Sunday, 1 November 2009

on books and stuff

These Sunday afternoon posts (sounds like the name of a newspaper in Anglonama) are deadly things. They reflect our general disillusionment with our weekly languages and the disintegrating nature of human bonding. Or do I mean bondage? No idea. Some of my friends are happy, some of my friends are unhappy, (and mostly) some are not my friends.

I share the sense of humour that Julian Barnes seems to have but I do like a good story. I mean I wouldn't write a novel like Talking It Over even though it's really funny and the characters are these really neurotic half-grown individuals (slightly cultured and well-read) that half the world seems to be now. The other half comprises people who are smart, incisive, boring, can do arithmetic in their head and have clear views on Maoists as the Enemy of the State.

I am slightly feverish and irritated with everything. Today I wanted to destroy my charger. I felt like a character out of Virginia Woolf's fiction. Or even Anita Brookner. I could feel my consciousness oozing out of the pores of my skin and destroying the charger. By gad, I wish I could be less the protagonist of a Booker-nominated novel and more a 21 year old with mere issues. Why do I say Booker-nominated? Because these novels don't win anymore. They're all boring, all, all- even the ones that win. It was really funny that Kiran Desai called that horribly boring novel what she did. I mean, so apt. Her mother didn't win so she did. I'd call it the The Inheritance of Loss As Gain. Thankfully not in two volumes.

So I see my charger creeping into my phone, violating it, ravaging it, making it throb with current electricity. Everyday they do it. Excuse the sexual metaphor. I hated the charger. I felt like crushing it. (Don't psychoanalyze me this once.) Making it powder and then going out for fancy coffee. Alone, with P.G. Wodehouse in my bag for company. Or Wendy Cope who writes exquisite poems on hehe. Haha. Mwahahahahahaha. Find out for yourself.

I don't know why I can't be a fatally interesting novelist. I really don't know. I must try too. I am sure I could write about The Tiger that Ate My Libido In a Sea of Marijuana in three volumes. It will be about the depraved, wasted, stressed out youth in some century. A grand trilogy in all earnest. Well developed characters and global concerns. Horrendously subtly beautiful language.

Ooooh. I know why I can't.

I'm lazy.

When I win the Bookers
I hope- them awful lookers-
I'll tell them a rather nasty truth
Them bitchy, filthy hookers!

~addressed to men and women who have been "nasty" to me all my life. :D and there have been plenty, plenty, plenty. Comes from being snotty, potty, and spotty. Perhaps also haughty.


AUROBOROS banerjee said...

booker-winners are awesome bores/
penned by legions of Al Gores/
flooding sundry shelves of random bookstores/
usurping the odd, unsuspecting Chetan Bhagat/1000 punjabi jokes.

Gladrags,Madrags and pages from Sea of Poppies/
Will fall helpless prey to the modernity of Floppies/
literary holocaust'll be at work, swaying child and men/
towards a regressed affinity to teen-love/zoophilia/profanities straight out the pen.

until that time, you be snotty, dotty, haughty and love potty. and write brilliantly loony Sunday afternoon posts that attract unnecessarily long, idiotic comments like this.

Anurima. said...

The Tiger that Ate My Libido In a Sea of Marijuana

tokay ar ki bolbo. tui toh hottie.

Anonymous said...

tor toh dekchi khub booker patha!

Baudolino said...

Before I am 50, I would like to write a book in five volumes (at least), my magnum opus, which I shall pompously name: Virgins from the Mahabharata. An excellent book, I promise, it will be. I shall address in one volume the sexual politics of Bhishma, in another the sexual ethics of Pandu and in other minor chapters the sexual metaphysics of sexually ambiguous characters like Brihannalaa, Shikhandi the eunuch and so on. However, I can see myself touching the peak of my brilliance as I write the final volume of the series based on oneral discoveries and venereal fantasies. For I shall devote the last volume to the virginity of someone, who is most unlikely to be a virgin. Draupadi. God, I am brilliant!

Elendil said...

*My* pandu is very unethical. Perhaps I shall write a short essay titled 'My pandu is very unethical'. Hmm. Yes.

God, am I brilliant!

Opaline said...

Hahaha, too much brilliance running around here.

Arse Poetica. said...

Nilanjan, this was funny. But your sense of humour is even more pompous than you are. Dammmeeet.

Pragsie- hahahahaha. I assume your pandu is... ahem!tootoo?

Elendil said...

You don't say, silly. What else would a pandu be?