Wednesday, January 28, 2009

QuizGalaxy got me.

Anushka Sen walked on water, then discovered that she was the second coming.
... afterward, Anushka Sen decided to marry her imaginary friend.
'How will you be remembered in history books?' at

What is your special ability?
Your special ability is ... tampering with the evidence
'What is your special ability?' at

Anushka Sen is mostly likely to say the out-of-date phrase:
Well ain’t that the bee’s knees
Sigmund Freud

Because you saw them cheat at scrabble
Take this quiz at

Anushka Sen's creature-nemesis:

'What creature will become your nemesis?' at

Monday, January 26, 2009

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

O.Henry had blogger tendencies!

He was quite delightfully random. Read this and see for yourself. It's an extract from his short story- 'A Sacrifice Hit.' I've left out some bits in the middle as well (wherever you see a '...')
You can find the full version online.

'The editor of the Hearthstone Magazine has his own ideas about the selection of manuscript for his publication. 


"The Hearthstone," he will say, "does not employ a staff of readers. We obtain opinions of the manuscripts submitted to us directly from types of the various classes of our readers."


When a batch of MSS. is received the editor stuffs every one of his pockets full of them and distributes them as he goes about during the day. The office employees, the hall porter, the janitor, the elevator man, messenger boys, the waiters at the café where the editor has luncheon, the man at the news-stand where he buys his evening paper, the grocer and milkman, the guard on the 5.30 uptown elevated train, the ticket-chopper at Sixty --th street, the cook and maid at his home -- these are the readers who pass upon MSS. sent in to the Hearthstone Magazine. If his pockets are not entirely emptied by the time he reaches the bosom of his family the remaining ones are handed over to his wife to read after the baby goes to sleep. A few days later the editor gathers in the MSS. during his regular rounds and con- siders the verdict of his assorted readers.


The Hearthstone Company also publishes books, and its imprint is to be found on several successful works -- all recommended, says the editor, by the Hearthstone'8 army of volunteer readers. Now and then (according to talkative members of the editorial staff) the Hearthstone has allowed manuscripts to slip through its fingers on the advice of its heterogeneous readers, that afterward proved to be famous sellers when brought out by other houses.

For instance (the gossips say), "The Rise and Fall of Silas Latham" was unfavourably passed upon by the elevator-man; the office-boy unanimously rejected "The Boss"; "In the Bishop's Carriage" was contemptuously looked upon by the street-car conductor; "The Deliver- ance" was turned down by a clerk in the subscription department whose wife's mother had just begun a two- months' visit at his home; "The Queen's Quair" came back from the janitor with the comment: "So is the book."

But nevertheless the Hearthstone adheres to its theory and system, and it will never lack volunteer readers; for each one of the widely scattered staff, ... has expectations of becoming editor of the magazine some day.

This method of the Hearthstone was well known to Allen Slayton when he wrote his novelette entitled "Love Is All." ...

He knew (also), that the stories of sentimental love- interest went to Miss Puffkin, the editor's stenographer. ...

Slayton made "Love Is All" the effort of his life. He gave it six months of the best work of his heart and brain. ... Slayton's literary ambition was intense. ... He would almost have cut off his right hand, or have offered himself to the knife of the appendi- citis fancier to have realized his dream of seeing one of his efforts published in the Hearthstone.

Slayton finished "Love Is All," and took it to thy Hearthstone in person. The office of the magazine was in a large, conglomerate building, presided under by a janitor.


Slayton took the elevator at the end of the hall and went up to the offices of the Hearthstone. He left the MS. of "Love Is All" with the editor, who agreed to give, him an answer as to its availability at the end of a week.

Slayton formulated his great winning scheme on his way down. It struck him with one brilliant flash, and he could not refrain from admiring his own genius in conceiving the idea. That very night he set about carry- ing it into execution.

Miss Puffkin, the Hearthstone stenographer, boarded in the same house with the author. She was an oldish, thin, exclusive, languishing, sentimental maid; and Slayton had been introduced to her some time before.

The writer's daring and self-sacrificing project was this: He knew that the editor of the Hearthstone relied strongly upon Miss Puffkin's judgment in the manuscript of romantic and sentimental fiction. Her taste represented the immense average of mediocre women who devour novels and stories of that type. The central idea and keynote of "Love Is All" was love at first sight -- the enrapturing, irresistible, soul-thrilling, feeling that com- pels a man or a woman to recognize his or her spirit-mate as soon as heart speaks to heart. Suppose he should impress this divine truth upon Miss Puffkin personally! -- would she not surely indorse her new and rapturous sensations by recommending highly to the editor of the Hearthstone the novelette "Love Is All" ?

Slayton thought so. And that night he took Miss Puffkin to the theatre. The next night he made vehement love to her in the dim parlour of the boarding-house. He quoted freely from "Love Is All"; and he wound up with Miss Puffkin's head on his shoulder, and visions of literary fame dancing in his head.

But Slayton did not stop at love-making. This, he said to himself, was the turning point of his life; and, like a true sportsman, he "went the limit." On Thursday night he and Miss Puffkin walked over to the Big Church in the Middle of the Block and were married.

Brave Slayton! Chateaubriand died in a garret, Byron courted a widow, Keats starved to death, Poe mixed his drinks, De Quincey hit the pipe, Ade lived in Chica-o, James kept on doing it, Dic Kens wore white socks, De Maupassant wore a strait-jacket, Tom Watson became a Populist, Jeremiah wept, all these authors did these things for the sake of literature, but thou didst cap them all; thou marriedst a wife for to carve for thyself a niche in the temple of fame!'

Thursday, January 15, 2009

This is a video someone set to a recitation of 'Lovesong' by Ted Hughes.

This is the poem.

He loved her and she loved him. 
His kisses sucked out her whole past and future or tried to 
He had no other appetite 
She bit him she gnawed him she sucked 
She wanted him complete inside her 
Safe and sure forever and ever 
Their little cries fluttered into the curtains 

Her eyes wanted nothing to get away 
Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows 
He gripped her hard so that life 
Should not drag her from that moment 
He wanted all future to cease 
He wanted to topple with his arms round her 
Off that moment's brink and into nothing 
Or everlasting or whatever there was 

Her embrace was an immense press 
To print him into her bones 
His smiles were the garrets of a fairy palace 
Where the real world would never come 
Her smiles were spider bites 
So he would lie still till she felt hungry 
His words were occupying armies 
Her laughs were an assassin's attempts 
His looks were bullets daggers of revenge 
His glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets 
His whispers were whips and jackboots 
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing 
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway 
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks 
And their deep cries crawled over the floors 
Like an animal dragging a great trap 
His promises were the surgeon's gag 
Her promises took the top off his skull 
She would get a brooch made of it 
His vows pulled out all her sinews 
He showed her how to make a love-knot 
Her vows put his eyes in formalin 
At the back of her secret drawer 
Their screams stuck in the wall 

Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves 
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop 

In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs 
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage 

In the morning they wore each other's face.

The video seems to have been MADE for the poem. I cannot get over how relevant it is.

And both are really, really freaky. 

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Every now and then, I come across some stuff that I'm DYING to share with people.

Stuff along the lines of Music. 
Paintings. Quotes. Cartoons.

I realise that I'm sounding like a communist-aesthete cum Readers-Digest-publicist.

I also realise that I'm stuffing your face into a bowl of joy and going- 'ENJOY IT, FREAK!'

Who cares?

On this blog, I will shamelessly put up stuff that I like, and that I think you might like. So yes, that is the explanation behind the mysterious new blog.