(no subject)
Is it only me, or do lines from Democracy in India - Issues and Challenges become more suggestive, almost nuanced, in their phrasing if read at one thirty at night?
Sample this -
"Like other democracies of the present day world India, also is a representative democracy. It means it is a system of government in which the political decision making is done by the elected representatives of the people. For choosing representatives, the most common method is elections and voting."
Now is that not absurd - Really I'm sure you could use it in your play and get a fucking brilliant! from someody for it.
Actually I've been feeling rather guilty for not giving enough attention to Democracy. Instead I've read The Colour, which is some of the worst writing I've read by anyone who's ever won a Whitbread and James Tait Black Memorial Prize. At first it seems as though she's attempted the kind of theme Steinbeck would have made glory with, so she's tolerable, but when she starts on her Joanne Harris [ the one who wrote chocolat?] like writing the novel begins to get unbearably bad, what with gold crazy husbands being crazed by the guilt of murdering unwillingly sodomized girlfriends, and maori girls dreaming of greenstone, and a woman and her chinese lover spending the winter making love and vegetable stew in a cave. Not nice. Rose Tremain is the author's name and I guess she's famous.
I'm also really annoyed at my great aunt who borrowed the book and probably left it on a wet window cause it has the feel of a book soaked and dried and has these funny rust like spots on it.
I'm annoyed because I take especial pleasure in gifting books which I don't like to people I don't like after putting very kind and appropriate inscriptions in them. Of course the greatest pleasure is when they come up to me after a few days and say how much they enjoyed the book. I love to think about how The Prick's girlfriend [ The Peahen ] probably thinks I like Blackberry Wine [ Joanne Harris] because I gifted it to her, and how a certain pompous boy thinks Loving Ayesha [ a book I bought afer reading a review in India Today, when I didn't know how to decode book reviews and was three-four years younger ] is to my taste.
I still have How to Win Friends and Influence People, and still haven't decided whose birthday present it is going to be.
Anyway, that was all tangential, I was talking of Democracy, and how instead of reading it I keep staring at my bookshelf and my eyes keep hitting Byron as though he's some infernal dead endsy brick wall. And of course Milton whose never been attempted, and will probably not be for the next month or so.
Of course discovering postcards from Brussels, Alsace, Starsbourg and Monet's maison + a map of Paris with the Pere Lanchaise [sp?] cemetry circled were what roused me enough to turn the comnputer on and try to infuse Regionalism, Linguism and Separatism with the spirit of E.M. Forster's lovers but sadly could not find much about his lovers [ and now wonder if he had all that many ] therefore started writing this.
I know I can't tackle the official language act tonight but feel I must do something to redeem myself, so it is probably adult franchise, and I hope that does not seem too surreal to be committed to memory.
I just realised that I also have The Kite Runner to gift, the only problem is that it was given to me by a rather nice lady who I'm quite fond of, and I would've loved it had she written A Happy Birthday Inside [ even though it was a belated-by-about-six-months present]. Actually I shouldn't have tried to read it - I opened it at random and read about their unsuccessful attempts at in vitro fertilization and the emptiness in her womb which had crept between them, and even into their love making, and I saw The Peahen or The Prick reading it with a box of tissues with which she /he wiped her/his streaming, overflowing eyes.
Sample this -
"Like other democracies of the present day world India, also is a representative democracy. It means it is a system of government in which the political decision making is done by the elected representatives of the people. For choosing representatives, the most common method is elections and voting."
Now is that not absurd - Really I'm sure you could use it in your play and get a fucking brilliant! from someody for it.
Actually I've been feeling rather guilty for not giving enough attention to Democracy. Instead I've read The Colour, which is some of the worst writing I've read by anyone who's ever won a Whitbread and James Tait Black Memorial Prize. At first it seems as though she's attempted the kind of theme Steinbeck would have made glory with, so she's tolerable, but when she starts on her Joanne Harris [ the one who wrote chocolat?] like writing the novel begins to get unbearably bad, what with gold crazy husbands being crazed by the guilt of murdering unwillingly sodomized girlfriends, and maori girls dreaming of greenstone, and a woman and her chinese lover spending the winter making love and vegetable stew in a cave. Not nice. Rose Tremain is the author's name and I guess she's famous.
I'm also really annoyed at my great aunt who borrowed the book and probably left it on a wet window cause it has the feel of a book soaked and dried and has these funny rust like spots on it.
I'm annoyed because I take especial pleasure in gifting books which I don't like to people I don't like after putting very kind and appropriate inscriptions in them. Of course the greatest pleasure is when they come up to me after a few days and say how much they enjoyed the book. I love to think about how The Prick's girlfriend [ The Peahen ] probably thinks I like Blackberry Wine [ Joanne Harris] because I gifted it to her, and how a certain pompous boy thinks Loving Ayesha [ a book I bought afer reading a review in India Today, when I didn't know how to decode book reviews and was three-four years younger ] is to my taste.
I still have How to Win Friends and Influence People, and still haven't decided whose birthday present it is going to be.
Anyway, that was all tangential, I was talking of Democracy, and how instead of reading it I keep staring at my bookshelf and my eyes keep hitting Byron as though he's some infernal dead endsy brick wall. And of course Milton whose never been attempted, and will probably not be for the next month or so.
Of course discovering postcards from Brussels, Alsace, Starsbourg and Monet's maison + a map of Paris with the Pere Lanchaise [sp?] cemetry circled were what roused me enough to turn the comnputer on and try to infuse Regionalism, Linguism and Separatism with the spirit of E.M. Forster's lovers but sadly could not find much about his lovers [ and now wonder if he had all that many ] therefore started writing this.
I know I can't tackle the official language act tonight but feel I must do something to redeem myself, so it is probably adult franchise, and I hope that does not seem too surreal to be committed to memory.
I just realised that I also have The Kite Runner to gift, the only problem is that it was given to me by a rather nice lady who I'm quite fond of, and I would've loved it had she written A Happy Birthday Inside [ even though it was a belated-by-about-six-months present]. Actually I shouldn't have tried to read it - I opened it at random and read about their unsuccessful attempts at in vitro fertilization and the emptiness in her womb which had crept between them, and even into their love making, and I saw The Peahen or The Prick reading it with a box of tissues with which she /he wiped her/his streaming, overflowing eyes.