Boast of Quietness

Writings of light assault the darkness, more prodigious than meteors.
The tall unknowable city takes over the countryside.
Sure of my life and my death, I observe the ambitious and would like to understand them.
Their day is as greedy as a lariat in the air.
Their night is a rest from the rage within steel, quick to attack.
They speak of humanity.
My humanity is in feeling we are all voices of the same poverty.
They speak of homeland.
My homeland is the rhythm of a guitar, a few portraits, an old sword, the willow grove's visible prayer as the evening falls.
Time is living me.
More silent than my shadow, I pass through the loftily covetous multitude.
They are indispensable, singular, worthy of tomorrow.
My name is someone and anyone.
I walk slowly, like someone who comes from so far away he doesn't expect to arrive.
-Jorge Luis Borges

I chanced upon this poem while savouring The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai.
A marvellous, marvellous fanfare for an excellent book.
Just for smiles, I'll post a sample book cover for it.

I have this peculiar affection for Indian writers; they have an intimate feel with their writing and their emotional depth and maturity [or otherwise] bleeds through the paper with every word and it is impossible to detach yourself from the feeling they drown you in. Kiran Desai, Salman Rushdie, Jhumpa Lahiri.

It goes beyond just astonishing wordcraft [actively promoted by our model essays, oh dear, don't get me started] but it speaks volumes of their intellectual and emotional depth.
Which I lack, and which is why my stories leave people unmoved and impressed by vocabulary, but not much else.

Ah well.

If anyone has Fury by Salman Rushdie or Sons by Pearl Sydenstricker Buck please loan them to me :D
Oh, and throw in Brave New World by Aldous Huxley as well, for good measure.
Beautiful books.
Not chicklit.
I HATE CHICKLIT.
It should be criminialised.
Meg Cabot should be made public enemy no.1 and locked up in the cu chi tunnels.
Yes.

Mrs Buck does DIRECT TRANSLATIONS ;D
from chinese to english.
What comes out is very quaint, but idly translating it back to chinese from english has become something of a pasttime for me as I read her novels about China.
Something gets lost in translation, I think it's the intimate feel again [much-discussed tonight]
And please, do NOT just stop at The Good Earth.
Cliffhanger.

Just to give you an example of Mrs B's very [cute?] adorable style of writing:
"The old wooden head has nothing to worry about, yet!"
I can't really remember. However I am not going to be a spoiler :)
Then again, how many of you read the things I recommend?
D;
They're nice, really really.
Mrs B is a good bet.
And I PROMISE that her books are very readable, yes they're not another example of cheemology and if you like chinese you should read them.

And no, I was not lying about the readable bit. Nobody takes me seriously when I say that D:
Am I really such a untrustworthy person?
D:
[NO I'M NOT YOU CRYSTALLISED BAZOOKAS.]
[SO READ MY BOOKS.]

Five more days to VJC uniform, books and class, and I bet you ten shillings that DK will be in my class, precisely because I wish it otherwise.

No intentions to end this on a sour note, because despite what I may be sounding like at the moment, I'm really excited. Yes. Anticipation not dissimilar to that of awaiting Christmas Day.

You know, we don't have a Christmas tree tradition in my place.
I was always pushing for it, but these days I don't bother.
We don't have presents either. I always hoped that my Dad would be decked out as Santa when Christmas morning rolled around, but it never happened.
Too bad. He has the belly for it though :D
It could beat Santa, hands-down.
FWHOOPS.
I mean, fats-down.

Wonder how Joanne's doing.
Down in Jalan Bacon :0
Of course, they don't utilise Malay much over in the UK, but I won't post Jo's address here.
You'd all want to stalk her wouldn't you.
HER ADDRESS IS FOR ME ALONE :D
So I can send her a Christmas card!
Once the mail workers stop striking I'll send her something.

Seriously.
I think their jobs must be too mundane and la-di-la.
They need something to DO other than letters, letters, letters.
Oh, and postcards.
:/
I got that idea from Jim Witte's memoirs [I cheated-Adrian Gilbert used extracts of his account in POW, which is ANOTHER awesome book. However, I'd be lying this time, for real, if I decided to say that it'll definitely interest people in general and is definitely readable.] when, while in a working Stalag in Nazi Germany as a POW, he and his workmates when on strike, signs and all, because filing nails got too boring.

I'd like to go on strike one day too :D

I AM NOT KIDDING. MAYBE SOMEONE WILL ARREST ME :D

Idelle :D
when you take the plunge
you don't measure the distance to the bottom