Dilip Simeon's blog

NB:  Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986) was one of the greatest writers of our times.  He wrote during a tumultuous historical period.  Deutsches Requiem , posted below, a short story written in 1946, is an imaginary testament of a condemned Nazi war criminal, Otto Dietrich zur Linde. Before getting to the story, I post two paragraphs he wrote in 1944, about Hitler and Nazism. This is from page 211 of the Selected Non-fictions (1999); Section IV, Notes on Germany & the War. Worth reading.   DS Several nights later, I was enlightened by a book and a memory. The book was Shaw's Man and Superman; the passage in question was John Tanner's metaphysical dream, where he affirms that the horror of Hell is its unreality. This conviction can be compared with the doctrine of another Irishman, John Scotus Erigena, who denied the substantive existence of sin and evil, and declared that all creatures, including the Devil, will return to God. The memory was the day that ha...

Mr Swaminathan died suddenly, as he was walking back to his flat from the Veg dining hall after dinner. He was ahead of me on the path, and I saw him slow down. His gait changed from a fast stride to a slower, hunched walk. His left arm went limp. He lost his footing and crumpled to the ground. If I had not been swift, I imagine he would have hit his head on the cement. There would have been blood. But I caught up with him. Before he fell, I squatted to the ground and put my hands out, and his head fell directly into my open palms. Carefully, I slipped my hands out from behind his head, set it gently on the cement and sat at his side talking to him. His left eye looked lower than his right. His left cheek sagged, as if it might slide off. I held his hand until the ambulance arrived. It was the first time that I had held a man’s hand since my husband died. The rectangular diamond on Mr Swaminathan’s gold ring was hard and cold in contrast to his warm skin. Before they loaded his body ...

Moving from park to park allowed me to love people fast and hard, hurt them or be hurt by them and then take off for somewhere new where I’d repeat the cycle, skipping the part where you reflect.  On my last day in Death Valley, the bellman and I drove to an opera house built by a ballerina who performed a one-woman show there ― true story ― and though we were soon going our separate ways, we didn’t make plans to see each other again. He knew how much I wanted to love him, but I couldn’t. Not yet.  “The timing wasn’t right,” he said.  “If we ever end up in the same place,” I said. “Maybe it will be.”  I thought moving to the wilderness would allow me to escape something that had nearly shattered me. For a while, the intense relationships I had with people who loved me for a season and then evaporated at the end convinced me I was right. But my pain followed me from Colorado to California, Wyoming, Montana ― everywhere, because that’s what wounds do. They stay...

NB:  These two beautiful writings were sent to me by my friend T Vijayendra, to whom I owe thanks. DS The Three Questions, by  Leo Tolstoy It once occurred to a certain king that if he always knew the right time to begin everything; if he knew who were the right people to listen to, and whom to avoid; and, above all, if he always knew what was the most important thing to do, he would never fail in anything he might undertake. And this thought having occurred to him, he had it proclaimed throughout his kingdom that he would give a great reward to anyone who would teach him what was the right time for every action, and who were the most necessary people, and how he might know what was the most important thing to do.  And learned men came to the king, but they all answered his questions differently.  In reply to the first question, some said that to know the right time for every action, one must draw up in advance a table of days, months, and years, and mus...

The Library of Babel by Jorge Luis Borges By this art you may contemplate the variations of the 23 letters... The Anatomy of Melancholy, part 2, sect. II, mem. IV The universe (which others call the Library) is composed of an indefinite and perhaps infinite number of hexagonal galleries, with vast air shafts between, surrounded by very low railings. From any of the hexagons one can see, interminably, the upper and lower floors. The distribution of the galleries is invariable. Twenty shelves, five long shelves per side, cover all the sides except two; their height, which is the distance from floor to ceiling, scarcely exceeds that of a normal bookcase. One of the free sides leads to a narrow hallway which opens onto another gallery, identical to the first and to all the rest. To the left and right of the hallway there are two very small closets. In the first, one may sleep standing up; in the other, satisfy one's fecal necessities. Also through here pass...

Extract from Leszek Kołakowski;  Modernity on endless trial ; (1990); Chapter 20. Why an Ideology Is Always Right:   Thus the virtue of ideology is not only that it produces verbal hybrids that mix up facts, commandments, and assertions about the "essence," but also that it makes it possible to infer facts from commandments, to deduce what is from what ought to be, and that, if efficient, it produces people capable of performing precisely the miraculous transubstantiation involved in seeing facts as prescribed by norms. Certainly we have now left behind the period when this ideology worked efficiently, and when people actually acquired this talent of believing a doctrine which each day was unmistakably and glaringly disproved in all its details by all the common facts of daily life. That ideology was able to achieve this perfection—even for a certain historical period—gives testimony to its independent power in social life. Ilya Erenburg's The Thaw  depicts a discu...

Over dinner a few days ago, I ended up telling a story about Janaka to a friend. Janaka is generally known as the foster father of Sita (she is born of the earth as a boon to him after prayers) in the Ramayana, but he is also mentioned separately in late Vedic literature as a king of Videha, of great virtue and sagacity. The story that I recalled was of how a young sage came to Janaka’s court and asked him, bluntly, “O king, you are considered a great sage, a  brahmjanani , and yet you are a king, surrounded by gold and luxuries. How can you be a sage in the midst of this?” Janaka heard the young man out in silence, and then said, “I will answer your question, but on one condition. Here is a bowl, full to the brim with oil. If you can circle my palace and bring it back to me without spilling a drop, I will give you the answer.” The young man was taken aback, but agreed to the challenge and taking the bowl, spent the whole day painstakingly circling the palace until he was ...

NB: Franz Kafka's  A Hunger Artist  was first written in 1922 and published in a collection also entitled A Hunger Artist . Here is the story, a parable for our times - DS During these last decades the interest in professional fasting has markedly diminished. It used to pay very well to stage such great performances under one's own management, but today that is quite impossible. We live in a different world now. At one time the whole town took a lively interest in the hunger artist; from day to day of his fast the excitement mounted; everybody wanted to see him at least once a day; there were people who bought season tickets for the last few days and sat from morning till night in front of his small barred cage; even in the nighttime there were visiting hours, when the whole effect was heightened by torch flares; on fine days the cage was set out in the open air, and then it was the children's special treat to see the hunger artist; for their elders he was...

Before the Law by Franz Kafka  Translation by Ian Johnston ( NB : This parable first appeared in 1915, and became a part of Kafka's book The Trial ) Before the law sits a gatekeeper. To this gatekeeper comes a man from the country who asks to gain entry into the law. But the gatekeeper says that he cannot grant him entry at the moment. The man thinks about it and then asks if he will be allowed to come in later on. “It is possible,” says the gatekeeper, “but not now.” At the moment the gate to the law stands open, as always, and the gatekeeper walks to the side, so the man bends over in order to see through the gate into the inside. When the gatekeeper notices that, he laughs and says: “If it tempts you so much, try it in spite of my prohibition. But take note: I am powerful. And I am only the most lowly gatekeeper. But from room to room stand gatekeepers, each more powerful than the other. I can’t endure even one glimpse of the third.” The man from the country has n...

यह चिट्ठी महात्मा मोहनदास करमचंद गाँधी को पहुंचे. महात्माजी, मैं न संसद-सदस्य हूँ, न विधायक, न मंत्री, न नेता. इनमें से कोई कलंक मेरे ऊपर नहीं है. मुझमें कोई ऐसा राजनीतिक ऐब नहीं है कि आपकी जय बोलूं. मुझे कोई भी पद नहीं चाहिये कि राजघाट जाऊँ. मैंने आपकी समाधि पर शपथ भी नहीं ली. आपका भी अब भरोसा नहीं रहा. पिछले मार्च में आपकी समाधि मोरारजी भाई ने भी शपथ ली थी और जगजीवन राम ने भी. मगर बाबू जी रह गए और मोरारजी प्रधानमंत्री हो गए. आख़िर गुजराती ने गुजराती का साथ दिया. जिन्होंने आपकी समाधि पर शपथ ली थी उनका दस महीने में ही ‘जिंदाबाद’ से ‘मुर्दाबाद’ हो गया. वे जनता से बचने के लिए बाथरूम में ही बिस्तर डलवाने लगे हैं. मुझे अपनी दुर्गति नहीं करानी. मैं कभी आपकी समाधि पर शपथ नहीं लूँगा. उसमें भी आप टाँग खींच सकते हैं. आपके नाम पर सड़कें हैं- महात्मा गाँधी मार्ग, गाँधी पथ. इनपर हमारे नेता चलते हैं. कौन कह सकता है कि इन्होंने आपका मार्ग छोड़ दिया है. वे तो रोज़ महात्मा गाँधी रोड पर चलते हैं. इधर आपको और तरह से अमर बनाने की कोशिश हो रही है. पिछली दिवाली पर दिल्ली के जनसंघी शासन ने सस्ती मो...