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A journey indeed...

“The journey is never over. Only travellers come to an end.” Saramago ends this wonderful book on a note which is most most appropriate in the hands of a master storyteller. One really ‘feels priviledged’ in the company of a sensitive writer; sensitive to the place he belongs to, a place which is effortlessly shown to us to be more than just a place. I had started Journey to Portugal a few months ago and I knew right away that it is just the way with this book. I literally savoured the descriptions of the country in the words of an author whose novels, almost consciously, avoid being set within definitive spaces of geography. The Journey , however, is about Portugal from the eyes of the ‘traveller’. I must start by saying that the experience had been unlike all others; I’d never read a travelogue from the point of view of a traveller with keen sense of imagination and appreciation of things witnessed by him. The journey is beautifully given a start by the element of a

Discovering Lisbon

I am wondering why the traveller’s much anticipated visit to Lisbon starts on a somewhat dejected and somber note. Here he is, ready to witness the marvel of this port city, the museums and the monasteries whose architecture takes you on a journey through various ages. But all he could muster is the bitter memories evoked by objects revealing horrendous crimes committed in the past. He is thankful to the museums for preserving some of the objects in order to testify what, according to him, is “necessary” for us to remember. The traveller is clearly occupied with these thoughts as his indecision gives way to questioning: “The traveler regains the street and feels lost. Where should he go now? What is he to visit? What shall he leave aside, either on purpose or because of the impossibility of seeing and commenting on everything? And anyway, what does it mean to see everything?” ~ Journey to Portugal

The traveller reaches Lisbon

"So finally, here is Lisbon. But before undertaking the adventure, which he finds somewhat intimidating, the traveller wants to visit the village on the estuary known as Carcavelos, to see something that few people know about, when you think of the million inhabitants of Lisbon and the thousands who come to this coast, that is, to conclude, the parish church." ~ Journey to Portugal As I begin reading the final third of this book, the 'traveller' looks as excited as ever and this turn is placed in such a way as if the whole travelogue had been busy in preparation for a visit to Lisbon, though appearances could still be deceptive. Strangely enough, the church and its architecture seems to be the element of the traveller's interest. There is no place devoid of it. Saramago, I reckon, intends to infuse various elements of Portuguese culture and is careful to include both the landscape and the art that adopts it. This is the reason why this book is more than a trave

The Raisonneur(s)

            … and blest are those Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled That they are not a pipe for fortune’s finger To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion’s slave and I will wear him In my heart’s core—aye, in my heart of heart, As I do thee. Hamlet’s words for his friend and raisonneur, Horatio. As I miss the character of Hamlet today, I know the play calls for another reading which I suppose will get tended to soon. But let me first dedicate this post and its quote to all those who could relate to the position of Hamlet, reading these lines. The presence of a calm friend who listens when it is needed the most is a measure of great strength indeed.

Poem

This is in response to my friend's beautiful postcard-pictures to inspire and create something in return. http://sonamdema.blogspot.com/2011/06/in-love-again.html And so I have; come up with a spontaneous verse I hope to have justified with the effort spent behind the camera. The title of the poem is not mine; for it got 'inspired'.          In love again Is it the breeze that instills Rustling wind of the reeds, Or nature's light which fills My prism'd heart, a vibrance of beads. I do not quite know What it brings on its wings. But my vision is worth the glow Astride a pathless trail when it sings. Sings it the song I once loved at school.. Brings it along the wonders that belong. Fills it forevermore the fields we then thronged.. Sees it I imagine once again my lost jewel. Through the stone-streets have I walked. Treaded many a witness to the fields. But lo! the hut calls me thither again, 'Blue of the sky' is what

Remembering with rememberance of words

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On the first death anniversary of José Saramago, I can't help but remember and reminisce the worlds of words he so perseveringly weaved into narratives which, to me, are blessed with the author's literary voice that has forever become a part of my understanding of human existence. Replete foremostly with human emotion and an ever so patient motherly touch in such unforgettable characters like Blimunda, Lydia and Death, each book of his I have picked and read so far, has made me feel more rooted into the ground we all need to stand upon. Abound with astounding imagination, Saramago's writing could easily be credited with playing a conscious role of constantly contesting 'our' sense of reality (as well as illusion).      The run-on sentence with an aural felicity beckons a reader's delight (provided the reader is able to give in wholly to the perspectival imagination of the written word). Challenging the notions of the world we inhabit, Saramago's books ca

Food for thought

Do you disagree to agree in a mindful situation’s mindless worth which is worthless to the extent of saying the unsaid over time’s timelessness? Or stay weary of the everlasting neverthelessness from a perspectival want for perspectives? Have we understood the absence of a surface we keep sticking to even when what is not in sight views itself in the reflection of a mirage that had accompanied the trails we thought we left but were due to appear in the course of events which are yet to manifest? This and a lot more which cannot be this is the subject of a thought whose objective sense contests all appearances in the disappearance of an existence whose ethereal self helps to unlock the real essence of a dream not yet dreamt by the best of the rest. Afterthought:  NEVERMIND

A Traveller's time.

Reading this wonder of a book: Journey to Portugal/ Viagem a Portugal. I am almost halfway through. It is one of those few books which, for all its descriptions and digressions, remains honest to the 'Journey'. I feel enchanted to find that this book travels at its own pace. I just cannot help it. But with that I mean something important I realise now with reading the kind I am dealing with. By taking me the reader at its own pace it shows how much the book is in control of the opposite side. As I sail through these pages quite snail like; happily, I bring in a line from the author and rest shall resume:        For a butterfly born with the morning and dying before dusk, night does not exist.

Poem

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   'The Wattle Tree'     by  Dora  Wilcox Winter is not yet gone - but now The birds are carolling from the bough. And the mist has rolled away Leaving more beautiful the day. The sun is out - O come with me To look upon the wattle tree! Let misers hoard and hide their gold; Here there is treasure-trove untold, In yellow blossom, mass on mass Spread out for wayfarers who pass With hearts to feel, and eyes to see How lovely is the wattle tree. O strange, O magical! to forget For a moment care and fret, Whilst the next spirit, like a cup Drained of delight, again fills up And overflows with ecstasy Before the miracle of the tree. And rich and poor, who pause to bless The shining tree in thankfulness, Are bound in fellowship indeed. What matter politics or creed, Or class or colour? surely he Loves mankind who loves a Tree! Towards illimitable skies From the earth the trees arise: Givers of Joy, their gold and green Against the blue of

The knock of words . . .

The last three months, it seems, have had a whirlpool-whirlwinding effect on me. Intermittent travelling and having to deal with things bit unwillingly resulted in lack of reading or putting the mind to thought. A phase which wouldn't have been complete without my own lazy lack of interest and initiative. Words accompanied me nonetheless.  Here's a reflection on the few I did remember; and wanted to quote: A writer is a person who cares what words mean, what they say, how they say it. Writers know words are their way towards truth and freedom, and so they use them with care, with thought, with fear, with delight. By using words well, they strengthen their souls. Story-tellers and poets spend their lives learning that skill and art of using words well. And their words make the souls of their readers stronger, brighter, deeper. URSULA LE GUIN