“Remember my name”
I have no desire,
I have no pain.
The love which once had,
is lost in vain.
I have no money,
I have no fame.
The world which once I loved,
remains unclear, unknown and selfish.
Thou had to step-in
art rejuvenates this poor heart.
What had I given?
Mother Nature lets me sustain.
What would I do with desire?
Desire hardly reaches to destination.
Thee resurrected in love,
This world had once blamed.
If I would someday rise,
rise and rise
rise high above the mountains
I tell you, my dear friend,
I have no one except your love
as you remember my name.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
The Aleph by Jorge Luis Borges
The Aleph
by Jorge Luis Borges
O God! I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a King of infinite space...
Hamlet, II, 2
But they will teach us that Eternity is the Standing still of the Present Time, a Nunc-stans (as the schools call it); which neither they, nor any else understand, no more than they would a Hic-stans for an Infinite greatness of Place.
Leviathan, IV, 46
On the burning February morning Beatriz Viterbo died, after braving an agony that never for a single moment gave way to self-pity or fear, I noticed that the sidewalk billboards around Constitution Plaza were advertising some new brand or other of American cigarettes. The fact pained me, for I realised that the wide and ceaseless universe was already slipping away from her and that this slight change was the first of an endless series. The universe may change but not me, I thought with a certain sad vanity. I knew that at times my fruitless devotion had annoyed her; now that she was dead, I could devote myself to her memory, without hope but also without humiliation. I recalled that the thirtieth of April was her birthday; on that day to visit her house on Garay Street and pay my respects to her father and to Carlos Argentino Daneri, her first cousin, would be an irreproachable and perhaps unavoidable act of politeness. Once again I would wait in the twilight of the small, cluttered drawing room, once again I would study the details of her many photographs: Beatriz Viterbo in profile and in full colour; Beatriz wearing a mask, during the Carnival of 1921; Beatriz at her First Communion; Beatriz on the day of her wedding to Roberto Alessandri; Beatriz soon after her divorce, at a luncheon at the Turf Club; Beatriz at a seaside resort in Quilmes with Delia San Marco Porcel and Carlos Argentino; Beatriz with the Pekingese lapdog given her by Villegas Haedo; Beatriz, front and three-quarter views, smiling, hand on her chin... I would not be forced, as in the past, to justify my presence with modest offerings of books -- books whose pages I finally learned to cut beforehand, so as not to find out, months later, that they lay around unopened.
Beatriz Viterbo died in 1929. From that time on, I never let a thirtieth of April go by without a visit to her house. I used to make my appearance at seven-fifteen sharp and stay on for some twenty-five minutes. Each year, I arrived a little later and stay a little longer. In 1933, a torrential downpour coming to my aid, they were obliged to ask me for dinner. Naturally, I took advantage of that lucky precedent. In 1934, I arrived, just after eight, with one of those large Santa Fe sugared cakes, and quite matter-of-factly I stayed to dinner. It was in this way, on these melancholy and vainly erotic anniversaries, that I came into the gradual confidences of Carlos Argentino Daneri.
Beatriz had been tall, frail, slightly stooped; in her walk there was (if the oxymoron may be allowed) a kind of uncertain grace, a hint of expectancy. Carlos Argentino was pink-faced, overweight, gray-haired, fine-featured. He held a minor position in an unreadable library out on the edge of the Southside of Buenos Aires. He was authoritarian but also unimpressive. Until only recently, he took advantage of his nights and holidays to stay at home. At a remove of two generations, the Italian "S" and demonstrative Italian gestures still survived in him. His mental activity was continuous, deeply felt, far-ranging, and -- all in all -- meaningless. He dealt in pointless analogies and in trivial scruples. He had (as did Beatriz) large, beautiful, finely shaped hands. For several months he seemed to be obsessed with Paul Fort -- less with his ballads than with the idea of a towering reputation. "He is the Prince of poets," Daneri would repeat fatuously. "You will belittle him in vain -- but no, not even the most venomous of your shafts will graze him."
On the thirtieth of April, 1941, along with the sugared cake I allowed myself to add a bottle of Argentine cognac. Carlos Argentino tasted it, pronounced it "interesting," and, after a few drinks, launched into a glorification of modern man.
"I view him," he said with a certain unaccountable excitement, "in his inner sanctum, as though in his castle tower, supplied with telephones, telegraphs, phonographs, wireless sets, motion-picture screens, slide projectors, glossaries, timetables, handbooks, bulletins..."
He remarked that for a man so equipped, actual travel was superfluous. Our twentieth century had inverted the story of Mohammed and the mountain; nowadays, the mountain came to the modern Mohammed.
So foolish did his ideas seem to me, so pompous and so drawn out his exposition, that I linked them at once to literature and asked him why he didn't write them down. As might be foreseen, he answered that he had already done so -- that these ideas, and others no less striking, had found their place in the Proem, or Augural Canto, or, more simply, the Prologue Canto of the poem on which he hd been working for many years now, alone, without publicity, with fanfare, supported only by those twin staffs universally known as work and solitude. First, he said, he opened the floodgates of his fancy; then, taking up hand tools, he resorted to the file. The poem was entitled The Earth; it consisted of a description of the planet, and, of course, lacked no amount of picturesque digressions and bold apostrophes.
I asked him to read me a passage, if only a short one. He opened a drawer of his writing table, drew out a thick stack of papers -- sheets of a large pad imprinted with the letterhead of the Juan Crisóstomo Lafinur Library -- and, with ringing satisfaction, declaimed:
Mine eyes, as did the Greek's, have known men's
towns and fame,
The works, the days in light that fades to amber;
I do not change a fact or falsify a name --
The voyage I set down is... autour de ma chambre.
"From any angle, a greatly interesting stanza," he said, giving his verdict. "The opening line wins the applause of the professor, the academician, and the Hellenist -- to say nothing of the would-be scholar, a considerable sector of the public. The second flows from Homer to Hesiod (generous homage, at the very outset, to the father of didactic poetry), not without rejuvenating a process whose roots go back to Scripture -- enumeration, congeries, conglomeration. The third -- baroque? decadent? example of the cult of pure form? -- consists of two equal hemistichs. The fourth, frankly bilingual, assures me the unstinted backing of all minds sensitive to the pleasures of sheer fun. I should, in all fairness, speak of the novel rhyme in lines two and four, and of the erudition that allows me -- without a hint of pedantry! -- to cram into four lines three learned allusions covering thirty centuries packed with literature -- first to the Odyssey, second to Works and Days, and third to the immortal bagatelle bequathed us by the frolicking pen of the Savoyard, Xavier de Maistre. Once more I've come to realise that modern art demands the balm of laughter, the scherzo. Decidedly, Goldoni holds the stage!"
He read me many other stanzas, each of which also won his own approval and elicited his lengthy explications. There was nothing remarkable about them. I did not even find them any worse than the first one. Application, resignation, and chance had gone into the writing; I saw, however, that Daneri's real work lay not in the poetry but in his invention of reasons why the poetry should be admired. Of course, this second phase of his effort modified the writing in his eyes, though not in the eyes of others. Daneri's style of delivery was extravagant, but the deadly drone of his metric regularity tended to tone down and to dull that extravagance.
[Among my memories are also some lines of a satire in which he lashed out unsparingly at bad poets. After accusing them of dressing their poems in the warlike armour of erudition, and of flapping in vain their unavailing wings, he concluded with this verse:
But they forget, alas, one foremost fact -- BEAUTY!
Only the fear of creating an army of implacable and powerful enemies dissuaded him (he told me) from fearlessly publishing this poem.]
Only once in my life have I had occasion to look into the fifteen thousand alexandrines of the Polyolbion, that topographical epic in which Michael Drayton recorded the flora, fauna, hydrography, orography, military and monastic history of England. I am sure, however, that this limited but bulky production is less boring than Carlos Argentino's similar vast undertaking. Daneri had in mind to set to verse the entire face of the planet, and, by 1941, had already dispatched a number of acres of the State of Queensland, nearly a mile of the course run by the River Ob, a gasworks to the north of Veracruz, the leading shops in the Buenos Aires parish of Concepción, the villa of Mariana Cambaceres de Alvear in the Belgrano section of the Argentine capital, and a Turkish baths establishment not far from the well-known Brighton Aquarium. He read me certain long-winded passages from his Australian section, and at one point praised a word of his own coining, the colour "celestewhite," which he felt "actually suggests the sky, an element of utmost importance in the landscape of the Down Under." But these sprawling, lifeless hexameters lacked even the relative excitement of the so-called Augural Canto. Along about midnight, I left.
Two Sundays later, Daneri rang me up -- perhaps for the first time in his life. He suggested we get together at four o'clock "for cocktails in the salon-bar next door, which the forward-looking Zunino and Zungri -- my landlords, as you doubtless recall -- are throwing open to the public. It's a place you'll really want to get to know."
More in resignation than in pleasure, I accepted. Once there, it was hard to find a table. The "salon-bar," ruthlessly modern, was only barely less ugly than what I had excepted; at the nearby tables, the excited customers spoke breathlessly of the sums Zunino and Zungri had invested in furnishings without a second thought to cost. Carlos Argentino pretended to be astonished by some feature or other of the lighting arrangement (with which, I felt, he was already familiar), and he said to me with a certain severity, "Grudgingly, you'll have to admit to the fact that these premises hold their own with many others far more in the public eye."
He then reread me four or five different fragments of the poem. He had revised them following his pet principle of verbal ostentation: where at first "blue" had been good enough, he now wallowed in "azures," "ceruleans," and "ultramarines." The word "milky" was too easy for him; in the course of an impassioned description of a shed where wool was washed, he chose such words as "lacteal," "lactescent," and even made one up -- "lactinacious." After that, straight out, he condemned our modern mania for having books prefaced, "a practice already held up to scorn by the Prince of Wits in his own grafeful preface to the Quixote." He admitted, however, that for the opening of his new work an attention-getting foreword might prove valuable -- "an accolade signed by a literary hand of renown." He next went on to say that he considered publishing the initial cantos of his poem. I then began to understand the unexpected telephone call; Daneri was going to ask me to contribute a foreword to his pedantic hodgepodge. My fear turned out unfounded; Carlos Argentino remarked, with admiration and envy, that surely he could not be far wrong in qualifying with the ephitet "solid" the prestige enjoyed in every circle by Álvaro Melián Lafinur, a man of letters, who would, if I insisted on it, be only too glad to dash off some charming opening words to the poem. In order to avoid ignominy and failure, he suggested I make myself spokesman for two of the book's undeniable virtues -- formal perfection and scientific rigour -- "inasmuch as this wide garden of metaphors, of figures of speech, of elegances, is inhospitable to the least detail not strictly upholding of truth." He added that Beatriz had always been taken with Álvaro.
I agreed -- agreed profusely -- and explained for the sake of credibility that I would not speak to Álvaro the next day, Monday, but would wait until Thursday, when we got together for the informal dinner that follows every meeting of the Writers' Club. (No such dinners are ever held, but it is an established fact that the meetings do take place on Thursdays, a point which Carlos Argentino Daneri could verify in the daily papers, and which lent a certain reality to my promise.) Half in prophecy, half in cunning, I said that before taking up the question of a preface I would outline the unusual plan of the work. We then said goodbye.
Turning the corner of Bernardo de Irigoyen, I reviewed as impartially as possible the alternatives before me. They were: a) to speak to Álvaro, telling him the first cousin of Beatriz' (the explanatory euphemism would allow me to mention her name) had concocted a poem that seemed to draw out into infinity the possibilities of cacophony and chaos: b) not to say a word to Álvaro. I clearly foresaw that my indolence would opt for b.
But first thing Friday morning, I began worrying about the telephone. It offended me that that device, which had once produced the irrecoverable voice of Beatriz, could now sink so low as to become a mere receptacle for the futile and perhaps angry remonstrances of that deluded Carlos Argentino Daneri. Luckily, nothing happened -- except the inevitable spite touched off in me by this man, who had asked me to fulfill a delicate mission for him and then had let me drop.
Gradually, the phone came to lose its terrors, but one day toward the end of October it rang, and Carlos Argentino was on the line. He was deeply disturbed, so much so that at the outset I did not recognise his voice. Sadly but angrily he stammered that the now unrestrainable Zunino and Zungri, under the pretext of enlarging their already outsized "salon-bar," were about to take over and tear down this house.
"My home, my ancestral home, my old and inveterate Garay Street home!" he kept repeating, seeming to forget his woe in the music of his words.
It was not hard for me to share his distress. After the age of fifty, all change becomes a hateful symbol of the passing of time. Besides, the scheme concerned a house that for me would always stand for Beatriz. I tried explaining this delicate scruple of regret, but Daneri seemed not to hear me. He said that if Zunino and Zungri persisted in this outrage, Doctor Zunni, his lawyer, would sue ipso facto and make them pay some fifty thousand dollars in damages.
Zunni's name impressed me; his firm, although at the unlikely address of Caseros and Tacuarí, was nonetheless known as an old and reliable one. I asked him whether Zunni had already been hired for the case. Daneri said he would phone him that very afternoon. He hesitated, then with that level, impersonal voice we reserve for confiding something intimate, he said that to finish the poem he could not get along without the house because down in the cellar there was an Aleph. He explained that an Aleph is one of the points in space that contains all other points.
"It's in the cellar under the dining room," he went on, so overcome by his worries now that he forgot to be pompous. "It's mine -- mine. I discovered it when I was a child, all by myself. The cellar stairway is so steep that my aunt and uncle forbade my using it, but I'd heard someone say there was a world down there. I found out later they meant an old-fashioned globe of the world, but at the time I thought they were referring to the world itself. One day when no one was home I started down in secret, but I stumbled and fell. When I opened my eyes, I saw the Aleph."
"The Aleph?" I repeated.
"Yes, the only place on earth where all places are -- seen from every angle, each standing clear, without any confusion or blending. I kept the discovery to myself and went back every chance I got. As a child, I did not foresee that this privilege was granted me so that later I could write the poem. Zunino and Zungri will not strip me of what's mine -- no, and a thousand times no! Legal code in hand, Doctor Zunni will prove that my Aleph is inalienable."
I tried to reason with him. "But isn't the cellar very dark?" I said.
"Truth cannot penetrate a closed mind. If all places in the universe are in the Aleph, then all stars, all lamps, all sources of light are in it, too."
"You wait there. I'll be right over to see it."
I hung before he could say no. The full knowledge of a fact sometimes enables you to see all at once many supporting but previously unsuspected things. It amazed me not to have suspected until that moment that Carlos Argentino was a madman. As were all the Viterbos, when you came down to it. Beatriz (I myself often say it) was a woman, a child, with almost uncanny powers of clairvoyance, but forgetfulness, distractions, contempt, and a streak of cruelty were also in her, and perhaps these called for a pathological explanation. Carlos Argentino's madness filled me with spiteful elation. Deep down, we had always detested each other.
On Garay Street, the maid asked me kindly to wait. The master was, as usual, in the cellar developing pictures. On the unplayed piano, beside a large vase that held no flowers, smiled (more timeless than belonging to the past) the large photograph of Beatriz, in gaudy colours. Nobody could see us; in a seizure of tenderness, I drew close to the portrait and said to it, "Beatriz, Beatriz Elena, Beatriz Elena Viterbo, darling Beatriz, Beatriz now gone forever, it's me, it's Borges."
Moments later, Carlos came in. He spoke dryly. I could see he was thinking of nothing else but the loss of the Aleph.
"First a glass of pseudo-cognac," he ordered, "and then down you dive into the cellar. Let me warn you, you'll have to lie flat on your back. Total darkness, total immobility, and a certain ocular adjustment will also be necessary. From the floor, you must focus your eyes on the nineteenth step. Once I leave you, I'll lower the trapdoor and you'll be quite alone. You needn't fear the rodents very much -- though I know you will. In a minute or two, you'll see the Aleph -- the microcosm of the alchemists and Kabbalists, our true proverbial friend, the multum in parvo!"
Once we were in the dining room, he added, "Of course, if you don't see it, your incapacity will not invalidate what I have experienced. Now, down you go. In a short while you can babble with all of Beatriz' images."
Tired of his inane words, I quickly made my way. The cellar, barely wider than the stairway itself, was something of a pit. My eyes searched the dark, looking in vain for the globe Carlos Argentino had spoken of. Some cases of empty bottles and some canvas sacks cluttered one corner. Carlos picked up a sack, folded it in two, and at a fixed spot spread it out.
"As a pillow," he said, "this is quite threadbare, but if it's padded even a half-inch higher, you won't see a thing, and there you'll lie, feeling ashamed and ridiculous. All right now, sprawl that hulk of yours there on the floor and count off nineteen steps."
I went through with his absurd requirements, and at last he went away. The trapdoor was carefully shut. The blackness, in spite of a chink that I later made out, seemed to me absolute. For the first time, I realised the danger I was in: I'd let myself be locked in a cellar by a lunatic, after gulping down a glassful of poison! I knew that back of Carlos' transparent boasting lay a deep fear that I might not see the promised wonder. To keep his madness undetected, to keep from admitting he was mad, Carlos had to kill me. I felt a shock of panic, which I tried to pin to my uncomfortable position and not to the effect of a drug. I shut my eyes -- I opened them. Then I saw the Aleph.
I arrive now at the ineffable core of my story. And here begins my despair as a writer. All language is a set of symbols whose use among its speakers assumes a shared past. How, then, can I translate into words the limitless Aleph, which my floundering mind can scarcely encompass? Mystics, faced with the same problem, fall back on symbols: to signify the godhead, one Persian speaks of a bird that somehow is all birds; Alanus de Insulis, of a sphere whose center is everywhere and circumference is nowhere; Ezekiel, of a four-faced angel who at one and the same time moves east and west, north and south. (Not in vain do I recall these inconceivable analogies; they bear some relation to the Aleph.) Perhaps the gods might grant me a similar metaphor, but then this account would become contaminated by literature, by fiction. Really, what I want to do is impossible, for any listing of an endless series is doomed to be infinitesimal. In that single gigantic instant I saw millions of acts both delightful and awful; not one of them occupied the same point in space, without overlapping or transparency. What my eyes beheld was simultaneous, but what I shall now write down will be successive, because language is successive. Nonetheless, I'll try to recollect what I can.
On the back part of the step, toward the right, I saw a small iridescent sphere of almost unbearable brilliance. At first I thought it was revolving; then I realised that this movement was an illusion created by the dizzying world it bounded. The Aleph's diameter was probably little more than an inch, but all space was there, actual and undiminished. Each thing (a mirror's face, let us say) was infinite things, since I distinctly saw it from every angle of the universe. I saw the teeming sea; I saw daybreak and nightfall; I saw the multitudes of America; I saw a silvery cobweb in the center of a black pyramid; I saw a splintered labyrinth (it was London); I saw, close up, unending eyes watching themselves in me as in a mirror; I saw all the mirrors on earth and none of them reflected me; I saw in a backyard of Soler Street the same tiles that thirty years before I'd seen in the entrance of a house in Fray Bentos; I saw bunches of grapes, snow, tobacco, lodes of metal, steam; I saw convex equatorial deserts and each one of their grains of sand; I saw a woman in Inverness whom I shall never forget; I saw her tangled hair, her tall figure, I saw the cancer in her breast; I saw a ring of baked mud in a sidewalk, where before there had been a tree; I saw a summer house in Adrogué and a copy of the first English translation of Pliny -- Philemon Holland's -- and all at the same time saw each letter on each page (as a boy, I used to marvel that the letters in a closed book did not get scrambled and lost overnight); I saw a sunset in Querétaro that seemed to reflect the colour of a rose in Bengal; I saw my empty bedroom; I saw in a closet in Alkmaar a terrestrial globe between two mirrors that multiplied it endlessly; I saw horses with flowing manes on a shore of the Caspian Sea at dawn; I saw the delicate bone structure of a hand; I saw the survivors of a battle sending out picture postcards; I saw in a showcase in Mirzapur a pack of Spanish playing cards; I saw the slanting shadows of ferns on a greenhouse floor; I saw tigers, pistons, bison, tides, and armies; I saw all the ants on the planet; I saw a Persian astrolabe; I saw in the drawer of a writing table (and the handwriting made me tremble) unbelievable, obscene, detailed letters, which Beatriz had written to Carlos Argentino; I saw a monument I worshipped in the Chacarita cemetery; I saw the rotted dust and bones that had once deliciously been Beatriz Viterbo; I saw the circulation of my own dark blood; I saw the coupling of love and the modification of death; I saw the Aleph from every point and angle, and in the Aleph I saw the earth and in the earth the Aleph and in the Aleph the earth; I saw my own face and my own bowels; I saw your face; and I felt dizzy and wept, for my eyes had seen that secret and conjectured object whose name is common to all men but which no man has looked upon -- the unimaginable universe.
I felt infinite wonder, infinite pity.
"Feeling pretty cockeyed, are you, after so much spying into places where you have no business?" said a hated and jovial voice. "Even if you were to rack your brains, you couldn't pay me back in a hundred years for this revelation. One hell of an observatory, eh, Borges?"
Carlos Argentino's feet were planted on the topmost step. In the sudden dim light, I managed to pick myself up and utter, "One hell of a -- yes, one hell of a."
The matter-of-factness of my voice surprised me. Anxiously, Carlos Argentino went on.
"Did you see everything -- really clear, in colours?"
At that moment I found my revenge. Kindly, openly pitying him, distraught, evasive, I thanked Carlos Argentino Daneri for the hospitality of his cellar and urged him to make the most of the demolition to get away from the pernicious metropolis, which spares no one -- believe me, I told him, no one! Quietly and forcefully, I refused to discuss the Aleph. On saying goodbye, I embraced him and repeated that the country, that fresh air and quiet were the great physicians.
Out on the street, going down the stairways inside Constitution Station, riding the subway, every one of the faces seemed familiar to me. I was afraid that not a single thing on earth would ever again surprise me; I was afraid I would never again be free of all I had seen. Happily, after a few sleepless nights, I was visited once more by oblivion.
Postscript of March first, 1943 -- Some six months after the pulling down of a certain building on Garay Street, Procrustes & Co., the publishers, not put off by the considerable length of Daneri's poem, brought out a selection of its "Argentine sections". It is redundant now to repeat what happened. Carlos Argentino Daneri won the Second National Prize for Literature. ["I received your pained congratulations," he wrote me. "You rage, my poor friend, with envy, but you must confess -- even if it chokes you! -- that this time I have crowned my cap with the reddest of feathers; my turban with the most caliph of rubies."] First Prize went to Dr. Aita; Third Prize, to Dr. Mario Bonfanti. Unbelievably, my own book The Sharper's Cards did not get a single vote. Once again dullness and envy had their triumph! It's been some time now that I've been trying to see Daneri; the gossip is that a second selection of the poem is about to be published. His felicitous pen (no longer cluttered by the Aleph) has now set itself the task of writing an epic on our national hero, General San Martín.
I want to add two final observations: one, on the nature of the Aleph; the other, on its name. As is well known, the Aleph is the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet. Its use for the strange sphere in my story may not be accidental. For the Kabbala, the letter stands for the En Soph, the pure and boundless godhead; it is also said that it takes the shape of a man pointing to both heaven and earth, in order to show that the lower world is the map and mirror of the higher; for Cantor's Mengenlehre, it is the symbol of transfinite numbers, of which any part is as great as the whole. I would like to know whether Carlos Argentino chose that name or whether he read it -- applied to another point where all points converge - - in one of the numberless texts that the Aleph in his cellar revealed to him. Incredible as it may seem, I believe that the Aleph of Garay Street was a false Aleph.
Here are my reasons. Around 1867, Captain Burton held the post of British Consul in Brazil. In July, 1942, Pedro Henríquez Ureña came across a manuscript of Burton's, in a library at Santos, dealing with the mirror which the Oriental world attributes to Iskander Zu al-Karnayn, or Alexander Bicornis of Macedonia. In its crystal the whole world was reflected. Burton mentions other similar devices -- the sevenfold cup of Kai Kosru; the mirror that Tariq ibn-Ziyad found in a tower (Thousand and One Nights, 272); the mirror that Lucian of Samosata examined on the moon (True History, I, 26); the mirrorlike spear that the first book of Capella's Satyricon attributes; Merlin's universal mirror, which was "round and hollow... and seem'd a world of glas" (The Faerie Queene, III, 2, 19) -- and adds this curious statement: "But the aforesaid objects (besides the disadvantage of not existing) are mere optical instruments. The Faithful who gather at the mosque of Amr, in Cairo, are acquainted with the fact that the entire universe lies inside one of the stone pillars that ring its central court... No one, of course, can actually see it, but those who lay an ear against the surface tell that after some short while they perceive its busy hum... The mosque dates from the seventh century; the pillars come from other temples of pre-Islamic religions, since, as ibn-Khaldun has written: 'In nations founded by nomads, the aid of foreigners is essential in all concerning masonry.'"
Does this Aleph exist in the heart of a stone? Did I see it there in the cellar when I saw all things, and have I now forgotten it? Our minds are porous and forgetfulness seeps in; I myself am distorting and losing, under the wearing away of the years, the face of Beatriz.
El Aleph, 1945. Translation by Norman Thomas Di Giovanni in collaboration with the author.
by Jorge Luis Borges
O God! I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a King of infinite space...
Hamlet, II, 2
But they will teach us that Eternity is the Standing still of the Present Time, a Nunc-stans (as the schools call it); which neither they, nor any else understand, no more than they would a Hic-stans for an Infinite greatness of Place.
Leviathan, IV, 46
On the burning February morning Beatriz Viterbo died, after braving an agony that never for a single moment gave way to self-pity or fear, I noticed that the sidewalk billboards around Constitution Plaza were advertising some new brand or other of American cigarettes. The fact pained me, for I realised that the wide and ceaseless universe was already slipping away from her and that this slight change was the first of an endless series. The universe may change but not me, I thought with a certain sad vanity. I knew that at times my fruitless devotion had annoyed her; now that she was dead, I could devote myself to her memory, without hope but also without humiliation. I recalled that the thirtieth of April was her birthday; on that day to visit her house on Garay Street and pay my respects to her father and to Carlos Argentino Daneri, her first cousin, would be an irreproachable and perhaps unavoidable act of politeness. Once again I would wait in the twilight of the small, cluttered drawing room, once again I would study the details of her many photographs: Beatriz Viterbo in profile and in full colour; Beatriz wearing a mask, during the Carnival of 1921; Beatriz at her First Communion; Beatriz on the day of her wedding to Roberto Alessandri; Beatriz soon after her divorce, at a luncheon at the Turf Club; Beatriz at a seaside resort in Quilmes with Delia San Marco Porcel and Carlos Argentino; Beatriz with the Pekingese lapdog given her by Villegas Haedo; Beatriz, front and three-quarter views, smiling, hand on her chin... I would not be forced, as in the past, to justify my presence with modest offerings of books -- books whose pages I finally learned to cut beforehand, so as not to find out, months later, that they lay around unopened.
Beatriz Viterbo died in 1929. From that time on, I never let a thirtieth of April go by without a visit to her house. I used to make my appearance at seven-fifteen sharp and stay on for some twenty-five minutes. Each year, I arrived a little later and stay a little longer. In 1933, a torrential downpour coming to my aid, they were obliged to ask me for dinner. Naturally, I took advantage of that lucky precedent. In 1934, I arrived, just after eight, with one of those large Santa Fe sugared cakes, and quite matter-of-factly I stayed to dinner. It was in this way, on these melancholy and vainly erotic anniversaries, that I came into the gradual confidences of Carlos Argentino Daneri.
Beatriz had been tall, frail, slightly stooped; in her walk there was (if the oxymoron may be allowed) a kind of uncertain grace, a hint of expectancy. Carlos Argentino was pink-faced, overweight, gray-haired, fine-featured. He held a minor position in an unreadable library out on the edge of the Southside of Buenos Aires. He was authoritarian but also unimpressive. Until only recently, he took advantage of his nights and holidays to stay at home. At a remove of two generations, the Italian "S" and demonstrative Italian gestures still survived in him. His mental activity was continuous, deeply felt, far-ranging, and -- all in all -- meaningless. He dealt in pointless analogies and in trivial scruples. He had (as did Beatriz) large, beautiful, finely shaped hands. For several months he seemed to be obsessed with Paul Fort -- less with his ballads than with the idea of a towering reputation. "He is the Prince of poets," Daneri would repeat fatuously. "You will belittle him in vain -- but no, not even the most venomous of your shafts will graze him."
On the thirtieth of April, 1941, along with the sugared cake I allowed myself to add a bottle of Argentine cognac. Carlos Argentino tasted it, pronounced it "interesting," and, after a few drinks, launched into a glorification of modern man.
"I view him," he said with a certain unaccountable excitement, "in his inner sanctum, as though in his castle tower, supplied with telephones, telegraphs, phonographs, wireless sets, motion-picture screens, slide projectors, glossaries, timetables, handbooks, bulletins..."
He remarked that for a man so equipped, actual travel was superfluous. Our twentieth century had inverted the story of Mohammed and the mountain; nowadays, the mountain came to the modern Mohammed.
So foolish did his ideas seem to me, so pompous and so drawn out his exposition, that I linked them at once to literature and asked him why he didn't write them down. As might be foreseen, he answered that he had already done so -- that these ideas, and others no less striking, had found their place in the Proem, or Augural Canto, or, more simply, the Prologue Canto of the poem on which he hd been working for many years now, alone, without publicity, with fanfare, supported only by those twin staffs universally known as work and solitude. First, he said, he opened the floodgates of his fancy; then, taking up hand tools, he resorted to the file. The poem was entitled The Earth; it consisted of a description of the planet, and, of course, lacked no amount of picturesque digressions and bold apostrophes.
I asked him to read me a passage, if only a short one. He opened a drawer of his writing table, drew out a thick stack of papers -- sheets of a large pad imprinted with the letterhead of the Juan Crisóstomo Lafinur Library -- and, with ringing satisfaction, declaimed:
Mine eyes, as did the Greek's, have known men's
towns and fame,
The works, the days in light that fades to amber;
I do not change a fact or falsify a name --
The voyage I set down is... autour de ma chambre.
"From any angle, a greatly interesting stanza," he said, giving his verdict. "The opening line wins the applause of the professor, the academician, and the Hellenist -- to say nothing of the would-be scholar, a considerable sector of the public. The second flows from Homer to Hesiod (generous homage, at the very outset, to the father of didactic poetry), not without rejuvenating a process whose roots go back to Scripture -- enumeration, congeries, conglomeration. The third -- baroque? decadent? example of the cult of pure form? -- consists of two equal hemistichs. The fourth, frankly bilingual, assures me the unstinted backing of all minds sensitive to the pleasures of sheer fun. I should, in all fairness, speak of the novel rhyme in lines two and four, and of the erudition that allows me -- without a hint of pedantry! -- to cram into four lines three learned allusions covering thirty centuries packed with literature -- first to the Odyssey, second to Works and Days, and third to the immortal bagatelle bequathed us by the frolicking pen of the Savoyard, Xavier de Maistre. Once more I've come to realise that modern art demands the balm of laughter, the scherzo. Decidedly, Goldoni holds the stage!"
He read me many other stanzas, each of which also won his own approval and elicited his lengthy explications. There was nothing remarkable about them. I did not even find them any worse than the first one. Application, resignation, and chance had gone into the writing; I saw, however, that Daneri's real work lay not in the poetry but in his invention of reasons why the poetry should be admired. Of course, this second phase of his effort modified the writing in his eyes, though not in the eyes of others. Daneri's style of delivery was extravagant, but the deadly drone of his metric regularity tended to tone down and to dull that extravagance.
[Among my memories are also some lines of a satire in which he lashed out unsparingly at bad poets. After accusing them of dressing their poems in the warlike armour of erudition, and of flapping in vain their unavailing wings, he concluded with this verse:
But they forget, alas, one foremost fact -- BEAUTY!
Only the fear of creating an army of implacable and powerful enemies dissuaded him (he told me) from fearlessly publishing this poem.]
Only once in my life have I had occasion to look into the fifteen thousand alexandrines of the Polyolbion, that topographical epic in which Michael Drayton recorded the flora, fauna, hydrography, orography, military and monastic history of England. I am sure, however, that this limited but bulky production is less boring than Carlos Argentino's similar vast undertaking. Daneri had in mind to set to verse the entire face of the planet, and, by 1941, had already dispatched a number of acres of the State of Queensland, nearly a mile of the course run by the River Ob, a gasworks to the north of Veracruz, the leading shops in the Buenos Aires parish of Concepción, the villa of Mariana Cambaceres de Alvear in the Belgrano section of the Argentine capital, and a Turkish baths establishment not far from the well-known Brighton Aquarium. He read me certain long-winded passages from his Australian section, and at one point praised a word of his own coining, the colour "celestewhite," which he felt "actually suggests the sky, an element of utmost importance in the landscape of the Down Under." But these sprawling, lifeless hexameters lacked even the relative excitement of the so-called Augural Canto. Along about midnight, I left.
Two Sundays later, Daneri rang me up -- perhaps for the first time in his life. He suggested we get together at four o'clock "for cocktails in the salon-bar next door, which the forward-looking Zunino and Zungri -- my landlords, as you doubtless recall -- are throwing open to the public. It's a place you'll really want to get to know."
More in resignation than in pleasure, I accepted. Once there, it was hard to find a table. The "salon-bar," ruthlessly modern, was only barely less ugly than what I had excepted; at the nearby tables, the excited customers spoke breathlessly of the sums Zunino and Zungri had invested in furnishings without a second thought to cost. Carlos Argentino pretended to be astonished by some feature or other of the lighting arrangement (with which, I felt, he was already familiar), and he said to me with a certain severity, "Grudgingly, you'll have to admit to the fact that these premises hold their own with many others far more in the public eye."
He then reread me four or five different fragments of the poem. He had revised them following his pet principle of verbal ostentation: where at first "blue" had been good enough, he now wallowed in "azures," "ceruleans," and "ultramarines." The word "milky" was too easy for him; in the course of an impassioned description of a shed where wool was washed, he chose such words as "lacteal," "lactescent," and even made one up -- "lactinacious." After that, straight out, he condemned our modern mania for having books prefaced, "a practice already held up to scorn by the Prince of Wits in his own grafeful preface to the Quixote." He admitted, however, that for the opening of his new work an attention-getting foreword might prove valuable -- "an accolade signed by a literary hand of renown." He next went on to say that he considered publishing the initial cantos of his poem. I then began to understand the unexpected telephone call; Daneri was going to ask me to contribute a foreword to his pedantic hodgepodge. My fear turned out unfounded; Carlos Argentino remarked, with admiration and envy, that surely he could not be far wrong in qualifying with the ephitet "solid" the prestige enjoyed in every circle by Álvaro Melián Lafinur, a man of letters, who would, if I insisted on it, be only too glad to dash off some charming opening words to the poem. In order to avoid ignominy and failure, he suggested I make myself spokesman for two of the book's undeniable virtues -- formal perfection and scientific rigour -- "inasmuch as this wide garden of metaphors, of figures of speech, of elegances, is inhospitable to the least detail not strictly upholding of truth." He added that Beatriz had always been taken with Álvaro.
I agreed -- agreed profusely -- and explained for the sake of credibility that I would not speak to Álvaro the next day, Monday, but would wait until Thursday, when we got together for the informal dinner that follows every meeting of the Writers' Club. (No such dinners are ever held, but it is an established fact that the meetings do take place on Thursdays, a point which Carlos Argentino Daneri could verify in the daily papers, and which lent a certain reality to my promise.) Half in prophecy, half in cunning, I said that before taking up the question of a preface I would outline the unusual plan of the work. We then said goodbye.
Turning the corner of Bernardo de Irigoyen, I reviewed as impartially as possible the alternatives before me. They were: a) to speak to Álvaro, telling him the first cousin of Beatriz' (the explanatory euphemism would allow me to mention her name) had concocted a poem that seemed to draw out into infinity the possibilities of cacophony and chaos: b) not to say a word to Álvaro. I clearly foresaw that my indolence would opt for b.
But first thing Friday morning, I began worrying about the telephone. It offended me that that device, which had once produced the irrecoverable voice of Beatriz, could now sink so low as to become a mere receptacle for the futile and perhaps angry remonstrances of that deluded Carlos Argentino Daneri. Luckily, nothing happened -- except the inevitable spite touched off in me by this man, who had asked me to fulfill a delicate mission for him and then had let me drop.
Gradually, the phone came to lose its terrors, but one day toward the end of October it rang, and Carlos Argentino was on the line. He was deeply disturbed, so much so that at the outset I did not recognise his voice. Sadly but angrily he stammered that the now unrestrainable Zunino and Zungri, under the pretext of enlarging their already outsized "salon-bar," were about to take over and tear down this house.
"My home, my ancestral home, my old and inveterate Garay Street home!" he kept repeating, seeming to forget his woe in the music of his words.
It was not hard for me to share his distress. After the age of fifty, all change becomes a hateful symbol of the passing of time. Besides, the scheme concerned a house that for me would always stand for Beatriz. I tried explaining this delicate scruple of regret, but Daneri seemed not to hear me. He said that if Zunino and Zungri persisted in this outrage, Doctor Zunni, his lawyer, would sue ipso facto and make them pay some fifty thousand dollars in damages.
Zunni's name impressed me; his firm, although at the unlikely address of Caseros and Tacuarí, was nonetheless known as an old and reliable one. I asked him whether Zunni had already been hired for the case. Daneri said he would phone him that very afternoon. He hesitated, then with that level, impersonal voice we reserve for confiding something intimate, he said that to finish the poem he could not get along without the house because down in the cellar there was an Aleph. He explained that an Aleph is one of the points in space that contains all other points.
"It's in the cellar under the dining room," he went on, so overcome by his worries now that he forgot to be pompous. "It's mine -- mine. I discovered it when I was a child, all by myself. The cellar stairway is so steep that my aunt and uncle forbade my using it, but I'd heard someone say there was a world down there. I found out later they meant an old-fashioned globe of the world, but at the time I thought they were referring to the world itself. One day when no one was home I started down in secret, but I stumbled and fell. When I opened my eyes, I saw the Aleph."
"The Aleph?" I repeated.
"Yes, the only place on earth where all places are -- seen from every angle, each standing clear, without any confusion or blending. I kept the discovery to myself and went back every chance I got. As a child, I did not foresee that this privilege was granted me so that later I could write the poem. Zunino and Zungri will not strip me of what's mine -- no, and a thousand times no! Legal code in hand, Doctor Zunni will prove that my Aleph is inalienable."
I tried to reason with him. "But isn't the cellar very dark?" I said.
"Truth cannot penetrate a closed mind. If all places in the universe are in the Aleph, then all stars, all lamps, all sources of light are in it, too."
"You wait there. I'll be right over to see it."
I hung before he could say no. The full knowledge of a fact sometimes enables you to see all at once many supporting but previously unsuspected things. It amazed me not to have suspected until that moment that Carlos Argentino was a madman. As were all the Viterbos, when you came down to it. Beatriz (I myself often say it) was a woman, a child, with almost uncanny powers of clairvoyance, but forgetfulness, distractions, contempt, and a streak of cruelty were also in her, and perhaps these called for a pathological explanation. Carlos Argentino's madness filled me with spiteful elation. Deep down, we had always detested each other.
On Garay Street, the maid asked me kindly to wait. The master was, as usual, in the cellar developing pictures. On the unplayed piano, beside a large vase that held no flowers, smiled (more timeless than belonging to the past) the large photograph of Beatriz, in gaudy colours. Nobody could see us; in a seizure of tenderness, I drew close to the portrait and said to it, "Beatriz, Beatriz Elena, Beatriz Elena Viterbo, darling Beatriz, Beatriz now gone forever, it's me, it's Borges."
Moments later, Carlos came in. He spoke dryly. I could see he was thinking of nothing else but the loss of the Aleph.
"First a glass of pseudo-cognac," he ordered, "and then down you dive into the cellar. Let me warn you, you'll have to lie flat on your back. Total darkness, total immobility, and a certain ocular adjustment will also be necessary. From the floor, you must focus your eyes on the nineteenth step. Once I leave you, I'll lower the trapdoor and you'll be quite alone. You needn't fear the rodents very much -- though I know you will. In a minute or two, you'll see the Aleph -- the microcosm of the alchemists and Kabbalists, our true proverbial friend, the multum in parvo!"
Once we were in the dining room, he added, "Of course, if you don't see it, your incapacity will not invalidate what I have experienced. Now, down you go. In a short while you can babble with all of Beatriz' images."
Tired of his inane words, I quickly made my way. The cellar, barely wider than the stairway itself, was something of a pit. My eyes searched the dark, looking in vain for the globe Carlos Argentino had spoken of. Some cases of empty bottles and some canvas sacks cluttered one corner. Carlos picked up a sack, folded it in two, and at a fixed spot spread it out.
"As a pillow," he said, "this is quite threadbare, but if it's padded even a half-inch higher, you won't see a thing, and there you'll lie, feeling ashamed and ridiculous. All right now, sprawl that hulk of yours there on the floor and count off nineteen steps."
I went through with his absurd requirements, and at last he went away. The trapdoor was carefully shut. The blackness, in spite of a chink that I later made out, seemed to me absolute. For the first time, I realised the danger I was in: I'd let myself be locked in a cellar by a lunatic, after gulping down a glassful of poison! I knew that back of Carlos' transparent boasting lay a deep fear that I might not see the promised wonder. To keep his madness undetected, to keep from admitting he was mad, Carlos had to kill me. I felt a shock of panic, which I tried to pin to my uncomfortable position and not to the effect of a drug. I shut my eyes -- I opened them. Then I saw the Aleph.
I arrive now at the ineffable core of my story. And here begins my despair as a writer. All language is a set of symbols whose use among its speakers assumes a shared past. How, then, can I translate into words the limitless Aleph, which my floundering mind can scarcely encompass? Mystics, faced with the same problem, fall back on symbols: to signify the godhead, one Persian speaks of a bird that somehow is all birds; Alanus de Insulis, of a sphere whose center is everywhere and circumference is nowhere; Ezekiel, of a four-faced angel who at one and the same time moves east and west, north and south. (Not in vain do I recall these inconceivable analogies; they bear some relation to the Aleph.) Perhaps the gods might grant me a similar metaphor, but then this account would become contaminated by literature, by fiction. Really, what I want to do is impossible, for any listing of an endless series is doomed to be infinitesimal. In that single gigantic instant I saw millions of acts both delightful and awful; not one of them occupied the same point in space, without overlapping or transparency. What my eyes beheld was simultaneous, but what I shall now write down will be successive, because language is successive. Nonetheless, I'll try to recollect what I can.
On the back part of the step, toward the right, I saw a small iridescent sphere of almost unbearable brilliance. At first I thought it was revolving; then I realised that this movement was an illusion created by the dizzying world it bounded. The Aleph's diameter was probably little more than an inch, but all space was there, actual and undiminished. Each thing (a mirror's face, let us say) was infinite things, since I distinctly saw it from every angle of the universe. I saw the teeming sea; I saw daybreak and nightfall; I saw the multitudes of America; I saw a silvery cobweb in the center of a black pyramid; I saw a splintered labyrinth (it was London); I saw, close up, unending eyes watching themselves in me as in a mirror; I saw all the mirrors on earth and none of them reflected me; I saw in a backyard of Soler Street the same tiles that thirty years before I'd seen in the entrance of a house in Fray Bentos; I saw bunches of grapes, snow, tobacco, lodes of metal, steam; I saw convex equatorial deserts and each one of their grains of sand; I saw a woman in Inverness whom I shall never forget; I saw her tangled hair, her tall figure, I saw the cancer in her breast; I saw a ring of baked mud in a sidewalk, where before there had been a tree; I saw a summer house in Adrogué and a copy of the first English translation of Pliny -- Philemon Holland's -- and all at the same time saw each letter on each page (as a boy, I used to marvel that the letters in a closed book did not get scrambled and lost overnight); I saw a sunset in Querétaro that seemed to reflect the colour of a rose in Bengal; I saw my empty bedroom; I saw in a closet in Alkmaar a terrestrial globe between two mirrors that multiplied it endlessly; I saw horses with flowing manes on a shore of the Caspian Sea at dawn; I saw the delicate bone structure of a hand; I saw the survivors of a battle sending out picture postcards; I saw in a showcase in Mirzapur a pack of Spanish playing cards; I saw the slanting shadows of ferns on a greenhouse floor; I saw tigers, pistons, bison, tides, and armies; I saw all the ants on the planet; I saw a Persian astrolabe; I saw in the drawer of a writing table (and the handwriting made me tremble) unbelievable, obscene, detailed letters, which Beatriz had written to Carlos Argentino; I saw a monument I worshipped in the Chacarita cemetery; I saw the rotted dust and bones that had once deliciously been Beatriz Viterbo; I saw the circulation of my own dark blood; I saw the coupling of love and the modification of death; I saw the Aleph from every point and angle, and in the Aleph I saw the earth and in the earth the Aleph and in the Aleph the earth; I saw my own face and my own bowels; I saw your face; and I felt dizzy and wept, for my eyes had seen that secret and conjectured object whose name is common to all men but which no man has looked upon -- the unimaginable universe.
I felt infinite wonder, infinite pity.
"Feeling pretty cockeyed, are you, after so much spying into places where you have no business?" said a hated and jovial voice. "Even if you were to rack your brains, you couldn't pay me back in a hundred years for this revelation. One hell of an observatory, eh, Borges?"
Carlos Argentino's feet were planted on the topmost step. In the sudden dim light, I managed to pick myself up and utter, "One hell of a -- yes, one hell of a."
The matter-of-factness of my voice surprised me. Anxiously, Carlos Argentino went on.
"Did you see everything -- really clear, in colours?"
At that moment I found my revenge. Kindly, openly pitying him, distraught, evasive, I thanked Carlos Argentino Daneri for the hospitality of his cellar and urged him to make the most of the demolition to get away from the pernicious metropolis, which spares no one -- believe me, I told him, no one! Quietly and forcefully, I refused to discuss the Aleph. On saying goodbye, I embraced him and repeated that the country, that fresh air and quiet were the great physicians.
Out on the street, going down the stairways inside Constitution Station, riding the subway, every one of the faces seemed familiar to me. I was afraid that not a single thing on earth would ever again surprise me; I was afraid I would never again be free of all I had seen. Happily, after a few sleepless nights, I was visited once more by oblivion.
Postscript of March first, 1943 -- Some six months after the pulling down of a certain building on Garay Street, Procrustes & Co., the publishers, not put off by the considerable length of Daneri's poem, brought out a selection of its "Argentine sections". It is redundant now to repeat what happened. Carlos Argentino Daneri won the Second National Prize for Literature. ["I received your pained congratulations," he wrote me. "You rage, my poor friend, with envy, but you must confess -- even if it chokes you! -- that this time I have crowned my cap with the reddest of feathers; my turban with the most caliph of rubies."] First Prize went to Dr. Aita; Third Prize, to Dr. Mario Bonfanti. Unbelievably, my own book The Sharper's Cards did not get a single vote. Once again dullness and envy had their triumph! It's been some time now that I've been trying to see Daneri; the gossip is that a second selection of the poem is about to be published. His felicitous pen (no longer cluttered by the Aleph) has now set itself the task of writing an epic on our national hero, General San Martín.
I want to add two final observations: one, on the nature of the Aleph; the other, on its name. As is well known, the Aleph is the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet. Its use for the strange sphere in my story may not be accidental. For the Kabbala, the letter stands for the En Soph, the pure and boundless godhead; it is also said that it takes the shape of a man pointing to both heaven and earth, in order to show that the lower world is the map and mirror of the higher; for Cantor's Mengenlehre, it is the symbol of transfinite numbers, of which any part is as great as the whole. I would like to know whether Carlos Argentino chose that name or whether he read it -- applied to another point where all points converge - - in one of the numberless texts that the Aleph in his cellar revealed to him. Incredible as it may seem, I believe that the Aleph of Garay Street was a false Aleph.
Here are my reasons. Around 1867, Captain Burton held the post of British Consul in Brazil. In July, 1942, Pedro Henríquez Ureña came across a manuscript of Burton's, in a library at Santos, dealing with the mirror which the Oriental world attributes to Iskander Zu al-Karnayn, or Alexander Bicornis of Macedonia. In its crystal the whole world was reflected. Burton mentions other similar devices -- the sevenfold cup of Kai Kosru; the mirror that Tariq ibn-Ziyad found in a tower (Thousand and One Nights, 272); the mirror that Lucian of Samosata examined on the moon (True History, I, 26); the mirrorlike spear that the first book of Capella's Satyricon attributes; Merlin's universal mirror, which was "round and hollow... and seem'd a world of glas" (The Faerie Queene, III, 2, 19) -- and adds this curious statement: "But the aforesaid objects (besides the disadvantage of not existing) are mere optical instruments. The Faithful who gather at the mosque of Amr, in Cairo, are acquainted with the fact that the entire universe lies inside one of the stone pillars that ring its central court... No one, of course, can actually see it, but those who lay an ear against the surface tell that after some short while they perceive its busy hum... The mosque dates from the seventh century; the pillars come from other temples of pre-Islamic religions, since, as ibn-Khaldun has written: 'In nations founded by nomads, the aid of foreigners is essential in all concerning masonry.'"
Does this Aleph exist in the heart of a stone? Did I see it there in the cellar when I saw all things, and have I now forgotten it? Our minds are porous and forgetfulness seeps in; I myself am distorting and losing, under the wearing away of the years, the face of Beatriz.
El Aleph, 1945. Translation by Norman Thomas Di Giovanni in collaboration with the author.
Needs and Desire
-Every individual is in need for something. Need of love, sex, money, house, friends, family and relationships. When need exceeds it becomes desire.
-When there is desire for something that desire leads to action.
-When the act is not righteous, it might then lead to misery.
-But all of our misery will come to an end, when we are dead.
-Therefore, there is no need without deed. And there is no deed without need.
God bless you !
-When there is desire for something that desire leads to action.
-When the act is not righteous, it might then lead to misery.
-But all of our misery will come to an end, when we are dead.
-Therefore, there is no need without deed. And there is no deed without need.
God bless you !
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Free us from sufferings
This is with reference to the article by Arun Gupto “Nepali version of catharsis” (May 12). I wish our ‘political gods’ would read it.
As the writer points out, the rising poverty, unstable government, deteriorating security situation and many more such acts of violence can easily put the nation in jeopardy.
Looking from a much broader perspective, eavery nation is suffering. Take Europe for instance. Currently, Greece and Portugal are facing severe economic problems. Even the US is suffering from a high unemployment rate.
Great leaders such as Buddha, Marx and Ghandhi among others were not asking us to follow them. They showed us the ways to do better things in life. One should not forget the fact that nobody is perfect. None of our political leaders are perfect, none of us are perfect.
I agree with the last line of the article, “In fact it is foolish to ask such questions because our leaders constantly indicate that suffering is inevitable.” However, this does not mean that we should allow suffering to go for long. We should find solutions soon. It’s the duty of the leaders to free us from sufferings.
Santosh Kalwar
Ratnangar-4, Tandi
Chitwan, Nepal
Published: Republica
Letter to the Editor
As the writer points out, the rising poverty, unstable government, deteriorating security situation and many more such acts of violence can easily put the nation in jeopardy.
Looking from a much broader perspective, eavery nation is suffering. Take Europe for instance. Currently, Greece and Portugal are facing severe economic problems. Even the US is suffering from a high unemployment rate.
Great leaders such as Buddha, Marx and Ghandhi among others were not asking us to follow them. They showed us the ways to do better things in life. One should not forget the fact that nobody is perfect. None of our political leaders are perfect, none of us are perfect.
I agree with the last line of the article, “In fact it is foolish to ask such questions because our leaders constantly indicate that suffering is inevitable.” However, this does not mean that we should allow suffering to go for long. We should find solutions soon. It’s the duty of the leaders to free us from sufferings.
Santosh Kalwar
Ratnangar-4, Tandi
Chitwan, Nepal
Published: Republica
Letter to the Editor
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
I laughed
I cried and laughed,
I laughed and cried,
between crying
and laughing ...
I laughed
They told me,
I am mad.
but
again,
I laughed.
I laughed and cried,
between crying
and laughing ...
I laughed
They told me,
I am mad.
but
again,
I laughed.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Either/Or
Marry and you will regret it. Do not marry, and you will also regret it. Marry or do not marry, you will regret it either way. Whether you marry or you do not marry, you will regret it either way. Laugh at the stupidities of the world, and you will regret it; weep over them, and you will also regret it. Laugh at the stupidities of the world or weep over them, you will regret it either way. Whether you laugh at the stupidities of the world or you weep over them, you will regret it either way. Trust a girl, and you will regret it. Do not trust her, and you will also regret it. Trust a girl or do not trust her, you will regret it either way. Whether you trust a girl or do not trust her, you will regret it either way. Hang yourself, and you will regret it. Do not hang yourself, and you will also regret it. Hang yourself or do not hang yourself, you will regret it either way. Whether you hang yourself or do not hang yourself, you will regret it either way. This, gentlemen, is the quintessence of all the wisdom of life.
- Soren Kierkegaard
- Soren Kierkegaard
Martin Luther King Speech
I Have a Dream - Address at March on Washington
August 28, 1963. Washington, D.C.
I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation. [Applause]
Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of captivity.
But one hundred years later, we must face the tragic fact that the Negro is still not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. So we have come here today to dramatize an appalling condition.
In a sense we have come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men would be guaranteed the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check which has come back marked "insufficient funds." But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. So we have come to cash this check -- a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice. We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to open the doors of opportunity to all of God's children. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood.
It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment and to underestimate the determination of the Negro. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.
But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.
We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force. The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny and their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone.
And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.
I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.
Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed. Let us not wallow in the valley of despair.
I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.
I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal."
I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood.
I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a desert state, sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.
I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
I have a dream today.
I have a dream that one day the state of Alabama, whose governor's lips are presently dripping with the words of interposition and nullification, will be transformed into a situation where little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls and walk together as sisters and brothers.
I have a dream today.
I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.
This is our hope. This is the faith with which I return to the South. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.
This will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with a new meaning, "My country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrim's pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring."
And if America is to be a great nation this must become true. So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York. Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania!
Let freedom ring from the snowcapped Rockies of Colorado!
Let freedom ring from the curvaceous peaks of California!
But not only that; let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia!
Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee!
Let freedom ring from every hill and every molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.
When we let freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"
August 28, 1963. Washington, D.C.
I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation. [Applause]
Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of captivity.
But one hundred years later, we must face the tragic fact that the Negro is still not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. So we have come here today to dramatize an appalling condition.
In a sense we have come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men would be guaranteed the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check which has come back marked "insufficient funds." But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. So we have come to cash this check -- a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice. We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to open the doors of opportunity to all of God's children. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood.
It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment and to underestimate the determination of the Negro. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.
But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.
We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force. The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny and their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone.
And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.
I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.
Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed. Let us not wallow in the valley of despair.
I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.
I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal."
I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood.
I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a desert state, sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.
I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
I have a dream today.
I have a dream that one day the state of Alabama, whose governor's lips are presently dripping with the words of interposition and nullification, will be transformed into a situation where little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls and walk together as sisters and brothers.
I have a dream today.
I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.
This is our hope. This is the faith with which I return to the South. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.
This will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with a new meaning, "My country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrim's pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring."
And if America is to be a great nation this must become true. So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York. Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania!
Let freedom ring from the snowcapped Rockies of Colorado!
Let freedom ring from the curvaceous peaks of California!
But not only that; let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia!
Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee!
Let freedom ring from every hill and every molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.
When we let freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"
Deaf political leaders
This is with reference to the article by Bhaskar Koirala "Middle political path" (May 5). It is true that India and the Maoists are the key elements related ot the development of our country. As you have pointed out, all those individuals who are supporting the indefinite strike are all Nepalis. And it is our duty to support for the greater cause. But aparently, things are not going as they seem to be. In addition, your article looks interesting which points out that we need to find the common middle ground between left and right.
The stike is in place for the past six days. And only God knows, when this political impasse will end. There is no doub thtat the 'wait and see' policy of our leaders is taking us nowhere. It is obvious that th elonger the "indefinite" strike styas, the harder it will be for every individual in the ocuntry.
I don't understand why this is going on. The ledaers who think they are competent seem incompetent. There are many political pundits who are extensively writing about 'indefinite strike', 'quit PM' and 'peaceful strikes'. However, hardly any of our political leaders seem to nitice these issues and take these opinions seriously. They are holding meetings but the outcome has so far remainded zero.
Santosh Kalwar
Ratnangar 4, Tandi
Chitwan
Published: Republica
Letters to the Editor
The stike is in place for the past six days. And only God knows, when this political impasse will end. There is no doub thtat the 'wait and see' policy of our leaders is taking us nowhere. It is obvious that th elonger the "indefinite" strike styas, the harder it will be for every individual in the ocuntry.
I don't understand why this is going on. The ledaers who think they are competent seem incompetent. There are many political pundits who are extensively writing about 'indefinite strike', 'quit PM' and 'peaceful strikes'. However, hardly any of our political leaders seem to nitice these issues and take these opinions seriously. They are holding meetings but the outcome has so far remainded zero.
Santosh Kalwar
Ratnangar 4, Tandi
Chitwan
Published: Republica
Letters to the Editor
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Land of hunger
Land of hunger
Hunger, am I.
Hungry, you are.
In this hunger,
Only one gets fulfilled.
The life full
With perplexity, Complexities, pride
And honors
Mine are nothing
Materialistic,
Without, your smile
So, eloquently sober.
Dive into me
I know.
Ways to reach,
The way no one will ever preach
Away, far away
From this boring
And clumsy,
Land of hunger
Brinkmanship
Your editorial rightly pointed out that the 'wait-and-watch' tactic of the government vis-a-vis the nationwide Maoist strike could prove dangerous ("No time to lose", May 4, Page 6). Already Valley residents are panicking about the shortage of food and basic necessities. If the parties don't reach some kind of consensus soon, the peaceful strike can turn violent anytime as the patience of the agitators as well as government representatives are likely to be tested the longer the strike continues. The situation might them be out of control.
Santosh Kalwar
Ratnangar-4, Tandi
Chitwan
Published: The Kathmandu Post
Letters to the Editor
Santosh Kalwar
Ratnangar-4, Tandi
Chitwan
Published: The Kathmandu Post
Letters to the Editor
Friday, April 30, 2010
Puzzling long hair
The relationship between me and my long hair goes back to 2065 B.S and now we are already into 2067. I suspect that it is longer than present day men-women relationships. I used to have long hair like famous Hollywood, Bollywood and ‘Some-wood’ actors. Unfortunately, I do not have long hair anymore.
I always loved my long hair simply because I believe that hair is like an ornament of man’s mind, as diamonds are a girl’s best friend. Every man’s hair determines his personality. However, in eastern societies hardly anyone accepts long hair. If someone has long hair, they will presume that a normal educated and intelligent guy is a ‘Hero’ or ‘Dada’ or ‘Gunda’.
Once I had to attend a job interview in a reputed Internet company in Kathmandu. I was surprised when an interviewer said, “Before I accept you as an employee in our organization, please cut your long hair.” I was in a dilemma. However, I had to get rid of my long hair in order to secure a job in the reputed Internet company. Sadly for me, I lost my lovely long hair.
It seems that people evaluate you based on your looks and appearances. Today, my appearance looks as they would like me to look. Short hair, most of the people believe is a smart and trendy look, but it depends on different type of faces. Short hair suits some and long hair others.
I believe that there are three step processes for things which are in or around us.
In the first step, we either buy an object or we just learn to live with those objects within us (long hair, six fingers, seven toes etc). In the second step, we either leave them or destroy them and, in my case, I had to destroy it. I had to get rid of my long hair in order to get a proper job and in the final step, we either pray that the new object/things which will fascinate us will appear to us or grow within us. ( I am praying that I will have long hair again but it will take some time).
I do not know why I am making these theoretical assumptions. Maybe, they are for grief for losing the lovely long hair I once had. The hair, mouth, nose, ears and lips are the main parts of human faces. Everything in our body is a part of our body, and they make up part of our personality. If we cannot love our body, how are we supposed to love ourselves and then others?
Published: The Himalayan Times
2010-04-28
Op-Ed: Topix
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Remember
Remember me,
When I am long gone into the woods,
Into the darkness of unnamed island,
Where no one humanly blooms,
Remember me without sadness
The way I touched you,
Will never, ever come back!
Remember me, when you will miss, the elegance
Of the man, the way I walked into your house,
In small village, journeying,
Just to get your glimpse, and smell your hair
Or, to share a kiss for a moment
That never lasted so long.
Remember me, when you will be all left alone
And there will be no man near your arms,
Remember me when someone else will
Try to make you laugh, the way I did,
May bring you, such delight, o my life!
I know you will say that:
“You will not remember me”
But, I know, My Rosemary darling,
That love is in, no man’s land.
So, when I will be long gone in that much unknown land,
With no one left behind to wipe your tears
Or, make you smile
And kiss you in your deep blue eyes
Please, remember me
Without grief, in you’re humanly life
As time flows with the sky
Remember me, as I will always remember you
In every moments,
Which I will spend without you!
© 2010 by Santosh Kalwar
When I am long gone into the woods,
Into the darkness of unnamed island,
Where no one humanly blooms,
Remember me without sadness
The way I touched you,
Will never, ever come back!
Remember me, when you will miss, the elegance
Of the man, the way I walked into your house,
In small village, journeying,
Just to get your glimpse, and smell your hair
Or, to share a kiss for a moment
That never lasted so long.
Remember me, when you will be all left alone
And there will be no man near your arms,
Remember me when someone else will
Try to make you laugh, the way I did,
May bring you, such delight, o my life!
I know you will say that:
“You will not remember me”
But, I know, My Rosemary darling,
That love is in, no man’s land.
So, when I will be long gone in that much unknown land,
With no one left behind to wipe your tears
Or, make you smile
And kiss you in your deep blue eyes
Please, remember me
Without grief, in you’re humanly life
As time flows with the sky
Remember me, as I will always remember you
In every moments,
Which I will spend without you!
© 2010 by Santosh Kalwar
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Press releases: You Can
Lappeenranta, Finland, April 24, 2010 --(PR.com)-- Many of the times, we feel depressed and sad. It is very obvious that, we as the humans are in great need of inspirations during different phases of our lives. It is also known that there are thousands of self-help and inspirational books but hardly these books give suitable insights or ‘an inch of inspiration’. Therefore, unlike these self-help books, poems can be the best source of inspiration. What if you can read golden words of inspiration for free?
In his new book with very interesting title, "You Can", a young Nepalese poet from Chitwan, Nepal promises scintillating encouragement and motivation in his book, a collection of several inspiring poems.
Santosh Kalwar is an author of nine published books entitled, "Nature God (2008), Human behavior on the Internet (2009), A Very First Book of Poems (2009), ...109 Quotes, 07 Poems, and a song of despair (2009)..., 20 Love Poems and Economy Crisis (2009), 25 Sexy Poems (2009), Yet another book of Poems (2009), Happening: Poems (2010) and I Am Dead Man Alive (2010).
“You Can” is a collection of very inspiring poems by the young and talented poet, first published in 2010 by Lulu.com. The book is available to download for free. The book is collection of several intriguing and motivating poems written to inspire all ages. The poems are highly motivational that will stimulate the readers to achieve significant goals in life.
These poems can inspire anyone including business people, professionals and service man or women. Many of the times people need to inspire themselves. Therefore, these poems promise to provide encouragement for all those sad souls living on the planet.
Santosh Kalwar is a PhD candidate in Lappeenranta University of Technology, Lappeenranta, Finland. He loves reading and writing poetry. To arrange a book signing or interview, contact the writer. For further information about the writer, please visit author website at kalwar.com.np
ISBN 978-1-4457-5770-4
To place orders for the book, contact: Lulu.com
URL: lulu.com/product/paperback/you-can/10661154
In his new book with very interesting title, "You Can", a young Nepalese poet from Chitwan, Nepal promises scintillating encouragement and motivation in his book, a collection of several inspiring poems.
Santosh Kalwar is an author of nine published books entitled, "Nature God (2008), Human behavior on the Internet (2009), A Very First Book of Poems (2009), ...109 Quotes, 07 Poems, and a song of despair (2009)..., 20 Love Poems and Economy Crisis (2009), 25 Sexy Poems (2009), Yet another book of Poems (2009), Happening: Poems (2010) and I Am Dead Man Alive (2010).
“You Can” is a collection of very inspiring poems by the young and talented poet, first published in 2010 by Lulu.com. The book is available to download for free. The book is collection of several intriguing and motivating poems written to inspire all ages. The poems are highly motivational that will stimulate the readers to achieve significant goals in life.
These poems can inspire anyone including business people, professionals and service man or women. Many of the times people need to inspire themselves. Therefore, these poems promise to provide encouragement for all those sad souls living on the planet.
Santosh Kalwar is a PhD candidate in Lappeenranta University of Technology, Lappeenranta, Finland. He loves reading and writing poetry. To arrange a book signing or interview, contact the writer. For further information about the writer, please visit author website at kalwar.com.np
ISBN 978-1-4457-5770-4
To place orders for the book, contact: Lulu.com
URL: lulu.com/product/paperback/you-can/10661154
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Desire and Misery
It is obvious that there are many ways to look at the same things. Writers and scholars have great imaginative powers but politicians are not so imaginative. They do what they are told to do. However, it is not desire or power alone which will make us successful and happy because it is important for each Nepali to bear the burdens of carrying our actions themselves.
It is the desire of each Nepali politicians to rule the nation and become decision makers. They should also pay heed to the public because whatever our leaders desire will affect us too.
Published: Republica
Letters to the Editor/Your Say
Source: myrepublica
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Press releases: I Am Dead Man Alive
What happens when a person is dead? Human beings are one of the most intelligent creatures in this planet but no one knows till date where they go after their death.
A young Nepalese poet from Chitwan, Nepal answers these significant questions in his new book of poems, a collection of fifty poems, full of creative insights and imagination. Kalwar is prolific writer, poet and researcher.
He is author of eight published books entitled, "Nature God (2008), Human behavior on the Internet (2009), A Very First Book of Poems (2009), ...109 Quotes, 07 Poems, and a song of despair (2009)..., 20 Love Poems and Economy Crisis (2009), 25 Sexy Poems( 2009), Yet another book of Poems (2009) and Happening: Poems (2010).
I am dead man alive is a collection of death poems by the Nepalese poet Santosh Kalwar, first published in 2010 by PublishAmerica. The book is collection of several dark poems written to visualize the past, present and the future of human life. The poem is mainly about the death. These poems reflect how one should consider living on present moment and not fear the death.
I am dead man alive represents ancient, classical, modern and contemporary human times in very poetic manner. The state of physical, spiritual, and rational sensation is aroused in this book. The book brings new light and questions simple phenomenon of human life and death.
Santosh Kalwar is a PhD candidate in Lappeenranta University of Technology, Lappeenranta, Finland. He loves reading and writing poetry. He is currently working for his first novel.
For further information about the writer, please visit at http://kalwar.com.np
ISBN 9781448940394
To place orders for the book, contact:
PublishAmerica LLLP
P.O. Box 151
Frederick, MD 21705
(301) 695-1707
URL: Purchase
To arrange a book signing or interview, contact Santosh Kalwar at santoshkalwar@gmail.com
A young Nepalese poet from Chitwan, Nepal answers these significant questions in his new book of poems, a collection of fifty poems, full of creative insights and imagination. Kalwar is prolific writer, poet and researcher.
He is author of eight published books entitled, "Nature God (2008), Human behavior on the Internet (2009), A Very First Book of Poems (2009), ...109 Quotes, 07 Poems, and a song of despair (2009)..., 20 Love Poems and Economy Crisis (2009), 25 Sexy Poems( 2009), Yet another book of Poems (2009) and Happening: Poems (2010).
I am dead man alive is a collection of death poems by the Nepalese poet Santosh Kalwar, first published in 2010 by PublishAmerica. The book is collection of several dark poems written to visualize the past, present and the future of human life. The poem is mainly about the death. These poems reflect how one should consider living on present moment and not fear the death.
I am dead man alive represents ancient, classical, modern and contemporary human times in very poetic manner. The state of physical, spiritual, and rational sensation is aroused in this book. The book brings new light and questions simple phenomenon of human life and death.
Santosh Kalwar is a PhD candidate in Lappeenranta University of Technology, Lappeenranta, Finland. He loves reading and writing poetry. He is currently working for his first novel.
For further information about the writer, please visit at http://kalwar.com.np
ISBN 9781448940394
To place orders for the book, contact:
PublishAmerica LLLP
P.O. Box 151
Frederick, MD 21705
(301) 695-1707
URL: Purchase
To arrange a book signing or interview, contact Santosh Kalwar at santoshkalwar@gmail.com
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Problems
****************************
Problems
****************************
I was searching to resolve my problems
I found nothing but more problems
I guess, life is all about moving on
when time is short for mere cries
let us share, our problems
friends alike, mind alike
thinkers and lovers alike
someday
as, we all have to die
maybe then,
our problems will no
more be alive
****************************
Problems
****************************
I was searching to resolve my problems
I found nothing but more problems
I guess, life is all about moving on
when time is short for mere cries
let us share, our problems
friends alike, mind alike
thinkers and lovers alike
someday
as, we all have to die
maybe then,
our problems will no
more be alive
****************************
Monday, April 12, 2010
Possibly "thank you" in Portuguese !
Possibly "thank you" in Portuguese !
Recently, I traveled on my first scientific conference to Porto, Portugal. Porto is second largest city in the country after capital-Lisbon. The experience of the journey was horrific. Can you imagine falling in love with a city and the people, although it was only for just four days?
I met many pretty ladies in the conference in Porto and also many lonesome men like me-maybe to go wild in the romantic rainy climate of the Porto.
One of the pretty ladies said, “Do you know my husband ….” After that I didn’t wanted to store any piece information from a beautiful lady.
I wonder why these good looking Portuguese girls are “missing” their husband or boy friend and I have to handle the situation or listen to their sad stories. Poor Me! However, maybe I am born to solve the problem on love, truth and relationships.
I could not stand giving my piece of so called “wise advice” on that very lady and ended up saying, “You know, those who are close to heart are never missed.” Finally, she laughed and said, “Obrigado”, Thanks God, what does that word means?
After listening too many of the boring lectures and presentations by so called, “scientists”, I got frustrated and decided to visit some of the places such as harbor, port wine sellers and smell the cool breeze coming from Antarctic Ocean near the fort beach.
The smell was so beautiful and romantic. I talked with Portuguese couples. They hardly were very good at speaking English and I myself do not claim to be very good as well. Nevertheless with my curiosity, I asked with them, “How long you guys have been together?” the girl replied, “it has been seven years” Smilingly, I cherished their togetherness and felt “proud” of such Portuguese couple.
Many of the couples in recent days have trouble being together. I decided to taste some of the famous port wine and think on the reasons behind “not being together”. Under the smell of cool breeze near the harbor, with my eyes closed and beautiful romantic singers singing “tunes of Porto”, I invented something great that Einstein would have been proud of – The trouble is not with the couples but with the ever changing situation of globalized world and the economy.
Recession has hit in each and every corners of the globe. With less money, how can someone will have so called, “honey?”
My conversation with the Portuguese couple didn’t last long. I shared the same idea, wished them “good luck” for their future in their relationship and shared smiled in Portuguese way. They looked very happy with my piece of wisdom that I shared with them, In return they said, “Obrigado” to me.
Again, I have to come back to the conference arena. I started to wonder why these boring conferences are held. Then I realized maybe it is to “network and mingle” with like minded peoples. However, there were hardly anyone who was talking “romance and love” in the scientific conference and my journey was completely different that ordinary scientists or maybe I should have gone to 'romantic scientific conferences' rather than that I went.
Apparently, I saw another single mom, who was from Porto and she started to share her feelings of relationships with me. She said, “Do you know that love does not last forever, I was married with a professor for twenty five years but our relationship didn’t work out.” I wonder why?
I was so intelligent with my words that I disguised my appearance –as if I was feeling sad and said to her, “I am so sorry for your unsuccessful romantic life, maybe whatever we do is a based on our karma” The Hindu philosophical wisdom didn’t impressed her so I decided to give the Christian faith unto her. “Do not worry, you will find someone better, someday” Now, she seemed more satisfied with the response. More than ninety percent of population is Roman Catholic, I guess!
After couple of hours of wise talk, she finally got satisfied with the wisdom we shared.
The final day was approaching and the conference was coming to an end. There were more problems that could have been seen, heard or shared but ‘time is money’. Insofar, I wanted to hear more and help these people more but every journey has an end.
Every time I talked with these couples and shared my piece of wisdom with them, they said, “obrigado”. My lack of Portuguese was very unsatisfactory, I could not understand the meaning behind the word and I assumed that it won’t mean anything bad about me or about my color of skin or about my piece of wisdom.
I didn’t even had computer to “Google translate” the word. Therefore, my journey came to an end when I safely landed to Helsinki but the cold breeze smelled so frustrating and melancholy that I started to feel the same.
In conclusion, the journey of love of any place, or any experience with new people, country or conference is always like “the beginning of an end or maybe end of the beginning” By the way, what do you think, “Obrigado” would have meant? Possibly, “thank you” in Portuguese!
Recently, I traveled on my first scientific conference to Porto, Portugal. Porto is second largest city in the country after capital-Lisbon. The experience of the journey was horrific. Can you imagine falling in love with a city and the people, although it was only for just four days?
I met many pretty ladies in the conference in Porto and also many lonesome men like me-maybe to go wild in the romantic rainy climate of the Porto.
One of the pretty ladies said, “Do you know my husband ….” After that I didn’t wanted to store any piece information from a beautiful lady.
I wonder why these good looking Portuguese girls are “missing” their husband or boy friend and I have to handle the situation or listen to their sad stories. Poor Me! However, maybe I am born to solve the problem on love, truth and relationships.
I could not stand giving my piece of so called “wise advice” on that very lady and ended up saying, “You know, those who are close to heart are never missed.” Finally, she laughed and said, “Obrigado”, Thanks God, what does that word means?
After listening too many of the boring lectures and presentations by so called, “scientists”, I got frustrated and decided to visit some of the places such as harbor, port wine sellers and smell the cool breeze coming from Antarctic Ocean near the fort beach.
The smell was so beautiful and romantic. I talked with Portuguese couples. They hardly were very good at speaking English and I myself do not claim to be very good as well. Nevertheless with my curiosity, I asked with them, “How long you guys have been together?” the girl replied, “it has been seven years” Smilingly, I cherished their togetherness and felt “proud” of such Portuguese couple.
Many of the couples in recent days have trouble being together. I decided to taste some of the famous port wine and think on the reasons behind “not being together”. Under the smell of cool breeze near the harbor, with my eyes closed and beautiful romantic singers singing “tunes of Porto”, I invented something great that Einstein would have been proud of – The trouble is not with the couples but with the ever changing situation of globalized world and the economy.
Recession has hit in each and every corners of the globe. With less money, how can someone will have so called, “honey?”
My conversation with the Portuguese couple didn’t last long. I shared the same idea, wished them “good luck” for their future in their relationship and shared smiled in Portuguese way. They looked very happy with my piece of wisdom that I shared with them, In return they said, “Obrigado” to me.
Again, I have to come back to the conference arena. I started to wonder why these boring conferences are held. Then I realized maybe it is to “network and mingle” with like minded peoples. However, there were hardly anyone who was talking “romance and love” in the scientific conference and my journey was completely different that ordinary scientists or maybe I should have gone to 'romantic scientific conferences' rather than that I went.
Apparently, I saw another single mom, who was from Porto and she started to share her feelings of relationships with me. She said, “Do you know that love does not last forever, I was married with a professor for twenty five years but our relationship didn’t work out.” I wonder why?
I was so intelligent with my words that I disguised my appearance –as if I was feeling sad and said to her, “I am so sorry for your unsuccessful romantic life, maybe whatever we do is a based on our karma” The Hindu philosophical wisdom didn’t impressed her so I decided to give the Christian faith unto her. “Do not worry, you will find someone better, someday” Now, she seemed more satisfied with the response. More than ninety percent of population is Roman Catholic, I guess!
After couple of hours of wise talk, she finally got satisfied with the wisdom we shared.
The final day was approaching and the conference was coming to an end. There were more problems that could have been seen, heard or shared but ‘time is money’. Insofar, I wanted to hear more and help these people more but every journey has an end.
Every time I talked with these couples and shared my piece of wisdom with them, they said, “obrigado”. My lack of Portuguese was very unsatisfactory, I could not understand the meaning behind the word and I assumed that it won’t mean anything bad about me or about my color of skin or about my piece of wisdom.
I didn’t even had computer to “Google translate” the word. Therefore, my journey came to an end when I safely landed to Helsinki but the cold breeze smelled so frustrating and melancholy that I started to feel the same.
In conclusion, the journey of love of any place, or any experience with new people, country or conference is always like “the beginning of an end or maybe end of the beginning” By the way, what do you think, “Obrigado” would have meant? Possibly, “thank you” in Portuguese!
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Who Knows?
Who knows? What love is?
Who knows? What pain is?
Who knows? How long I will live
Who know? About the life
Everyone is born alone
Have to die alone
Do you know what aloneness is?
Loneliness is not aloneness
I can be alone but never lonely
There is always someone
With whom you share:
Smile, sorrow, pain, love, life
There is no one
Who goes along with you? When you die
In a very short visit,
Whilst this life,
I found you:
Smile
Who knows?
Maybe you disguised me
So that I will too
Smile
Who knows?
Why are we fighting? When no one comes out alive
Who knows? What pain is?
Who knows? How long I will live
Who know? About the life
Everyone is born alone
Have to die alone
Do you know what aloneness is?
Loneliness is not aloneness
I can be alone but never lonely
There is always someone
With whom you share:
Smile, sorrow, pain, love, life
There is no one
Who goes along with you? When you die
In a very short visit,
Whilst this life,
I found you:
Smile
Who knows?
Maybe you disguised me
So that I will too
Smile
Who knows?
Why are we fighting? When no one comes out alive
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Broken promises
It is true that many Nepali women are betrayed by middlemen who promise them rosy jobs and lofty dreams in foreign land (“Hard labour,” April 5, Page 6). No human should mislead another by promising them something they know to be untrue.
The number of women mentioned in your editorial is scary. However, it is apparent that this is not only a problem for women in Gulf countries or Lebanon, but also in the rest of the world. Therefore, the violence against women should be taken into consideration and those found guilty brought to justice, whether at home or abroad. What is the foreign ministry doing about women migrants? I recommend all Nepali brothers and sisters to do their homework properly before trusting middlemen to secure them a job in a foreign land.
Santosh Kalwar
Chitwan
Published: The Kathmandu Post
Letter to the Editor
Source: eKantipur
The number of women mentioned in your editorial is scary. However, it is apparent that this is not only a problem for women in Gulf countries or Lebanon, but also in the rest of the world. Therefore, the violence against women should be taken into consideration and those found guilty brought to justice, whether at home or abroad. What is the foreign ministry doing about women migrants? I recommend all Nepali brothers and sisters to do their homework properly before trusting middlemen to secure them a job in a foreign land.
Santosh Kalwar
Chitwan
Published: The Kathmandu Post
Letter to the Editor
Source: eKantipur
Sunday, April 4, 2010
April fool
The origin of April fool day is unknown, as the origin of the universe seems unknown. There are theories but theories are mostly based on ideas of people. Mainly our eastern culture is influenced by western culture for the celebration of April fool day. April fool day is dedicated to play pranks and make joke among friends and families.
When I logged into my Facebook and twitter pages, I was getting lots of “amazing updates”. For example, Osama bin laden is dead; Nepal became only Hindu State in the entire world; The Beatles are alive; climate change is unreal; earthquake may hit all parts of globe; Jesus Christ son is alive and so on and so forth.
After hearing such amazing updates, I started to think seriously. What is going on? My quest for mysterious search of “holy grail” of an unanswered question was at dismay.
So, I went back again to my facebook page for a heart comforting answers. After few seconds, a friend in my Facebook commented, “You look like Johnny Depp”. Since, I have a tendency to take everything seriously. I wonder if I do or am I being fool to be called, ‘the great, Johnny Depp’.
This is very personal statement and it asks many questions not only on personal level but also about human faces or “look-alikes”.
We are around six billion human living on this planet and it may be obvious that one can look alike another. But do I and Johnny look-like one another? Does it make any difference if I look like Johnny or if Johnny looks like me? I think it will.
It won’t make any difference if I look alike Johnny since he is a great Hollywood actor and everybody him from his famous pirate movies. However, if he looks like me then it might create problem for him because I am an unknown poet, writer and researcher. I wonder if someone like him would like to be like me.
I might be visually similar to Depp but do I really want to call as his “look-alike”. It is quite nice to hear that you look like someone who is famous and great but how about one’s self esteem and value? I get easily angry when somebody compares one individual to another. We all are unique in one ways or another, Aren’t we?
As the Easter is coming, I was walking lonely, slowly and peacefully near my residential Church, I met another friend of mine and he said, “Hey, Buddy, how you doing man, you look so cool in your black jacket, you look like Johnny depp”. Holy Cow! Which day is today, I asked.
He said, “Today is first of April, Man! I am sorry, I was just kidding…making you fool”.
Finally, I realized both of these friends were making fool of me. I was getting angry for nothing. It’s an April fool day!
When I logged into my Facebook and twitter pages, I was getting lots of “amazing updates”. For example, Osama bin laden is dead; Nepal became only Hindu State in the entire world; The Beatles are alive; climate change is unreal; earthquake may hit all parts of globe; Jesus Christ son is alive and so on and so forth.
After hearing such amazing updates, I started to think seriously. What is going on? My quest for mysterious search of “holy grail” of an unanswered question was at dismay.
So, I went back again to my facebook page for a heart comforting answers. After few seconds, a friend in my Facebook commented, “You look like Johnny Depp”. Since, I have a tendency to take everything seriously. I wonder if I do or am I being fool to be called, ‘the great, Johnny Depp’.
This is very personal statement and it asks many questions not only on personal level but also about human faces or “look-alikes”.
We are around six billion human living on this planet and it may be obvious that one can look alike another. But do I and Johnny look-like one another? Does it make any difference if I look like Johnny or if Johnny looks like me? I think it will.
It won’t make any difference if I look alike Johnny since he is a great Hollywood actor and everybody him from his famous pirate movies. However, if he looks like me then it might create problem for him because I am an unknown poet, writer and researcher. I wonder if someone like him would like to be like me.
I might be visually similar to Depp but do I really want to call as his “look-alike”. It is quite nice to hear that you look like someone who is famous and great but how about one’s self esteem and value? I get easily angry when somebody compares one individual to another. We all are unique in one ways or another, Aren’t we?
As the Easter is coming, I was walking lonely, slowly and peacefully near my residential Church, I met another friend of mine and he said, “Hey, Buddy, how you doing man, you look so cool in your black jacket, you look like Johnny depp”. Holy Cow! Which day is today, I asked.
He said, “Today is first of April, Man! I am sorry, I was just kidding…making you fool”.
Finally, I realized both of these friends were making fool of me. I was getting angry for nothing. It’s an April fool day!
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