret life of the feelings; with Balzac, it discovers man's rootedness in history; with Flaubert, it explores the terra previously incognita of the everyday; with Tolstoy, it focuses on the intrusion of the irrational in human behavior and decisions. It probes time: the elusive past with Proust, the elusive present with Joyce. With Thomas Mann, it examines the role of the myths from the remote past that control our present actions. Et cetera, et cetera." [*citation, and this should be a block quote.]

[*The] Novel, in light of all the analogies and elucidations mentioned earlier [*sweeping, lazy, vague: proceed specifically], is a contrivance, a technology not to just look inside the anatomical contion of [*the] human body, but the very framework which make this being a human. Novel, [*] questions the notion of thoughts and electrical impulses which bond the soul to the heart, and make this organ not only a mechanism for pumping blood but the flood of emotions and histories connecting to the soul and mind. [*poor lead-in]

All novels, of every age, are concerned with the enigma of the self. As soon as you create an imaginary being, a character, you are automatically confronted by the question: What is the self? How can the self be grasped? It is one of those fundamental questions on which the novel, as novel, is based. [*]

The unknown reader is the writer himself, as the unknown reader to some extent has the same spiritual and physical needs as the writer himself. The writer and readers both have collective consciousness. The notion of the mysterious self and the relationship between the reader and the writer are quite the same. With this enigma of the self we are in a mysterious realm. I think this relationship is a bridge to self-recognition, and the novel embarks both the unknown reader and the writer on the quest of self-recognition.

Kundera has dealt with the enigma of the self and discovered the [*omit] unknown existential elements in human in his novels [*awk]. The Farewell Waltz concerns the detrimental character of sexual politics and self-deception. The repercussions of a fling affair and explores ethical issues as abortion, sperm-banking, and suicide [*jarring, not fluid constructions– last two sentences]. The novel tackles with misapprehension within [*] the relationships of five different couples. The novel preoccupies itself with private relationships, as they develop in the characters['*] private sphere of existence. The Unbearable Lightness of Being converge[s*?] on the consequences of forgetting personal and cultural histories, the metaphysical insinuations of laughter, and how dogmatic doctrines often escort to hoodwinked design of good and evil [*editing required]. The novel discovers that memory is a form of preservation instinct on the earth where history is usually ill-defined by cultural propagandas. Furthermore, each character epitomizes a unique motif that is explored throughout the novel in varied frameworks. Slowness, using a telescoping device of time, burlesques the orthodox conventions of unity of action. [*do you have this? If not, where or what are you basing this on?] Kundera uses the contemporary and modern fascination with speed, as a quintessence of ostentation and bareness in the novel. Immortality, [*no comma] dissects the enigma of media manipulation, popular culture, and entrepreneurial technocracy decaying the perception of reality. Kundera discourses in the novel on the conflict between the maturity of classicism and juvenile immaturity of romanticism. As well as, Immortality [*] poses the question whether contemporary Man could elude from the catastrophe of barrenness, ludicrousness and farce of existence in a world without God. In Ignorance [*], Kundera studies the natural history of exile and return. Exploring the meaning and inaptness of freedom and fidelity, that is grounded on ignorance and corroborates to be erroneous [*]..] If there is a rendered argument to be discovered throughout the novel, it is that Oedipal Freedom is the gift of Modernity and that it can be most readily discovered in the soul of [*the] émigré. [Here again, this is a great effort, but needs more work. This risks being reductive on one hand, and unless backed by consequent grounded textual analysis, with readings developed on the basis of evidence, these remain in the air, merely assertions, albeit interesting ones

Kundera says; [*bad form, poor transition, poor lead-in, colon, not semi- here] “to apprehend the self in my novels means to grasp the essence of its existential problem. To grasp its existential code…code of… character(s) is made up of certain key words … Each of these words has a different meaning in the other person's existential code. Of course, the existential code is not examined in abstracto; it reveals itself progressively in the action, in the situations.” [*citation, poorly divested quote]

Looking at the existential codes embedded in the characters of Milan Kundera, we evidently can authenticate the above mentioned notion of the enigma of self, implanted in existential codes of different characters and their evolution with diverse circumstances [*vague: adds very little]. In The Unbearable Lightness of Being [*], Tomas is a fervent womanizer, yet he loves his wife and infidel [*]. The mother of his wife, Tereza, is a belligerent advocate of the philosophy of socialism, optimistic and exhibits tons of openness [*informal, out of place]. Tereza is introverted and aches for seclusion. We also meet Sabina, [*a] Czech artist enthralled with characteristics of unique metaphors in which the interface of the images deceive one another [*awk, rework]. While herself, she is the eternal betrayer. The Farewell Waltz, is a set of discrepancy on the thesis of human misinterpretations [*awk, rework]. Events, as they transpire, are being inferred by characters erroneously [*as above]. Characters often attribute to actions elucidations which are precisely the contradictory of their true implication [*you can write what you're trying to say much more clearly, otherwise it smacks of pretense, unnecessary convolution – rework].

Let's consider the joke about the Pope and the Chief Rabbi, as an efficient analogy [*you could do without the second clause]. Several centuries ago, the Pope decreed that all the [*] Jews had to leave Italy. There was of course, a huge [*] outcry from the Jewish community, so the Pope offered a deal. He would have [*] a religious debate with a leader of the Jewish community. If the Jewish leader won the debate, the Jews would be permitted to stay in Italy. If the Pope won, the Jews would have to leave.

The Jewish community met and [*omit] picked an aged Rabbi, [*no comma] to represent them in the debate. [*The] Rabbi, however, could not speak Latin and the Pope could not speak Yiddish. So it was decided that this would be a silent debate.

The Pope and the Rabbi sat opposite each other for a full minute before the Pope raised his hands and showed him three fingers. [*] Rabbi looked back and raised one finger. Next the Pope waved his finger around himself, Rabbi pointed to the ground where he sat. The Pope then brought out a communion wafer and a chalice of wine.

[Plagiarism detected afterwards: http://www.comedycrowd.com/joke?pid=1249]

Rabbi pulled out an apple. With that the Pope stood up and said, “I concede the debate. This man has bested me. The Jew can stay.”

Later the cardinals gathered around the Pope, asking him what had happened. The Pope said, “First I held up three fingers to represent the Trinity. He responded by holding up one finger to remind me that there was still One God common to both our religions. Then I waved my finger around me to show him that God was all round us. He reminded by pointing to the ground to show that God was also right here with us. I pulled out the wine and wafer to show that God absolves us of our sins. He pulled out an apple to remind [*] of Original Sin. He had an answer for everything. What could I do?”

Meanwhile, the Jewish community crowded around the Rabbi asking what happened. “Well, first he said to me that you Jews have three days to [*] left, so I said to him that not one of us is going to leave, then he told me that [*] whole city is going to be cleared of Jews, well I said to him, ‘ listen here, Mr. Pope, the Jews will stay right here.”

“And then”, everybody asked in union

“Who knows, we broke for lunch?”

But the quest for the self ends, yet again, in a paradox: The more powerful the lens of the microscope observing the self, the more the self and its uniqueness elude us… [*]

[*] Novels is and always have been discovery and it will remain the tool to discover which the human understanding and mind can't breach, where logic vanishes and only imagination has the courage to probe and discover.

Sitaron kay agay jahan aur bhi hain

Abhi Ishaq ki imtihan aur bhi hain [*]

[Asterisk notations stopped here, for now]


Wisdom ● Point ● Beginning

“Please remember, please! Please remember this. Life is more than just a Chinese puzzle. It's more than that…. Things cannot in reality fit together the way the evidence does when I write it down-please remember this, please…the scene didn't follow one to the other, flawless and meaningful-please remember this…remember that I cannot organize things for you the way you want them organized. Please remember…life is more than just a Chinese puzzle, more than this, more than this, please remember that you are not-that I am not-”

A man could own these words and partake of the famousness of these people and their prodigious facility to deceive death of its satisfaction: obscurity. A man wavers between awe and ire at the very famous, as he does at the idea of God.

What was that about?

Are you completely mad?

Are you trying to get me insane?

What kind of person turns up in that state?

Do you even realize?

What goes through your mind when you are writhing this?

Do you think that making people crazy helps anything?

Is it even a paper?

Do you need a doctor?

In an article, “Man Thinks, God Laughs,” kundera says that novel's wisdom is different from that of philosophy — it is born of the spirit of humor. The novel contradicts ideological certitudes: “like a Penelope, it undoes each night the tapestry that…philosophy and learned man wove the day before”

But what is the wisdom of the novel?

“There is a fine Jewish proverb: Man thinks, God laughs. Inspired by that adage, I like to imagine that Francois Rabelias heard God's laughter one day, and thus was born the idea of the first great European novel. It pleases me to think that the art of the novel came into the world as the echo of God's laughter.”

But why does God laugh at the sight of man thinking?

Because man thinks and truth escapes him. The more men think, the more their thoughts diverge. Finally because man is never what he thinks he is.

The wisdom of the novel: Man thinks, God laughs; Life is seen rationally, as a:

Glowing trajectory of causes and effects, failures, and success, and man, setting his impatient gaze on the casual chain of his actions, accelerates further his mad race towards death.

Kundera sees human existence located “where the bridge between a cause and an effect is ruptured.” At this juncture, there is liberty, digression, the incalculable, a lack of reason. So the art born of God's laughter — the novel — is the “art that has managed to create the…imaginative realm where no one is the possessor of the truth, and there everyone has right to be understood”. According to kundera, the novel's wisdom is of uncertainty; ambiguity, from one to myriad truths.

“As God slowly departed from the seat whence he had directed the universe and its order of values, distinguished good from evil, and endowed each thing with meaning, Don Quixote set forth from his house into a world he could no longer recognize. In the absence of the Supreme Judge, the world suddenly appeared in its fearsome ambiguity; the single divine Truth decomposed into myriad relative truths parceled out by men. Thus was born the world of the Modern Era, and with it the novel, the image and model of that world…To take with Cervantes, the world as ambiguity, to be obliged to face not a single absolute truth but a welter of contradictory truths (truths embedded in imaginary selves called characters), to have as one's only certainty the wisdom of uncertainty, requires no less courage.”

.One is enticed to discern that the novelist is in a pose similar to a character in a novel as typically defined by Kundera: unique, yet not prevailing; simply adding to the group dynamic. This seems to me, an important attribute to be mark to grasp how novel and truth have fed each other since the dawn of time. For a writer, it is quite uncontroversial to preserve that the human occurrence should not be trodden to its absolute and contradictory dimensions of truth. Themes such as love, sex, angst before death, camaraderie, covetousness, voracity, antagonism, melancholy, and a horde of other uncertain and ambiguous realities had preoccupied novelists since time immemorial, and they can all be presented as deeper and more vital human truths. But another elucidation is implicit here: some proportions of the human experience that do not originate directly or primarily from the (as kundera pins) absolute and contradictory realms of truths have such a cultural resonance that they ultimately make the "two worlds" (reality and fiction) look essentially similar to such an extent that at the end, real historical and chronological connections trump the differences.

For Kundera, Nietzsche's denunciation of the ostentatious theory of systematic thinking bear fruit in the form of "an immense broadening of theme," meaning that it opens access to uncharted territories and brings down the barriers between modes and types of analysis and creativity. Experimental thinking unites to an explicit type of wisdom universal to great novelists: the "wisdom of uncertainty and ambiguity." Experimental thinking conjugates with uncertainty, polyphony, and eternal expedition, the way ideologies connect to legitimacy, truth, doctrine, and final judgment. In a comment on Cervantes

“Man desires a world where good and evil can be clearly distinguished, for he has an innate and irrepressible desire to judge before he understands. Religions and ideologies are founded on this desire. They can cope with the novel only by translating its language of relativity and ambiguity into their own apodictic and dogmatic discourse. They require that someone be right: either Anna Kernina is the victim of a narrow-minded tyrant, or Karenin is the victim of an immoral woman; either K. is an innocent man crushed by an unjust Court, or the Court represents divine justice and K. is guilty….This “either-or” encapsulates an inability to tolerate the essential relativity of things human, an inability to look squarely at the absence of the Supreme Judge. This inability makes the novel's wisdom (the wisdom of uncertainty) hard to accept and understand.”

The novel is predominantly pertinent at commemorating the primary actor of modernity: the emancipated, impudent, obstinate human being. It is par excellence idiosyncratic and pluralistic. The plurality and ingenuousness of the sphere of novels is one where characters can breath, envision, invent, and rediscover themselves. In The Discourse of Jerusalem: The Novel and Europe, upon receiving the Jerusalem Award, Kundera said, "The novel is the imaginary paradise of individuals. It is the territory where no one possesses the truth, neither Anna nor Karenin, but where everyone has the right to be understood, both Anna and Karenin." The novel was there when the individual was born, the idea of both the man and the novel born at the same instant. We failed to remember that before the individual could have rights, they had to be invented as such; a commission for which art in general and the novel in particular played a focal role. Kundera's take on the idiosyncratic, individualistic and pluralistic epitome of the novel is well taken. The novel is a paramount representation of the ambivalence and even paradoxical life of human circumstances, enlightening the countless promises of life, and liberally coalescing various literary genres. The novel usually features a plurality of characters and an orchestration that is ajar and gratis to borrow from any other discursive genres. That being said, one can by far think of a number of magnum opus novels that endorse a definite point of view, some of them written by Kundera himself. His novels portray themes that are extremely analogous to the ones found in "The Art of the Novel" or “Testaments Betrayed”. They are mis en scène in a novelistic way but for all the devised ambivalence and polyphony, the reader do not divert from the core summit articulated by the novelist. The finest paradigm of the plurality of themes advocated by Kundera is to be found in opus where it materializes innocently, by artistic catastrophe.

Kundera gives the novel credit for the invention of such crucial western commodities as the individual, freedom, humor, intelligence, ambiguity, and criticism. "The novel dealt with the unconscious before Freud, the class struggle before Marx, it practiced phenomenology before the phenomenologists." Contemporary predicaments of avant-garde civilizations such as the hyper-bureaucratization, the société du spectacle, the corrosion of character autonomy, were all anticipated by great novelists.

Literary imagination is not, as Kundera once commented on Kafka, "a dream-like evasion or a pure subjectivity, but rather a tool to penetrate real life, to unmask it, to surprise it."

By "real life," Kundera means human experience as a whole, including the motif. In fact, motif is especially deserving of being "penetrated" and "unmasked" since it is the realm from where discourse on ideology and enigma of self flourish. In fact, the novel should be doing the "penetrating and unmasking" of this particular motif. The novelist speaks about motif, but from a higher position, one that never fails to surround existence with its broader and more meaningful context.

Making a character “alive” means: getting to the bottom of his existential problem. Which in turn means: getting to the bottom of some situations, some motifs, some words that shape him…

Kundera defines Motif as “an element of the theme or of the story that appears several times over the course of the novel, always in a different context.” In The Unbearable Lightness of Being, motifs are erotic trickery in order to outmaneuver the weight of destiny, self deception, the restrictions eloquence and articulacy of human body, the playoffs of history. The characters have a purpose of building choices but since Kundera discards Nietzsche's eternal return, his characters cannot discover from recurring events (history) and thus their verdicts and proceedings weigh heavily on them. In his novel, The Joke, the main character, Ludvik Jahn, is expelled from the Communist Party for writing this joke on a postcard destined to his girlfriend: "Optimism is the opium of the people! A healthy atmosphere stinks of stupidity! Long live Trotsky! Ludvik.” This joke becomes the existential problem and thus motif of the novel. The fortuitous, inadvertent outcome of proceedings becomes the motif in Immortality. Avenarius happens to puncture the tires of the car, owned by Agnes's husband Paul, so that he is belated when travelling to a country hospital, where Agnes had been taken after a car accident, caused by another unpremeditated event. Paul arrives at the hospital fifteen minutes after Agnes's death. Another Kunderaesque motif that appears in, The Farewell Waltz, is the motif of violence, perpetrated on naive individuals by society itself, with the dynamic sanction of its associates. Like Ludvík Jahn in The Joke, Jakub, a cynical, nonconformist, mutinous intellectual about to abandon his native country forever, acrimoniously re-discovers the phenomenon of violence and comes to the conclusion that anyone in his country would send guiltless humans to death without reluctance. Paradoxically, it is Jakub who is culpable of the arbitrary and capricious murder of the nurse, thus fortifying, that in spite of his lifelong espousals for human rights, he belongs amongst his fellow countrymen.

Q. When A and B had smoke, how much of the fun was in the rolling?

A. In the book it is written: Oh, about seventy-eight percent.

Of the L-shaped book, Always makes a filter, pretty cylinder of colored cardboard-and so Rizla packets are architectural disasters: first no sides, then no back, then no roof, then no packet at all. The rolling is slow, elaborate. Oh, about seventy-eight percent of the fun is in the rolling.

Are you done yet, A?

No, not yet. Just got to…

Any chance of that smoke, A?

Wrong side of the paper, got to…

Did we already smoke that one?

No, haven't lit it yet.


Love ● Grace ● White

RENAULT: I've often speculated why you don't return to America. Did you abscond with the church funds? Did you run off with senator's wife? I liked to think you killed a man. It's the romantic in me.

RICK: It's a combination of all three.

RENAULT: And what in heaven's name brought you to Casablanca.

RICK: M y health. I come to Casablanca for the waters.

RENAULT: The waters? What waters? We are in the desert.

RICK: I was misinformed.

What is Love?

The lyrics of John Lennon.

Nancy Sinatra's voice between 1948 and 1956.

The old route to school on a March morning.

The letter æ.

Being inside her with her legs crossed round my hips.

People falling over.


Overweight cats.


The films of Madhubala.

Relationships that do not involve blood or other fluids (with no sexual pun intended).


Telling children that all life is suffering.



Smell of cinnamon.


Oh, man, Are you serious? That's just three pounds of empty impressions…

Are they?

Sexual vortex.

Symbolic sexual vortex. Just after the dessert!

In Laughable Loves, Kundera renders love as a meaningless game, one punctilious forte of life where an individual is certain that he has some hegemony, one realm where he try to discover his quintessence, his idiosyncratic self. Man has petite power over spheres of life, but in love there is a prudence of virtual free will. Women for one of his characters are the “legitimate criterion of his life's destiny.” Women become for the protagonist, a route of opting his independence in the populace, where he was, in every auxiliary fashion, inept to articulate himself. Later in the novel, the character says, “All at once, I understood that it had been only illusion, that we ourselves saddle events, and are able to control their course. The truth is that they aren't our stories at all, that they are foisted upon us from somewhere outside, that we are not to blame the queer path they follow.” The Kunderaesque themes emergent in this piece of work simply identifies that erotic ardor can be encumber. The sexual yen is perplexing. Lovemaking can occasionally feign the silhouette of avoidance which just rawhides obnoxious veracity. A woman's love is offered as a therapeutic apparatus for all the tribulations that the man has endured in the world. In each of Kundera's novel, he has dissected love in an utterly diverse and distinctive anatomy. The motif of sexual vengeance in The Joke has questioned my sweet and saccharine idea of love. I have wondered whether it is actually possible to make love to someone as an idiom of abhorrence. In The Farewell waltz, trumpet player Klima, who is profoundly in love with his stunning wife Kamila, comprehends his love for her by getting laid with other women and by constantly returning to Kamila. In a poignant and melancholy novel, a coercing love story with philosophical dialogue with Frederich Nietzsche, The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Here again the protagonist, Tomas is confronted by this Kunderian inquiry (as in The Farewell Waltz). Milan Kundera opens the novel with a dissertation on Nietzsche's canon of the eternal recurrence. He castoffs any scrutiny of the return as being true or metaphysical, thus Kundera discards Nietzsche's buoyancy and optimism. He narrates the story of the excruciating love affair of Tomas and Tereza, predestined to live together, yet by no means terminating the gargantuan soreness and aching, they are bestowing each other. But Tomas is vigilant enough to discriminate between his marital \existence with Tereza and his erotic wanderings with other women. Thus, portraying a austere severance between sex and love: "Love does not make itself felt in the desire for copulation (a desire that extends to an infinite number of women) but in the desire for sleep (a desire limited to one woman).”, Sleep, for Tomas, capitalizes the sharing of intimacies: sleeping in the same bed with Tereza throughout the night, but also being overheard brushing his teeth in the bathroom. Sexual contentment was merely Tomas's manner of shredding off the layers of monotony and ennui. From the text of a Beethoven composition Kundera takes the line: "Es muss Sein" (it must be), which ties Tomas and Tereza together. In the same landscape, Due to Tomas's myriad infidelities, Tereza endure the tremendously weighty passions of all, jealousy: "She knew that she had become a burden to him: she took things too seriously, turning everything into a tragedy, and failed to grasp the lightness and amusing insignificance of physical love." Tereza instigates an act of adultery with a stranger. She felt like a stranded body, subjugated from her soul, objectification, her soul wrenched by this fling affair. It was no more an erotic wandering quest; it was as taboo as a emerging pornography painted on the walls of her soul. Tereza was trounced by inestimable heartache and lonesomeness. Nothing could be more miserable than her naked body perched on the enlarged end of a sewer pipe. Tereza's infidelities neither exhibit a look of anger nor jealousy nor indignation, but the blank horror of dealing with grotesquely senseless. It was the knowledge that neither their marriage nor his love for her nor his insistence on holding her nor his pleasures with other women nor his gratuitous adultery had any meaning whatever, that there was no shred of sense in any of it and no use for grope for explanations. The idiom of fate, to which Nietzsche refers to as "amor fati" (love of fate); life someway bestows us with circumstances, from which we just can't elude ourselves and we simply have to swallow the bitter ground reality. Es muss Sein, it must be

In Ignorance the narrator tells of a character, Milada. When she was in high school, she had an older boyfriend, who turns out to have been Josef, the main protagonist of novel. Covetous that Milada was going on a school skiing trip without him. Josef jeopardized to leave her and to move to Prague. In despondency at facing her first heartbreak at the hands of love. Milada made a futile suicide attempt. While on the skiing trip, she swallowed sleeping pills and went outside, planning to freeze to death. But she awakened and returned to the hotel, her ear frost bitten. It was surgically removed. In shame, she left the town and later, ventured out of the town to find love with strangers in other cities. She also never changed her hair style, always making certain that both her ears were covered. She suffers from a greater loneliness. When Josef met Ilena at the Paris airport, he didn't remember her name. She reminded him that they had met in a bar and that he never took his eyes off her. As the narrator comments, “their love story stopped before it could start.” As Kundera says in The Art of Novel: “even the greatest love ends up as a skeleton of feeble memories”. So what is love to Kundera; sexual vortex, sexual games, madness, eroticism leading one gesture to another or loneliness. The automatic motions of intimacy, kundera portray love as an expected routine, a routine invented by someone, performing in a mockery, invented by someone in hatred, defiling parody on its inventors. His characters felt a sightless, headless fury, part-horror, part-pleasure; the horror of committing an act they would never provoke their lovers commit, the pleasure of committing it in blasphemous defiance of their lovers. They did not speak. They just knew each other's motif. Kunderian love has a look of secrecy, the look of partners in guilt, the furtive, smutty look of children defiling someone's clean fence by chalking sneaky scratches intended as symbol of obscenity. Romantic love is always an unconsummated, pre-coital emotion.

Kunderaesque map of love; a literary labyrinth:

She was past the realm of thought, as she lay naked in bed in the darkness of her room, unable to think or sleep and the moaning violence that filled her mind seemed only a sensation of her muscles, but its tone and its twisting shades were like a pleading cry, which she knew not as words, but as pain: let him come here, let him break in. let it be damned, everything we have been and are. Let him come here, be it any price he names, I have nothing left that's not for sale to him any longer; Is this what it means to be an animal? It does and I am. She lay on her back, her palms pressed to the sheet at her sides, to stop herself from rising and walking into his room, knowing she was capable of even that. It's not I, it's a body I can neither endure nor control.

But somewhere within her, not as words, not as thoughts, but as a radiant point of still, there was the presence of the judge who seemed to observe her, not in stern condemnation any longer, but in approval and amusement, as if saying: Your body? If he would not what you know him to be, would your body bring you to this? Why is it his body you want and no other? Are you damning that which you are honoring in this very moment, by your very desire?

She didn't have to hear these words, she knew them, she had always known them…

Metaphors are dangerous. Love begins with a metaphor. Which is to say, love begins at the point when a woman enters her first word into our poetic memory.


POWER ● Din ● Red

I believe there is a God Chip in our brains. Something created to process and trigger wonderment. It allows us to see beauty, to uncover the power of beauty in the world. But it's not so well designed. It's a chip that has its problems. Sometimes it confuses a small man with a bad mustache and a chocolate for an image of the infinite; sometimes an almond-eyed girl on the big screen for the stained glass window in the church. It is a simpler game than chess. Simpler even than snakes and ladders.

This is a slow, malicious game.

Designed by whom?

Controlled by whom?

A game of tick-tack-toe…

Throughout his work, Kundera has illuminated the modern-day dilemma and chaos of dialect and idiom, a catastrophe of nuance and expressions, and the torn bridge of communiqué. His novels depict various constructs of illusions, which have engulfed the modern man. His brainchild, transform themselves in a manuscript, a symptom, an impression that becomes vibrant with life and initiates an inexorable, critical energy in the real world. That's the nature of power, the novel exhibits. Kundera, advocates that the novel has ad nauseam mines of inquiry in the ''bureaucratic'' (confinement bureaucracies); it has the great power, by asset of the already invented devices (by Cervantes, Rabelais, Kafka, Tolstoy). Commenting on Kafka, Kundera said, “He (Kafka) saw what no one else could see: not only the enormous importance of the bureaucratic phenomenon for man, for his condition and for his future, but also (even more surprisingly) the poetic potential contained in the phantasmic nature of offices… By expanding a bureaucratic setting to the gigantic dimensions of a universe, Kafka unwittingly succeeded in creating an image that fascinates us by its resemblance to a society he never knew, that of today's Prague.” Kundera himself uses that Kafkan Trap to convert antipoetic material of a highly bureaucratized society into the great poetry of the novel. Thus, through the power of novel giving us escapism from the claustrophobic universe.

Kundera eschews the notion of the political conscientiousness of the writer, cliquing in its place the aesthetic contractual obligation of the novelist to espouse and broadcast the sweet disposition of literary tradition of ancients. In Testaments Betrayed, he says: "I have always, deeply, violently, detested those who look for a position (political, philosophical, religious, whatever) in a work of art rather than searching it in an effort to know, to understand, to grasp this or that aspect of reality." His essays on the commission of the novel seem written to preserve the novel and what it embodies (culture, civilization, wisdom, autonomy) against what he calls the reductive world of ideology. Still, Kundera's writings on the art and responsibility of the novel are copious with intriguing and intuitive annotations on politics. Many of his novels are interpreted as political novels by critics. As Fred Misurella writes, Kundera "passed twenty years in a country (Communist Czechoslovakia) where any human problem, large or small, was considered only in the political context, and now he wanted to concentrate on other things."

"if a novel (or poetry, a film) is a content in a form, it is no more than a disguised ideological message: its aesthetic character falls apart. The ideological reading of a novel (and the one that we are constantly offered) is as simplifying, stupefying and flattening as the ideological reduction of reality itself."

Kundera envisages the novel as inherently irreconcilable and discordant with authoritarianism, particularly in its most radical form: totalitarianism. In The Unbearable Lightness of Being, the narrator proclaims: "In the realm of totalitarian kitsch, all answers are given in advance and preclude any questions. It follows, then, that the true opponent of totalitarian kitsch is the person who asks questions." this inaptness between the novel and totalitarian kitsch is quite political in nature, where one is politically right and the other one is wrong. The incongruity is, as Kundera puts it in "The Art of the Novel," ontological, rather than ideological: "the incompatibility between the novel and totalitarian universe is deeper than the one that separates a dissident from an apparatchik, or a human-rights campaigner from a torturer, because it is not only political or moral but ontological. By which I mean: the world of one single Truth and the relative, ambiguous world of the novel are molded of entirely different substances. Totalitarian Truth excludes relativity, doubt, questioning; it can never accommodate what I would call the spirit of the novel." The novel and the novel only has power to purely speak the truth, in so called Totalitarian reality and the spirit of the novel is actually questioning this Totalitarian Truth. It denies prerogative to monopoly over truth. We can't resist the siren song of human problems in great novels. Writers and artists consistently censure the infringement of human rights in this Universal mess, though not in all state of affairs. The list of great writers who embraced totalitarianism in the twentieth century gives one pause. George Bernard Shaw, for one, praised Stalin, Hitler, and Mussolini. A character named Grizzly has a very Kunderian thought on that in Immortality: "You remind me of the young men who supported the Nazis or communists not out of cowardice or out of opportunism but out of an excess of intelligence. For nothing requires a greater effort of thought than arguments to justify the rule of nonthought. I experienced it with my own eyes and ears after the war, when intellectuals and artists rushed like a herd of cattle into the Communist Party, which soon proceeded to liquidate them systematically and with great pleasure.”

For Kundera, "political movements rest not so much on rational attitudes as on the fantasies, images, words, and archetypes that come together to make up this or that political kitsch." In Immortality, his narrator (echoing Kundera himself) typically explains that "the remnants of Marx no longer form any logical system of ideas, but only a series of suggestive images and slogans (a smiling worker with a hammer, black, white, and yellow men fraternally holding hands, the dove of peace rising to the sky, and so on), we can rightfully talk of a gradual, general, planetary transformation of ideology into imagology." The principal political part of the novel may be found in the questions it educates rather than in its explicit answers.

"The artist lies for the improvement of the truth.

Believe him."

A reformulation of this schematic ploy can be: the artist and his work, is a representation of a poignant, rational, and occasionally ethical stimulus, an awakener, a canvasser of question mark? According to Kundera, The artist and his work emanate freedom, not the artist's scrupulous political or apolitical proclivity. We can evidently assert that the artist or novelist exhibits a analogous anatomy to a character in a novel as defined by Kundera: unique, yet not prevailing; simply adding to the group dynamic. It seems to me here, a vital question arises, are literature and freedom are directly proportional to each other? The guarantee of freedom, as we know it today in the facade of contemporary paraphernalia, Milan Kundera tackles with this notion of freedom in Ignorance. Ignorance divulges that freedom in the “Free World” is becoming epiphenomenon, a Romantic delusion, about which a certain powerful melancholy lies at the heart of Josep and Ilena. Oedipus in the novel epitomizes the disintegration of distinction between, what is sacred and what is secular private and public. As Oedipus life and actions are based on Rule of Law. Thus this collapse explores the ground on which the Rule of Law loses legitimacy. Today the fate of humanity is gradually approaching the doom of the Oedipal family, each impression of reticence, or severance has been derelict and vehemence against the self is becoming the greater jeopardy. Terrorism and suicidal attacks may not be till now but slowly they are becoming the norms of Humanity. The so called perception of political freedom has becoming an epiphenomenon and a protuberance. In the novel it becomes both for Josep and Ilena a protrusion of their erotic expedition for personal freedom. For them, personally free turned the nuisance of being under the weight of someone else, as something inevitable. That was the only mode in which either of them could feel at home with themselves. Both remind us this very Kunderian contemplation that to be truly politically and apolitically free, one must be personally free. This obliteration of distinctions is the central eminence of Nihilism. Kundera's novel suggests that Nihilism will progressively more be tangible by what might be called as Oedipal Freedom. Living with no distinctions and no rules. But as Kundera puts it; “the quest for the self has always ended, and always will end, in a paradoxical dissatisfaction.” I can truly imagine this is only in the Power of the novel.

Living with no distinctions and no rules!

But surely you would have to obey at least One Rule?

“To live with Rules or Judgments.”


BEAUTY ● Rahamin ● Green

The world is round, rather elliptical, like my divine providence, elliptical like my fate and round like a womb, minus the amniotic fluid, plus heinous crimes of statistical chargings.

Fucked up!

Fucked up! By the bloody bloodsuckers, buzzing around the headless corpses.

Life could be tricky here!


Fucked up!

There's death and starvation and drought and flood and pestilence and epidemics and unemployment, the sea is dying and the future with it, the climates changing the forests are burning and hatred runs amok, haves versus not's, and single issues versus let-it-be's, recessions and ozone holes and greenhouse effects and chlorofluorocarbons, species going excuse me gone extinct, and floods and earthquakes and oil-spills and tidal waves and nuclear meltdowns all foretold, some say, in the Book of Look Out and by the way there's a monster asteroid tumbling down if I so much nicks the Pole, the Earth will wipe out.

Classy, isn't it!

Without realizing it, the individual composes his life according to the laws of beauty even in times of greatest distress.

We are focus-points of aesthetics and beauty, enormously creative. When we enter the self-constructed hologrammetric arena (as Kundera calls it) laws of beauty, we begin at once to generate creativity particles, imajons, as I like to call them. Imajons have no aesthetical charge of their own but as we are pungently polarized through our thoughts and by the force of our choice and desire, in the form cloud of conceptons, a family of very high energy thoughts which may be positive, negative or neutral. Indefinite numbers of conceptons are created in nonstop eruption, a thundering cascade of creativity pouring from every center of personal consciousness. They mushroom into concepton clouds, which can be neutral or strongly charged – buoyant, weightless or leaden, depending on the nature of their dominant aesthetical thoughts. Every nanosecond an indefinite number of concepton clouds build to critical mass then transform in quantum bursts to high energy probability waves of creativity radiating at tachyon speeds through an eternal reservoir of super structured alternate events, through any writing implements. Depending on their charge and nature, the creativity impressions crystallize these nascent aesthetical thoughts to match the mental schism of their fashioning consciousness into holographic appearances, in the form of composition, landscape and architecture of a novel.

Are you following?

The materialized events of expressions became the mind experience, freighted with all the aspects of tangible composition crucial to make them existent evocative to the creating consciousness. This automatic process is the fountain form which springs every entity and event in the theater of author's imagination. The persuasion of imajon hypothesis lies in its capacity of personal verification. The hypothesis predicts that as we focus our conscious intention on the positive and life-affirming, as we fasten our thoughts to these values, we polarize masses of positive conceptons, the words of the sublime aesthetical bliss. Though default or intention, unaware by the design, we not only choose but create the visible outer words that are most resonant to our inner state of being.

The very sensitive, interesting, memorable reflections on exile and memory, of Irena's pleasure in Prague, in the novel Ignorance truly encapsulate the essence of beauty, beauty as explained in the above trajectory.

"Seen from where she is strolling, Prague is a broad green swathe of peaceable neighborhoods with narrow tree-lined streets. This is the Prague she loves, not the sumptuous one downtown; the Prague boom at the turn of the previous century, the Prague of the Czech lower middle class, the Prague of her childhood, where in wintertime she would ski up and down the hilly little lanes, the Prague where at dusk the encircling forests would steal into town to spread their fragrance.
Dreamily she walks on; for a few seconds she catches a glimpse of Paris, which for the first time she feels has something hostile about it: chilly geometry of the avenues; pridefulness of the Champs-Elysées; stern countenances of the giant stone women representing Equality or Fraternity; and nowhere, nowhere, a single touch of this kindly intimacy, a single whiff of this idyll she inhales here. In fact, throughout all her years as an émigré, this is the picture she has harbored as the emblem of her lost country: little houses in gardens stretching away out of sight over rolling land. She felt happy in Paris, happier than here, but only Prague held her by a secret bond of beauty. She suddenly understands how much she loves this city and how painful her departure from it must have been."

In ‘‘The Unbearable Lightness of Being,'' Kundera gives us examples of Communist kitsch, American kitsch, fascist kitsch, feminist kitsch - even artistic kitsch. The ''Jerusalem Address'' in ''The Art of the Novel'' bluntly describes the kitsch as ''the translation of the stupidity of received ideas into the language of beauty and feeling.'' The ''either-or'' humor of kitsch, as Kundera phrases it in ''The Depreciated Legacy of Cervantes,'' is, in the ultimate scrutiny, the result of ''an inability to tolerate the essential relativity of things human, an inability to look squarely at the absence of the Supreme Judge.'' Hence, the novel's idiosyncratic denomination as a form.

“Even the imperative necessity to please and thereby to gain attention of the greatest number, the aesthetic of mass media is inevitably that of kitsch; and as the mass media come to embrace and to infiltrate more of our life kitsch becomes the everyday aesthetic and moral code.”

One antidote to kitsch is to carve novels according to Kundera's third principle, what he refers to throughout ''The Art of the Novel'' as ''novelistic counterpoint'' or ''polyphony.''

Kundera aesthetics in most of his novels are based on the outset of music and musicality that enables the theory of novelistic polyphony to create its magic in the realm of art of novel. This art of polyphony has its roots deep in the history of the novel. With Cervantes, (Kundera argues), the novel discovered multiple perspective; with Richardson, (Kundera says,) it discovered the ''interior life.'' Developing Herman Broch's idea of “polyhistorical” novel, Kundera pins down the unachieved aesthetics of Broch method, “a new art of novelistic counterpoint…which can blend philosophy, narrative, and dream into one music.” ). What is “aimed and missed” in Broch, The Sleepwalkers is the fusion of contrapuntal lines: “the several elements (narrative, aphorism, reportage, verse, essay) remain more juxtaposed than blended into a true ‘polyphonic unity'” 65. The Sleepwalkers, “is made up of five purposely heterogeneous “lines”: (1) novelistic narrative … (2) short story; … (3) the reportage; ... (4) the poetic narrative … (5) the philosophical essay ….Each of the five lines is magnificent in itself. Still, though they are handled simultaneously, in constant alternation (that is, with a clear “polyphonic” intention), the lines do not come together, do not make an indivisible whole; in other words, the polyphonic intention remains artistically unfulfilled”. At this point the interviewer intervenes: “Doesn't this metaphoric application of the term “polyphony” to literature set up demands a novel could never meet?” For Kundera, in whose work music, as the aesthetical architecture and the composition, holds a pivotal role, coins a term, ''chronologic displacement”. By the revenue of ''chronologic displacement,'' the novelist can divulge voyaging or traversing stories, not only from the sporadic perceptions of the germane characters, but in staggered and alternate chronology as well. The fabrication of this aesthetical author's originality is emotionally astonishing. It amplifies the reader's imajons by producing indefinite numbers of conceptons and ignites a kinship among a series of lives. This relation not only apprehends the personal histories of characters but make one experience whole discourse on the history of mankind. Kundera's polyphonic novels provide this mode of seeing, what he calls a ''suprapersonal wisdom.''

The beauty of a novel is inseparable from its architecture; I say “beauty” because the composition is not merely a technical skill; it carries within it the author's originality of style.…

In musical words, expressions transfigure themselves into effects. Any lyrical testimonial becomes the truth. The novelist might say, "Life is as futile as crying", or he might say "Life is as cheerful as laughter" and in both illustrations he will be right. These statements become bona fide because of their beauty. The structure of The Joke is derived from the aesthetics of musical composition. It is pluralist, polyphonic and strictly mathematical novel. Four main characters narrate their anecdotes, often unfolding the identical events from their own prospective. By confronting their stories, the unknown reader comes to the inference that each of the characters is the prey of his or her own erroneous elucidation of truth. The main character, Ludvik Jahn, is conceited of his cerebral, analytical skills. But he deceives himself when believing that he is in satiated, lucid power of his life. Even his actions are pedestal on emotive yens, which react themselves in a palpably imperfect, thwarting and vicious fashion. The characters in The Joke make numerous brief philosophical avowals and absurd ripostes about life around them. When analyzing them, the unknown reader is supposed to exercise his own verdict. A cataclysm would evolve, had Kundera not avoided such a lucid closing moments: towards the end of the jokey [*good God!], though deep opus, which is again structured like a musical composition, the author claims that at some imperceptible summit, the tale had became a dream – and its dream-like vista certainly encourages this hazy construal. Suddenly confronting the unknown reader, with the beauty of a sudden density of life.


ETERNITY ● Prophecy ● Right Leg

The light that radiates from the great novels time can never dim, for human existence is perpetually being forgotten by man and thus the novelists discoveries, however old they may be, will never cease to astonish.

He had already understood that he would never leave that room, for it was foreseen that the city of mirages would be wiped out by the wind and exiled from the memory of men at the precise moment when Aureliano Babilonia would finish deciphering the parchments and that everything written on them was unrepeatable since time immemorial, and forever more, because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude didn't have second opportunity on earth.

Maman is a French word, Clara, a circular word, suggesting cuddles, a personal word that can be even shouted in public. Something as comforting and as eternal as a barge.

“Tumhari zindigi ka maqsad kya hai Gotam Neelambher?”

“tum bhi kya indhiyaray say nikal kar mujh say yehi karnay aey hoo?”

Where do I start? Where do I begin?

I look at sky, envisaging life in the shell of birth, feeling the silent relationship with this universe, the unspoken bond with the weight of my soul. Unearthing myself.

I am lost.

Lost in this cosmic galaxy, the galaxy with no boundaries. No territories.

Lost in infinity.

Like an olive seed lost from its flesh in Atlantic.

Like a stray kite plundered from its thread and having ceaseless flight of imagination in fantasies, wandering in chronicles narrated by mother, my mother.


Somewhere, somebody is searching me, my life, my self, a writer…

Like the children playing hide and seek in streets. The dying sun seeking its moon, darkness searching earthen lamp. But where I am, lost?

Very far away I heard a murmur. Deep in my heart I know this voice, this saccharine calm voice.

“Open your eyes”.

I heard it again, but now it is inside me.

And first time since my existence, I make out where I am, this is the same bravura and virtuoso land of all those innocent bedtime stories from the innocence of my mother, the castle in the sky, the hope from Pandora's Box, day dreams floating in the air, the everlasting rainbow with every shade and color of life, the eternal childish sunshine carrying shade and tenderness in its warmth, breezy zephyr shipping Turkish Delight.

I started running, running towards infinity, towards horizon, my divine intervention, my destiny, my providence.

I plucked the elixir of life from the falls and drank it. I jumped to pat the sky; I leaped to touch each and every bunch of my dreams hanging in this guava yard.

I dreamed of three months old child, breathing in the lap of a woman, an illustrious face.

When he first encouraged his lips for verbal communication; he called her; amma.

Words, impressions, black and white…

I saw imagination running in dreamfall on the dewy grass, the grass whispering the tale of existence, catching glitzy butterflies, narrating anecdote of philosopher's stone.

Sitting on the moon, looking down at sky.

The writer looked far beyond the dreams, very far beyond, there's a stream. He drank its movement; it is running into nothingness and originating from fantasy. He feels the same state of emptiness in his own soul, a vacuum between himself and exis