I believe the only fragrance that’s never been bottled up is that of old books… that dusty, earthy, faintly exotic transcending you in times immemorial, of paper bound since ages. … Continue reading Fragrance of Words
I have read several poems, don’t even remember how many by now. This particular poem by Khalil Gibran, whenever I read it, it resonates, every word, every syllable and seep … Continue reading Fear – Khalil Gibran
Valentin Louis Georges Eugène Marcel Proust, French novelist, critic, essayist and a philosopher in his own right. You know when it’s time, you know when it’s that one moment which … Continue reading Marcel Proust
Like the little squirrel in Ramayana who insisted upon being useful in building the bridge from Rameshwaram to Lanka, with little she can pick and pull, she strives to bridge … Continue reading Filling Voids, Bridging Gaps
Every piece of writing by all those profound writers influence me.
For a while I slip into a stupor, drunk in their words, the meaning of life in between their sentences- and it’s a wonderful feeling to live the lives they create and weave in between the printed words one after the another.
The social and cultural milieu a writer belongs to reflects in the fabric of their prose. It’s beautiful, it’s like minuscule architectural beauties embedded in a huge structure.
I’m taking a break from all the web readings for a while and go back to the roots where I begin my life, ghosh, Woolf, Marquez, Conrad, Bronte, Eliot… those are the concrete pillars I hold onto whenever I feel myself losing to the insanity of the world around me.