QuoteSechoeD

Dear You, I plan to start a new thread today under the label, ‘Words_for_Birds’. Words constitute languages. Ever wondered what we’d do without them, even when it is interesting to wonder what we do ‘with’ them at various occasions? :)  This word is important in the sense that we, speakers of English as second language, need to be aware of the aspect of avoiding unnecessary repetition of words, especially in writing. So, here we go. What do we call when someone is making unnecessary use of two or more words to express one meaning? It is called tautology,,e.g. the phrase “a beginner has just started”, is a case for tautology. Or “he saw with his own eyes” or “true fact”. Such a statement would be a tautologous statement. To such a user I can say, “Stop tautologizing!” . His speech was full of tautologies. Tautology is a defect we should be aware of while speaking or writing. It’s a common defect with users. There are other synonymous (similar) words meaning for this, which can b

The first entry of this blog used as its title a phrase that is dear to me. Preponderant ponderability. I could imagine a few stalwarts of literature who, for me, exercise it in their work. Wilde, Hesse, Proust, Bellow, Saramago, and the heavyweight, Shakespeare. In the last post, echoes of words found pages of a novel I am reading these days, The Cave. I consider myself fortunate to have read some books by Saramago and the few that are left, beckon me everyday.                 It has been two months today, since I read about the news of the artist’s death. Ever since, having come across pages of sudden dedication as well as criticism, I have felt a strong desire to write about my thoughts and experience on reading his work. So much so that I decided, after posting my last last night, to create some sort of an exclusive space for one of my favourite writer.                 Shall I start another blog-dedication to Saramago? It is churning in my min

One who lets words be, knows they are capable of the occasional wonders and surprises that spring right in front of you just when you have lost all hope and have had your share of contemplation of the Hamletian murmur, "Words, words, words."       The opening of fifth chapter of José Saramago's The Cave , adresses a similar predicament. To my utter surprise, the words on the page complemented the exact problem that had occupied a good portion my day today. The problem of a beginning. How do we begin anything? How does that thing begin which, before its much anticipated inception has been pondered on lest something turns out into a chaos? The fear of beginning a thing (like a creative initiative, a responsible task for one's job) is something, I believe, a lot of you could share with me. How to begin your writing? How do we begin teaching in a class even? What repercussions can, a not so discreet, a beginning have on the rest of t

I am doing a double post today! The reason being this image of a place in Paro, Bhutan, which once again, the keen observer beheld one day: http://sonamdema.blogspot.com/2010/08/chillip-who-wanted-bhutanese-candy.html#comments You need altitude to melt attitude. That is my first imaginative reaction to the mountain peaks and the flying swabs of clouds from a point of view which makes me say: WoW ! In contrast to the last image I mentioned, this one lacks green but blooms in blue. The soil of the earth tries to match the glow of the sky; and in between lie the mountains. All I can do is wonder... wonder in my mind who longs to wander... in the same swabs of clouds, on this same ground of land. This image inspires too; with expressions like,,, Glow of the day. Flight of inspiration. Altitudinal Imagination. 'Image of the View' Nothing to shield Nature grows in trees The glories of the field The wind and its breeze. Cotton-swabbed clouds fly down upon you Rays of sunlight st

“If we had a keen vision of all that is ordinary in human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow or the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which is the other side of silence” ~ George Eliot Last Sunday evening, after finishing my reading session, I was taking a stroll in the lawns outside the library when I noticed the area to be mostly empty with overcast skies above. I decided to stand still in the midst of this beautiful place. How many times during a day or even a week do we observe our surroundings like I am doing now, I asked myself. I looked at the grass, the trees and the rock stones that lay wonderfully encapsulated in the softness promised by this landscape. But the question was still flickering my mind. To a natural surprise, I saw butterflies emerge from the hedges, evening birds chirping on the trees and welcoming more of their brethren as if to join for one final conference of the day, before settling over the branche

It always interests me when the writer of a novel, creator of a song or the artist in general, reflects his thoughts on Arts itself. What is it to write? What is it to read or observe a painting? There are two quotations by J. M. Coetzee that indicate certain responses to these questions. I would like to refer to them in tandem because the function of writing and reading has, in my view, a lot to share and contextualize as far as books are concerned. "...reading is being the arm and being the axe and being the skull; reading is giving youself up, not holding yourself at a distance and jeering." ~ J. M. Coetzee, The Master of Petersburg The way Coetzee defines the role of a reader deserves more than a passing mention. That's because the idea of reading as not just another activity to while away time but to commit yourself to the act is something that gives to the writing (the kind Coetzee is concerned with) its first deserved worth. Each book we pick up and start r

Today's post has no direct Quotes. I am writing it after being purely inspired by Sonam Dema's image of Thimpu, Bhutan. Here is an image of a rainbow adorning the landscape of the city captured one afternoon by its fortunate witness: http://sonamdema.blogspot.com/2010_08_01_archive.html The beautiful scenery so naturally lets loose words and I wonder if quotes of great men, for instance the so called transcendentalists, start echoing with the 'image' of imagination which inspires the witness to see. It can't be helped. I am reminded of words by Thoreau: "The true harvest of my daily life is somewhat intangible and indescribable as the tints of morning or evening. It is a little star-dust caught, a segment of rainbow which I have clutched." ~ Walden " The true harvest of my daily life....". Priceless words. Thoreau must have been a witness himself to sights like these. I can only imagine. Or go out there and see for myself. But as