Sound of Voices

I stopped searching for the parochial extensions of my existence. Like every youth, burning inside and blinded by definitions or interpretations I fought well like Don Quixote raging a war towards the shadows of existence and vanity. A paradox disembarked on the shores of my constructive paradigms and horizons of freethinking. Like a free bird, soaring in the endless azure sky, I trumpeted shadows of thoughts, which were repressed, subsided, othered, and muted by the elite, socialized, civilized, classed reverberations of social acceptance and code of existence in a society living in vanity. Freethinking was not free. It was unconsciouslImagey dragged unto an undefined school of thought that never existed in any frameworks of existing or non-existing theories and philosophies. I was a paradox within freethinking. It made me an aesthetic and cognitive anarchist I am now.

Celebration of soul transcended the limitations of somatic existence. Expectations were removed from the realm of my life as I travelled further. I met people or they just occurred to me, total strangers from nowhere became the fellow travelers. I was just occurring or things were just occurring to nonbeings of mine for beings. Everything felt feather-like and floated on air like a vessel on serene mighty waters. Turbulences and chaos mattered nothing, but begot beauty and happiness. I began to laugh at myself and wondered over the mighty universe I was consisting of. Wow! The whole body of mine sensationalized over the thought of that magnificent existence and being. Self-libido or narcissism fetched the abundant possibilities and potentialities of existence. I became everyone while being a single being. The narcissist of mine taught me to love myself first, see myself first, treat myself first, celebrate myself first and thus my Narcissus established my Self within me over the Other.

Yes, I am a narcissist, but not selfish. I celebrate myself, I love myself and I love my life, what else I can be other than a narcissist? I have prayer now as Gibran prayed, “Keep me away from the wisdom which does not cry, the philosophy which does not laugh and the greatness which does not bow before children.”

‘Who am I?’ was the next question I had to answer. An age-old and worn out thought extinguished within itself was worthless to answer, but I had to; everyone has to. I didn’t struggle much. I found my meanings, destinations, purposes, existences and myself and I became multiple; myriads and myriads of selves and extensions of a single source of energy. I am many now. In addition, I don’t have to answer the question ‘who am I?’ I am you, everything born and unborn, living and dead; I consist of that source of ultimate energy which resides in every atoms, molecules, particles structured into different forms, figures and elements like, earth, water, air, fire and space. I carry them within me. Moreover, you do the same. I do reflect the ultimate source of energy that you call god. I am. I am a universal being consisting this vast mighty universe including you. We are same; we share the same source of energy. Therefore, I am universal. I am everything.

The realm of my feasibility struggled itself for a stationed equilibrium of  responsibility and existential credos. The inconsistency of romance often withdrImageew into her absence of silence. Pastness of the present and presentness of the past along with the absurdity of the future, but the certainty of death made things more vivid, though with a thin frame of perplexities. The universalized-self triumphed over the perceived meanings and languages of humanity. Time was captured within the gargantuan vacuum of absolute nothingness. Sound was trapped, light was trapped, and momentum of the entire vicious cycle was trapped within that monstrous non being of nothingness. Theoretician of mine demanded the theoretical frameworks and critical edges of every existing being and non being, the imagination weaved a web of beauty and absurdity of that chaos and serenity that originated from the absolute nothingness and caused it.

Apart from the structural and dual or multiple paradigms of existential life, of theories and definitions, of meanings and of beings I fall in love. I am a little Keats singing the songs of love. A conscious undertake from the self to keep the equilibrium of life and imaginationImages. My love for her incinerates the credibility of human comprehension over the archetypal images and experiences of love. I’ll never get exhausted writing about her and the unusual affair of love ever told.  She’s beautiful without knowing it. And possesses charm that she’s not even aware of. she’s like a trap set by nature-a sweet perfumed rose whose petals cupid lurks in ambush. Anyone who has seen her smile has known perfection. She instills grace in every common thing and divinity in every careless gesture. Venus in her shell was never so lovely, and Diana in the forest never as graceful as the girl.

‘I figured I shouldn’t talk to you, but I don’t see how that’s going to make any difference. Can I pretend you’re not in love so that it’s easier for me to talk to you?’ she said. Of course, she has the right to remain silent. After all, what’s the difference that going to make? For years, she was silent and that was in her silence he loved her. She is to him what oil is to fire, the infinite raging of the flame will never be quenched even in the infinite vacuum of silence or thoughts. His love for her was molded within the matrix of time and space; the somatic propinquity of the physique and the affability of hers were the afterglow of that infinite, telepathic love. Her silence would never make any difference. ‘Let’s dance!’ I said.

‘Why do you still love me? Do you know how hopeless it is? Give up dude,’ she said. “’Hopeless!” it’s a pointless broken sword; it is hope that keeps us alive. Why do you still love your life?  Why do you still keep yourself alive? Someday you are going to die; we are all going to die and just think how hopeless our life is.  But do we mind that hopelessness? No, never! We still love our life, we dream, we love, we weave eternal memories and love, and we celebrate our life. Nothing is hopeless ’cause we don’t know what’s next’ he said. (While Czechoslovakia cuddled for love, it was a bright sunny long day in Antarctica and raining all night in the Desert. And he was crowned the king of Utopia! )

Will you reImagemember me?’

I said:

‘I will.’

She asked:

‘But How...? Oh my god! How would you remember me! You haven’t ever seen me. How will you remember me?’

‘Your sign is there everywhere around the globe!’

She Imageasked with pain:

‘Around the globe? … Why are you flattering me?’

I said:

‘I’m not flattering you.’


“Your sign is there everywhere around the globe.” I looked at her again and again. Each time I looked, she became a celestial body of luminous anticipation. Everything else around me was changing , she was my constant universe, and it seemed as though it was a constant constellation of madness, love, beauty, hopes and anticipations; she was crowned the queen of that vast tranquil and luminous celestial universe which was drawn into mine. Time was trapped within the monstrous vacuum of eternity and disentangled into the fragments of memories and dreams. The infinity carved the picture of her and it started to bleed, my heart was torn apart into pieces of her memories and fragments of thoughts. And they begot their offspring, it continued! Somewhere far from the imaginations of a non-being, the zephyr carried the songs of Rumi and it lulled the celestial world of mine.

“You’ve so distracted me,

your absence fans my love.

Don’t ask how.

Then you come near.

“Do not . . .” I say, and

“Do not . . . ,” you answer.

Don’t ask why

this delights me.”

I need to break the bubbles where I’m fragmented in to thoughts and memories of her. I’m suffocating, unable to breath I’m dying in her thoughts. I’ve compromised my life, thoughts, words and what else to say, the time became constant and I myself became a non being. Am I losing myself? I’ve almost became a carrier of her memories. What are her memories? The world might have never heard of such a love story! They were memories of a soul I chased anonymously. The dominant and gargantuan presence of silence conceImageived the memories of a soul. Somewhere in the vast and timeless universe, my soul met her and ever since then she was mine. Memories contradicted each other for the given definitions of their existence in the normalized paradigm. How can one indulge in the memory that has no physical entity? Memory always associates us with the people, things, time, past, with which and whom we have had enough time to spend. However, how can you have a memory of a person you have no idea about? That’s not possible, but it occurred to me. I don’t know how! I have no answer. And I let it be so, what else I can do other than experiencing those memories. Thus, I vanish into the thick mist of the crowd. The incredible crowd always attracted me, there was something within it. It’s good to see people if you are one among them. The difference is not synthetic, but inborn. It is great to be one among the crowd, unknown and anonymous. How the crowd defines me? Within the flow of its currents and mind, I move like a feather. People move, like a crowd, they are distinct and unique, but they have a common end. Eccentricity defines them. Removed from them I elevate me towards the heights of eccentric ecstasy! Burning cigar on the lips vomits the memories; the apparitions of them disappear into the vacuum of air. An unknown thread of common end unites crowd, they appear from nowhere and melts down into one. I fall in love with her more than ever when I’m in the crowd. The company of the crowd drags her into mine. Undying memories webbed a tremendous universe around me. The richness and hollowness of their talk as they move throw up an air of mundane gullibility. A cigar is singing its funeral song on my lips. The desires of mine are burning the cigar. The remnants of dirty jokes and spurring resonances wait for their burial. The liquid oblivion in the chalice of fire burns my soul. Shadow of mine draws a dirty picture of a sybaritic soul on the walls of a modern hut under the light of 40 watts bulb. A Bohemian rhapsody plays behind the tumultuous sensations of my unfinished night, the serenity incinerates in to the core of my tumultuousness. The protest of my life compromises the music of melodies and rhapsodies of Bohemian sagas. And I contradict myself because I contain multitude.

The bottled poetry,

Consume me and elevate me to a non-being

Where i shall blow with wind and lush with the waters.

And there i shall become everything,

The whole universe.

Let the bleeding heart never be healed,

Let it be so!

For, “it delights me.”




ImageThe realm of my feasibility struggled itself for a stationed equilibrium of  responsibility and existential credos. The inconsistency of romance often withdrew into her absence of silence. Pastness of the present and presentness of the past along with the absurdity of the future, but the certainty of death made things more vivid, though with a thin frame of perplexities. The universalized-self triumphed over the perceived meanings and languages of humanity. Time was captured within the gargantuan vacuum of absolute nothingness. Sound was trapped, light was trapped, and momentum of the entire vicious cycle was trapped within that monstrous non being of nothingness. Theoretician of mine demanded the theoretical frameworks and critical edges of every existing being and non being, the imagination weaved a web of beauty and absurdity of that chaos and serenity that originated from the absolute nothingness and caused it.
P.S.  Why should one try to be a star when one can be the magnificent universe?

Pollock (2000)

ImageCast: Ed Harris, Marcia Gay Harden

Director: Ed Harris


Synopsis:  Pollock (2000) is a biographical film which mirrors the “inside-out” life of the American abstract expressionist painter Jackson Pollock. It is based on the book “Jackson Pollock: An American Saga” by Steven Naifeh and Gregory White Smith. Directed, produced and stared by Ed Harris, the movie makes an intensive reading of Jackson Pollock’s artistically revolutionized life. The story begins with the close up shot of Jackson Pollock autographing the illustration of his artistic life in a life magazine for a woman in an exhibition of his paintings in 1950. The rest of Pollock’s life flashes back to 1941. The struggling artist Pollock finds it difficult to survive in the modern age of America where he makes no market value for his paintings. He lives with his brother Charles Pollock in a tiny apartment in New York City. As the time passes by artist Lee Krasner (Marcia Gay Harden) visits him and they start living together. Character of Pollock goes through the concentrated psychic platforms which ultimately results the abstract expressionism in his paintings. Peggy Guggenheim, an art collector, gives him a contract. Pollock decides to marry Lee and they move to a country house by the ocean in Springs, NY, on Long Island. Jackson is disheartened when Lee makes clear to Jackson that she does not want to have a baby, partly because she is happy to just live as two painters, partly because of his neurosis, and partly because of the pecuniary situation and his painting needs.  Life magazine’s coverage on his life makes his life public and adds market value for his innovations in the painting. The movie goes through and reaches finally towards the eccentric and aesthetically heightened psychic constructions of Pollock. The entrance of Ruth Kligman (Jennifer Connelly) makes the life of Pollock and Lee confuses the role of Lee in the life of Pollock since she has rejected the proposal of a baby for Pollock. Pollock owes something to Lee and finally he pays her off with his life.

Review:         “To whom shall I hire myself out?
 What beast must I adore?
What holy image is attacked?
 What hearts must I break?
 What lie must I maintain? In what blood tread?”
 Part of Rimbaud’s Season in Hell.
The classicality of this film rests in the poetic and aesthetic quality of ‘artistic abnormality’ which takes us to the ‘Other’ of Pollock. The “inside out” depiction of the life of Pollock celebrates the revolutionized artistic perception of life and nature. The sudden changes of scenes from light to dark happen until the ultimate celebration of Pollock’s life. The beginning of the movie is with a close up shot of a copy of life magazine and it plays a significant role in the life of the painter. The silence of the character Pollock stared by Ed Harris stimulates the unspoken utterances of his unknown psyche that visits him intermittently. The movie requires the viewer’s psychic involvement with the character of Pollock; otherwise the movie might lead us to a passive existence of a melodrama.
The selection of artists for the real life characters perfected with their psychic involvement in the movie. Ed Harris perfected the legendary saga of Jackson Pollock through sharp analysis and reflection of the mental instability. Like his mind, his painting is also raging for something; it could be freedom from tradition, social system or cultured pretentions of city life. Like the verses of Rimbaud’s Season in hell as mentioned above, there is a constant search for ‘what’ in his life and paintings. The long angle shots of Pollock looking at the large canvas which passes through the wall of two room reflects the shadow of his physical existence as well as the existence of his ‘Other’ on the  empty canvas, which makes the audience to ponder seriously on the ‘projection’ of  his life. The tight close ups of his eyes and the interconnection of an empty canvas conveys the idea of how the artist conceives a life in his mind and labors on the canvas. He has been pondering on something for weeks in his room alone and when the life of an image comes to his mind, the camera takes a tight close up and shows the widened eyes, which is overwhelmed by the new life found on the unknown shores of his mind. His life is an empty canvas stretched out on the floor around which he can walk along and paint the rough surface with the ineffable life. As he says, “My concern is with the rhythms of nature… I work inside out, like nature” the audience is not supposed to read his life and paintings on account of any preconceived judgment on life and art, expression and nature. When he says to Lee that he is life, the meaning of his painting is also explained. His paintings convey the mysterious ‘Other’ of his life and if we want to understand it we need to invoke the ‘Other’ of our existence too.
The role of Lee Krasner (Marcia Gay Harden) deserves the hail for her life in the life of Pollock. If she weren’t there, Pollock and his paintings might have held captives of the four walls of the room. She merges in to the life of Pollock and we may not be able to find her existence separately. She is defined with the paintings of Pollock. She could be the ‘Other’ of his life or she could be the one who might have hired his life. As Pollock says, “I owe the woman something” he pays her off with the life of his existence, but the existence of his ‘other’ is still there living in his paintings and in the life of Lee. The presence of Lee makes Pollock dynamic and expressive. It’s Lee who always takes him in whenever he loses his conscience, but when she parts him we find fear and loneliness on his face which make him eccentric again.
The music plays an important and defining role in expressing the psychic variations of Pollock’s life. It helps the audience to accommodate the psychic ‘Other’ of the character. The music penetrates the mind of our psyche as well as it prepares a platform to welcome the character of Pollock. The shifts of scenes are sudden form light to dark and dark to light like we pass through the shutters of our mind. It opens and closes unexpectedly like the mind of Pollock. The technicality of the camera’s ‘eye’ adds beauty and tension to the mind of audience towards the last scenes. Towards the last scene camera uses vertigo effect in order to create a “falling-away-from-oneself feeling” or a feeling of unreality, or to suggest that a character is undergoing a realization that causes him to reassess everything he had previously believed.  Thus, altogether with the total involvement of characters, scenes, music, camera and lights the movie creates a new painting of life inside the walls of our mind.
The creativity of the artist Pollock, is the productivity of his mind’s (‘Other’s) thoughts and expressions of his psychic being which he calls his life and nature as he is the life and nature. The director works this out through the perfect blending and composition of frames and shot selections which are perfectly assisted by the music, darkness and light, camera techniques and above all the mind of the audience. The movie is a celebration of the freedom of our various psychic existences, if we want to feel the movie we have to transform ourselves in to the eccentric existence of our ‘Other’ which we hide from the public. We need the personal involvement in the movie and it becomes perfect only with the presence of our psychic and eccentric ‘selves’ with the character of Pollock. Thus, in totality the movie becomes a psychological celebration of our eccentric self and the liberation of our nature, life from the bondage of our cultured social pretensions and melodramatic life styles.

Victorian Women Writing: A Work of Proto Feminism

ImageThe history of England is the history of the male line, not of the female. We know always some fact, some distinction about fathers. But of mothers, nothing remains but tradition. It is true that we know nothing of them except their names and dates of their marriage and the number of offspring they begot.

Strange spaces of silence seem to separate one period of activity from another. There was Sappo and a little group of women all writing poetry in a Greek island six hundred years before the birth of Christ. They fell silent. Then about the year thousand we find a certain court lady, the lady Murasaki, writing a very long and beautiful novel in Japan. But in England in the 16th century, the women were dumb while the dramatists and poets were most active. Later we see Elizabethan literature pretty much masculine. Then at the end of the 18th century and in the beginning of the 19th century we find women again writing- thus time in England- with extraordinary frequency and success.
Law and custom were, certainly, largely responsible for these strange intermissions of silence and speech. When a woman was liable, as she was in the 15th century, to be beaten and finally flung about the room if she did not marry the man of her parent’s choice; the spiritual atmosphere was not favorable to the production of any work of art. Thus it is clear that the extraordinary outburst of fiction and poetry in the beginning of the 19th century in England was heralded innumerable slight changes in law and customs and manners.And as we know, it is probable, however, that both in life and art the values and views of women are not the same that of men. It is obvious that when a woman ventures herself to write a poetry or novel, we will find that she is perpetually wishing to deconstruct the ideals and values constructed by the opposite sex and establish the insignificant serious, important trial- pre-established by male writers.
 In the early 19th century women’s writings were more or less autobiographical. One of the motives that led them to write was the desire to establish their self, expose their own sufferings and to plea their own cause. Commenting upon the themes and imagery of the 19th century women writings – Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar observe in “Mad Women in the Attic”:
“ The one plot that seems to be concealed in most of the 19th century literature by women… is some sense a   story of the woman writer’s quest for her own story, it is the story, in other words- of the woman’s quest for self-definition.”

 Aurora Leigh: Victorian concepts of a woman’s vocation

 –  Elizabeth Barret Browning

 ImageAurora Leigh expresses Elizabeth Barret Browning’s unconventional views on child labour, prostitution, gender and class conflict. Her heroine’s quench for an independent status as a professional poet, and her questioning of many of society’s established norms and institutions bring forth Elizabeth’s own struggles and intense experiences and we will find it as an “autobiographical discussion” of the feminist issues stated by Elaine Shawalter. The conflict that women in the Victorian age witnessed between their aesthetic vocation and feminine duties are explicitly expressed in Aurora’s struggle to succeed as a poet.
Aurora Leigh made a tremendous effect to its age. Elizabeth brings forth the major issues in to the day light- issues of gender roles, women’s struggle for equal and just treatment and class conflict in her poems. She questions the popular Victorian concepts of a woman’s vocation, her status in marriage, family and society and the established notions of virtue and chastity.
She acknowledges the significance of socially constructed norms of sex and genders and address herself through the characters of Aurora Leigh, Marian Erle, and Romney Leigh. Instead of portraying helplessness as the typical feminine behavior she projects strong willed women who pursue their vocation with determination and intelligence. The heroine Aurora wants to become a poet and earn a living through her publication. She wishes to realize fully her intellectual and creative talents. She seeks to acquire a status as an independent and responsible person; she wishes to attain self hood on the basis of her feminine separateness. The poem gradually shows the mutual needs of both men and women.
Aurora’s quest for self hood and freedom to pursue her own plans come in to conflict with her society’s intention to restrict her freedom by binding her into the domestic roles. The open green world of nature where Aurora loves to spend her time offers her a sense of freedom, whiles the life within her home, and reinforces the socially accepted role. Romney’s reaction to Aurora’s plans reflects his disdain towards a woman’s self-awareness and her ambition to become an independent being. And he doubts her creativity and vocation. He is doubtful of her ability to become a good poet. He thinks- as she is a woman and even if she could do so, it would hardly matter. He further states that the world is full of misery and pain that what it wants is not poets, but devoted selfless workers to help humanity. For him, her ambition to become a poet is a selfish, self-centered wish, neglecting the more worthwhile service for humanity.
Aurora’s defense of her choice of career begins by hinting at Romney’s male arrogance towards women. Like other men, he too cannot regard women as independent beings; he thinks them “mere complement of his sex.” She thinks that the image evoked of companionship does not in real  life work in that manner, for she finds the man-woman relationship after marriage become an unequal one. In the name of ‘ love’ she finds women cheated in marriage; women become willing slaves and bear the burden of men’s missionary work, without complaining, and without getting any recognition for their contribution. And we see that she is ready to sacrifice her own wishes for a career, where she feels she could also prove to be equally useful to society.
Finally, we see that her reason for not accepting Romney’s proposal of marriage is an emotional one. She feels that Romney’s proposal does not convey sense of love for her. All that he wants is a ‘help mate’, ‘a sister of charity’, not really a wife. We find irony in her words for him that he is already wedded to his social sense:
“Sir, you were married long ago,
You have a wife already, whom you love,
Your social theory.”
She would want a more warm and loving relationship, and a more equal status with in marriage.
Elizabeth expresses powerfully, both, the aspiration and struggle of a young woman and later a subsequent clash between the desire to be an individual being and to be loved. After reading through the poem I feel that it challenges many of the dominant patriarchal notions about women and their duties. It challenges the restrictions placed on women’s self-expression; it “denounces the gospel of self-sacrifice”, and attacks “patriarchal religion”. It is also a search for new heroines, new role-models and new lives which was absolutely a lack of the age.

Goblin market

– Christina Rossetti

ImageGoblin Market comments on the institutions in Victorian society the Rossetti and her feminist contemporaries wished to see altered, creating modern female heroines to carry out its images. The goblins serve as malicious male figures to attempt the innocent heroines, sisters Laura and Lizzie, to corruption. Rossetti implies that Laura’s demise was caused by in addition to the trickery of the male figures, her own yield to temptation. Fear of desire was a near obsession in Victorian society; yielding was a sign of weakness, and Rossetti’s poem mocks this obsession with its fairytale- like construction. The Victorian people also viewed excessive sexuality in a negative light, associating it with the lower classes and tribal cultures.
… “Goblin Market” is the epitome of an allegorically feminist work, criticizing Victorian male dominated culture while creating strong feminine heroes that prove the validity of Rossetti’s criticism by embodying the feministic essence she is trying to portray. Throughout the poem, resistance to the male figures is a part of a “painful and strenuous quest that frees the heroine” from dependence on men and liberates her into a world of empowerment in which she can thrive.

George Eliot

ImageFrom the perspective of many feminists, Eliot is a disappointment. None of her brilliant, gifted, beautiful, philosophical characters usurp male roles or verbalize the inequality of gender codes. I would like to discuss the common characteristics of her heroines and works.
 It would be little hard to find any trace of humor or insight in her works. But we find the vindictiveness of a grudge which we feel to be personal in its origin. She allows her heroines to talk too much. It seems that she has little verbal felicity. But, it is upon the heroines that we would throw a glance. They cannot live without religion and they search for one thing they experienced during the childhood. Each has the deep feminine passion for goodness. In learning they seek their goal both in the wider service of their kind. They do not find what they seek and we cannot wonder because those are kept far from their proximities and they face a number of established norms and institutional correspondences.
For her the burden and the complexity of womanhood were not enough, that she must reach beyond the sanctuary and pluck for herself the strange bright fruits of art and knowledge. It is to be mentioned that Eliot herself explained that she felt that she could serve the cause best as an artist rather than an activist. As a result when we look for feminism in Eliot, we have to look for a much more subtle approach. One way that we can see Eliot acting as an advocate for her gender is in her creation of such believable heroines. Certainly, I think, they are an implicit argument for women’s capacities. After all, her realist approach requires true-to-life endings for her heroines. I think, her heroines, indeed though they leave the readers unsatisfied, they actually have greater consciousness- raising effect than a straighter forwardly “feminist” storyline would do. Finally, on considering Eliot’s feminism or laxity, it is important to keep in mind that many19th century women writers believed that there was an essential feminine nature and it must be followed if civilization required. So thereafter many women writers followed that traditional interpretation of femininity. If we compare the heroines of Eliot with that of others we will find Eliot’s heroines practice the dangerous and damaging habit of self-abnegation. Her characters also express the poignancy and repressed desire.

Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights

– Charlotte Bronte & Emily Bronte

 ImageCharlotte Bronte does not attempt to solve the problems of human life; she is even unaware that such problems exist; all her force, and it is the more tremendous for being constricted, goes in to the assertion, ‘I love’, ‘ I hate’, ‘ I suffer’. We read Charlotte not for exquisite observation of character. Her characters are vigorous and elementary; not for comedy- hers is grim and crude; not for philosophic view of life- hers is that of a country parson’s daughter for her poetry.
Wuthering Heights is a more difficult book to understand than Jane Eyre, because Emily was a greater poet than Charlotte. When Charlotte wrote she said with eloquence and splendor and passion ‘I love’, ‘I hate’, ‘I suffer’. Her experience, though more intense, is on a level with our own. But there is no “I” in Wuthering Heights. There are no governesses. There are no employers. There is love, but it is not the love of men and women. Emily was inspired by some more general conception. The impulse which urged her to create was not her own suffering or her own injuries. She looked out upon a world cleft in to gigantic disorder and felt within her the power to unite it in a book. The gigantic ambition is to be felt throughout the novel – a struggle, half thwarted but of superb conviction, to  say something through the mouths of her characters which is not merely ‘ I love’ or ‘ I hate’ , but ‘ we , the whole human race’ and ‘ you, the eternal powers…’ the sentence remains unfinished.But it was not enough for Emily to write a few lyrics, to utter a cry, to express a creed. In her poems she did this once and for all, and her poems will perhaps out last her novel. But she was novelist as well as poet.


From the works of 18th and 19th century women writers we get an understanding of the tactics which have been employed by men in order to have the lifelong concept of women to follow the set-code of behavior which fulfills the demands of patriarchy. Many Victorian texts written by male as well as female writers were attempts at defining “womanliness” as also ‘feminine sphere’ of duties. The conflict between the needs of the individual and those of society was heavily turned against women’s self-awareness, by relating her social duty with strong shades of moral duty.
Summing up, we know that the beginning of the feminist movement belongs to the later 19th century. So when we bring forth all the works of female writers of Victorian era, we would know that the female writings of the age paved the passage for the later feminist movement and writings. All works of Elizabeth Barret Browning, Christina Rossetti, Bronte sisters, George Eliot, Gaskel, etc. we’re focusing on the struggles and self-assertion of women of the time. All the Victorian female writings challenge many of the dominant patriarchal notions about women and their duties and also challenge the restrictions placed on women’s self-expression, as vivid in Aurora Leigh. The poem Goblin Market establishes a modern female heroine. Rossetti takes the early manifesto of misogyny, and cleverly twists it around to fit her purpose; a very light, but exceedingly biting mockery of male-dominated culture. Considering the major female writings of Victorian era, it’s worth to note that Victorian female writing as a whole a work of  proto-feminism.

Sound I: I envy them, for they wander.


I envy them, for they wander.

They live in deserts and woods,
And they wander.
They know the language of the desert
And of the woods,
For they live their lives the way they design.
No one calls them back- Home, parents, peers,
And no one.
They live, they see; they feel,
They hear and they do,
For they are not captives of their physical bonds.
I’m here,

Around the unknown languages and figures.

At the hour of Last breath


Stay with me at the hour of my last breath.
Amassing the burning veracities of life
My Fingers are dead,
Let them get ease by caressing you.
Last molecules of my breath may cart thy fragrance.
My love, let thy face plunge
Into the eyes of mine, never to be opened.
Ears, no longer be opened for sounds,
Be sealed with thy mellifluousness.
Mind, burning with thoughts and memoir,
Be filled with thy evergreen memories.
Kisses-made scars on my lips,
Heal in the sweet chants of thy name.
Reminiscences of journey,
 Unto thee my love, my feet tranquil.
That’s enough for me,
Buried under the earth,
I resurrect-
Newborn leaves of grass.

Trot, trot, trot …

ImageOk! And I decided to post a junk on my wall on this new year eve. Everything occurred to me during the last twelve months were absolutely brilliant and miraculous. They were not absolute accidents, but pre-planned occurrences supposed to be taken place in my life. 2013, what the calendar says, was just days consisting of time, speed, decisions, calculations, mistakes, corrections, planning, and finally altogether a cycle of past events dressed in new costume. Of course, I’ve done severe mistakes, but wonderfully helpful and I realized them as the time passed by me.

I never wanted to wish any of my friends “happy new year” because I never wanted to. And what is a hell on earth new year message? And New Year resolutions? I don’t know! And, of course, I don’t want to know, obviously! New Year eve is a reason, not a cause for the party. What did I mean by that? Don’t know, don’t ask me ‘cause it just occurred to my figures.

Any ways, I should say, everything was brilliant! From the essence and soul of my mind (may be mind is my soul) everything occurred to me last, the passing time, was wonderful. They made me what I am today with my perfect flaws and imperfections. The quantum of my selves and the single, ultimate source of energy which I call god or Jeeva and to which I associate myself, made me a part of the cycle of the time and space. I have seen signs, signs without characters!

I made my legends and myths! The passing hours of year 2013 carry the burden of aesthetic as well as cognitive anarchism.

Well, let me scratch down here on my personal wall. After all, I don’t have to answer anyone and it’s my wall, isn’t it? 2013 taught me many things. It was in 2013 I liberated myself from the remaining chains of Church and the practices of religion. But still I go to church ‘cause I’m a son and I do respect my parents.  The following are the notable, may be less significant, events of my life occurred in 2013:

  • Liberation from the chains of Church and Religion
  • Formed a staunch belief in god
  • Started to belief in quantum theory and quantum universe
  • Associated the soul with the ultimate source of energy/god
  • Transformed myself into a replica of the source of energy
  • Became a practitioner  of  AHAM BRAHMASMI and TAT TWAM ASI
  • Found my way, what I am supposed to be
  • Found the sparkles of my soul within my life
  • Made a strong bridge between my soul and body
  • We are one now
  • Made myself universal
  • Completing the successful six years of mystic love with a crazy utopian
  • Got some new wonderful friends from around the globe
  • Started blogging at word press under the name aesthetic anarchist
  • The most memorable romantic year of my entire life

And, the list continues! I love everything happened to me and evaded me thankfully. Next year may be a time for my uprooting, sometimes I’ll migrate to some exotic place; sometimes I’ll meet my love….


It’s December! The fresh snow pattered along with the chilled zephyr romanticized the realm of my feasibility.
Do you know why I love December as November does? The reverberation of the word ‘carol’ lulls my eardrums and set fire on my veins. December is a romantic haven for me. I have no worries and tensions about the word carol ’cause everyone talks carol. And I set myself free with the name or word carol. Everyone in the congregation talks about carol and they practice carol songs; kids, blistering blood youth, middle aged, white bearded, and what else to say even the wind echoes carol!
Every December nights are filled with carol songs and everyone is busy with carol nights. And I pretend I am one among them who is going for a carol night, but in actuality, I love to hear the word carol and use it with no questions.
The soft chilled wind caresses the leaves of bamboos, maples, and even the Willow seems to be happy! They were like the flight of a twining profusion of marvellously rich hair of hers falling and dancing down her shoulders.
It’s carol night and everyone busy with carol songs! The moon and stars looked like her bright eyes arched by brows so keen, slender, and soft a curve that they resembled nothing so much as two slurs in music- showed primarily a bright sparkle each.
Though she belongs to January, it seems, she is a foster child of December.
The most beautiful, gracious, and delectable smile reflects on her cheeks. And she smiles!

“Let’s Dance!”



“I figured I shouldn’t talk to you, but I don’t see how that’s gonna make any difference. Can I pretend you’re not in love so that it’s easier for me to talk to you?” she said.

Of course, she has the right to remain silent. After all, what’s the difference that gonna make? For years, she was silent and that was in her silence he loved her. She is to him what oil is to fire, the infinite raging of the flame will never be quenched even in the infinite vacuum of silence or thoughts. His love for her was molded within the matrix of time and space; the somatic propinquity of the physique and the affability of hers were the afterglow of that infinite, telepathic love. Her silence would never make any difference.

“Let’s dance!” he said.