In the light of recent fires

I felt I had to post this. Especially after reading today's newspaper front page.

The Identification

So you think its Stephen? Then I'd best make sure Be on the safe side as it were. Ah, theres been a mistake. The hair you see, its black, now Stephens fair ... Whats that? The explosion? Of course, burnt black. Silly of me. I should have known. Then lets get on. The face, is that the face mask? that mask of charred wood blistered scarred could that have been a child's face? The sweater, where intact, looks in fact all too familiar. But one must be sure. The scoutbelt. Yes thats his. I recognise the studs he hammered in not a week ago. At the age when boys get clothes-conscious now you know. Its almost certainly Stephen. But one must be sure. Remove all trace of doubt. Pull out every splinter of hope. Pockets. Empty the pockets. Handkerchief? Could be any schoolboy's. Dirty enough. Cigarettes? Oh this can't be Stephen. I dont allow him to smoke you see. He wouldn't disobey me. Not his father. But that's his penknife. Thats his alright. And thats his key on the keyring Gran gave him just the other night. Then this must be him. I think I know what happened ... ... ... about the cigarettes No doubt he was minding them for one of the older boys. Yes thats it. Thats him. Thats our Stephen. Roger McGough

I was going to download Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 21. And in the first result generated by Limewire, the composer's name was spelled 'Motzart.' Yes, 'Motzart.' Ususally, people read words first and pronounce them wrong. Hence, you hear 'Chop-in', 'Batch' and a refusal to go down Tchaikovsky street. There are Bangalis who say 'La Vega' for Las Vegas, EXPECTING a fancy-ass, exotic pronunciation.

But this filesharer (bless his generosity) must have heard the name before he ever saw it written. Funny kind of mistake. Or maybe I'm just not used to to it.

And this is why I think Oscar Wilde is Great, and not just veryveryvery good.

"When Narcissus died the pool of his pleasure changed from a cup of sweet waters into a cup of salt tears, and the Oreads came weeping through the woodland that they might sing to the pool and give it comfort.

And when they saw that the pool had changed from a cup of sweet waters into a cup of salt tears, they loosened the green tresses of their hair and cried to the pool and said, `We do not wonder that you should mourn in this manner for Narcissus, so beautiful was he.'

`But was Narcissus beautiful?' said the pool.

`Who should know that better than you?' answered the Oreads. `Us did he ever pass by, but you he sought for, and would lie on your banks and look down at you, and in the mirror of your waters he would mirror his own beauty.'

And the pool answered, `But I loved Narcissus because, as he lay on my banks and looked down at me, in the mirror of his eyes I saw ever my own beauty mirrored.''

(The Disciple, from 'Poems in Prose')

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g8y3_X6Ia7Q

I want to learn the Rumba; I do, I do. It is like making love on the dance floor, in the purest, most ethereal way possible. What sensuality these people have, what grace! While lesser mortals like me stew in our swamp of awkwardness >.<

I came across this quite unexpectedly. And I really liked it.

The Seed-Shop

Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,

Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,

Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry -

Meadows and gardens running through my hand.

In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams;

A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust

That will drink deeply of a century's streams;

These lilies shall make summer on my dust.

Here in their safe and simple house of death,

Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap;

Here I can blow a garden with my breath,

And in my hand a forest lies asleep.

Muriel Stuart

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast.

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold.

-- William Carlos Williams

On Reading Howards End

Since I had already studied 'A Passage to India' for Elective English at school, 'Howards End' (all and complete chapters provided by the link) was not my introduction to Forster. But yet again, I'm struck by this man's ability to put the abstract into words. Correction. Comprehensible words.

When I read Forster, I feel like he just reaches into my head and with ease, lays out all my thoughts on his pages. And all of a sudden, the thoughts become much much more coherent, significant, and even poetic. I feel that this newfound and positively startling clarity, is not the result of scrutiny or analysis. What he does, is much more beautiful than pedantic deconstruction. What he does, is express our thoughts in terms of language. No matter how much we say we're confused, most of the time we know how we feel. Every ebb and flow of our emotions, every inner pulse and tremor, all send some kind of alert that shoots into our consciousness. We can detect in our heads, parallel strands of contradictory feelings. We can perceive distinctly the waves of alternating thought that wash over us. The only reason why these emotions appear to be a tangled heap, is because we can't represent them in terms of known objects. Forster can. In this case, the 'known objects' are words.

And the structure of his novels are fascinating too. Our so called 'spiritual' world- not to be confused with the religious or the supernatural- is captured in all it's spontaneity and ephemeralness. It isn't compartmentalized into neat, brown-paper-wrapped boxes, all for the sake of creating a tight, wholesome plot. Yet, the contradictions aren't confusing, and the impulses and whims of the characters are engaging rather than ridiculous. When a character does something unexpected, it seems more of an astounding quirk rather than a jarring element. Each word adds layers, and each layer adds richness. And together, the layers call out to us, to unravel them and widen our view on the world. Not once do these layers weigh down on us, restricting our vision.

But interestingly, the plot IS tight and wholesome. Little events at the opening tie up to major incidents in the end. Unobtrusive details gently speak as symbols for overwhelming themes. The tension and shock are present just to the right degree- they stir without stifling. And the flux and abstractions finally build up to a firm, satisfying conclusion, which allows peace and catharsis without being overly tidy.

And then there is the subtle satire, the sharp and sparkling wit, the omniscient voice of the narrator that cajoles you into reading between the lines while making you feel YOUR fine-tuned perception has triumphed in doing so.

All this makes Howards End seem quite heavy. And it could be, it could easily be. But there's one thing that stops it from being so-- charm. It's got that twinkle in the eye that stops you from hating the dusty old lecturer. It's got that mellow note of warmth that stops you from hating the sterilized old dentist. The sense of history, mood and atmosphere is captivating. You can hear the chink of crystal, the clink of fork against china plate, the boom and tinkle of a piano. And you can hear the more uplifting sounds of nature- the breathing of the river, the whispers in the field, the laughter of the stars.

There is a widely acclaimed movie on this book, featuring Anthony Hopkins, Vanessa Redgrave, Emma Thompson and Helena Bonham Carter, among others.

Wow, right? Quite. And it's a well-made movie. It's just that Forster novels shouldn't be made into movies. Or rather, people should NEVER watch a movie on a Forster novel if they've already read the source. If my review has made any sense, you should understand why.