March 29, 2016

THE SELFISH GIANT BY OSCAR WILDE



THE SELFISH GIANT BY OSCAR WILDE 

EVERY afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the Giant’s garden. It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the springtime broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them. “How happy we are here!” they cried to each other. One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend, the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. When he arrived he saw the children playing in the garden. 

“What are you doing here?” he cried in a very gruff voice, and the children ran away. 

“My own garden is my own garden,” said the Giant; “anyone can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.” 

So he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board: 

TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED 

He was a very selfish Giant. The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it. They used to wander round the high walls when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside. “How happy we were there!” they said to each other. Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still winter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board it was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. “Spring has forgotten this garden,” they cried, “so we will live here all the year round.” The Snow covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down. ‘‘This is a delightful spot,” he said, “we must ask Hail on a visit.” So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath was like ice. 

“I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming,” said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold, white garden; “I hope there will be a change in the weather.” 

But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant’s garden she gave none. “He is too selfish,” she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind and the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees. 

One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King’s musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird singing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. “I believe the Spring has come at last,” said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out. 

He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children’s heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene. Only in one corner it was still winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. 

“Climb up, little boy!” said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny. And the Giant’s heart melted as he looked out. “How selfish I have been!” he said; “now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden shall be the children’s playground for ever and ever.” He was really very sorry for what he had done. 

So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became winter again. Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that he did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his hands, and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant’s neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came the Spring. “It is your garden now, little children,” said the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And when the people were going to market at twelve o’clock they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen. 

All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to bid him good-bye. 

“But where is your little companion?” he said; “the boy I put into the tree?” The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him. 

“We don’t know,” answered the children. “He has gone away.” 

“You must tell him to be sure and come tomorrow,” said the Giant. But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad. 

Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his little friend, and often spoke of him. “How I would like to see him!” he used to say. 

Years went by, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not play about anymore, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children at their games and admired his garden. “I have many beautiful flowers,” he said; “but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all.” 

One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting. 

Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvelous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved. 

Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, “Who hath dared to wound thee?” For on the palms of the child’s hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet. 

“Who hath dared to wound thee?” cried the Giant; “tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him. 

“Nay!” answered the child: “but these are the wounds of Love.” 

“Who art thou?” said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child. 

And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, “You let me play once in your garden; today you shall come with me to my garden, which is paradise.” 

And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.

March 27, 2016

THE POWER OF VIRAT KOHLI


THE POWER OF VIRAT KOHLI


We watch Virat Kohli playing, 

And we watch a phenomenon,

Those eyes that look at the ball are not eyes,

But something sharpened beyond limits,

The ball becomes slow, big, time stops, 

The split second is stretched and 

He seems to have all the time in the world, 

And the hands and the legs spring into action

With a stroke play that seems like child’s play, 

And the runs move on as if it is nothing to him!!

And it IS nothing to him, light and easy, 

Lot of fun and full of joy, to exercise the power 

And the sheer passion!!

Born with that super duper brain and body, 

An exquisite being who honed his talent 

With hours, days, months and years 

Of practicing and makes it all look like the 

Most elementary thing, the happiest thing!!

Thus a nature that is light, easy, happy, 

This moment and a sheer treat to watch!!

So many matches he has won for India, 

Each a brilliant display of fireworks 

From that miraculous brain, hand, 

Body and eyes combination!!

Thus he is a hero not just in cricket, 

But an inspiration to all. 

He makes us feel, that we too can be him, 

That we should be like him, he is an icon, 

And shows what is needed for brilliance , 

Joyous living and Success!!

Passion to perform and learn, 

Grit to hold on when all else are gone, 

Focus to put the countless hours 

In service of one’s love, 

Working with others to share the passion, 

Finding joy, meaning, and thrill 

From the game of life, 

Character to take slip ups in his stride, 

To play for the joy of playing, 

Not for name, position or money…

And much more…

Virat is thus a man, a power and 

We need to learn that, and 

We do, all of us die hard fans..

We too have a Virat in us and that 

Gets released every time he plays…

That is why we cheer, we cry and 

We laugh in freedom…it is the hero in us 

That we see in him!!

God bless the power machine, our own Virat Kohli!!!


March 26, 2016

MARRIAGE BY KABLI GIBRAN


MARRIAGE BY KABLI GIBRAN


Then Almitra spoke again and said, And what of Marriage, master?

And he answered saying:

You were born together and together you shall be forevermore.

You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.

Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.

But let there be spaces in your togetherness,

And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.



Love one another, but make not a bond of love:

Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.

Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup.

Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.

Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,

Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.



Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping.

For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.

And stand together yet not too near together:

For the pillars of the temple stand apart,

And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.




 

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY BY PARCY BYSSHE SHELLEY


LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY BY PARCY BYSSHE SHELLEY



The fountains mingle with the river

And the rivers with the ocean,

The winds of heaven mix for ever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single;

All things by a law divine

In one spirit meet and mingle.

Why not I with thine?


See the mountains kiss high heaven

And the waves clasp one another;

No sister-flower would be forgiven

If it disdained its brother;

And the sunlight clasps the earth

And the moonbeams kiss the sea:

What is all this sweet work worth

If thou kiss not me?


 

I'M NOBODY! WHO ARE YOU BY EMILY DICKINSON

A THING OF BEAUTY BY JOHN KEATS

ALL THAT IS GOLD DOES NOT GLITTER BY JOHN RONALD


ALL THAT IS GOLD DOES NOT GLITTER 

BY JOHN RONALD


All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crown less again shall be king.


 

March 25, 2016

RENDEZVOUS WITH RAY

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY BY PARCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

I'M NOBODY! WHO ARE YOU BY EMILY DICKINSON


I'M NOBODY! WHO ARE YOU BY EMILY DICKINSON

I’m Nobody! Who are you?

Are you – Nobody – too?

Then there’s a pair of us!

Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!

How public – like a Frog –

To tell one’s name – the livelong June –

To an admiring Bog!




 

March 24, 2016

A THING OF BEAUTY BY JOHN KEATS


A THING OF BEAUTY BY JOHN KEATS 

A thing of beauty is a joy forever 

Its loveliness increases, it will never 

Pass into nothingness; but will keep 

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. 

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing 

A flowery band to bind us to the earth, 

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth 

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, 

Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways 

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, 

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, 

Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon 

For simple sheep; and such are daffodils 

With the green world they live in; and clear rills 

That for themselves a cooling covert make 

‘Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake, 

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms; 

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 

We have imagined for the mighty dead; 

All lovely tales that we have heard or read; 

An endless fountain of immortal drink, 

Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink. 

About the poet John Keats (1795-1821) was a British Romantic poet. Although trained to be a surgeon, Keats decided to devote himself wholly to poetry. Keats’ secret, his power to sway and delight the readers, lies primarily in his gift for perceiving the world and living his moods and aspirations in terms of language. The following is an excerpt from his poem ‘Endymion; A Poetic Romance’. The poem is based on a Greek legend, in which Endymion, a beautiful young shepherd and poet who lived on Mount Latmos, had a vision of Cynthia, the Moon Goddess. The enchanted youth resolved to seek her out and so wandered away through the forest and down under the sea. 


ALONE WITH EVERYBODY BY CHARLES BUKOWSKI


ALONE WITH EVERYBODY BY CHARLES BUKOWSKI

the flesh covers the bone

and they put a mind

in there and

sometimes a soul,

and the women break

vases against the walls

and the men drink too

much

and nobody finds the

one

but keep

looking

crawling in and out

of beds.

flesh covers

the bone and the

flesh searches

for more than

flesh.


there's no chance

at all:

we are all trapped

by a singular

fate.


nobody ever finds

the one.


the city dumps fill

the junkyards fill

the madhouses fill

the hospitals fill

the graveyards fill

nothing else

fills.

 

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD BY DYLAN THOMAS


DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD BY DYLAN THOMAS


Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.


Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.


Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


And you, my father, there on that sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

I CANNOT GO TO SCHOOL TODAY BY SHEL SILVERSTEIN

I CANNOT GO TO SCHOOL TODAY 

BY SHEL SILVERSTEIN 


“I cannot go to school today," 

Said little Peggy Ann McKay. 

“I have the measles and the mumps, 

A gash, a rash and purple bumps. 

My mouth is wet, my throat is dry, 

I’m going blind in my right eye. 

My tonsils are as big as rocks, 

I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox 

And there’s one more--that’s seventeen, 

And don’t you think my face looks green? 

My leg is cut--my eyes are blue-- 

It might be instamatic flu. 

I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke, 

I’m sure that my left leg is broke-- 

My hip hurts when I move my chin, 

My belly button’s caving in, 

My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained, 

My ‘pendix pains each time it rains. 

My nose is cold, my toes are numb. 

I have a sliver in my thumb. 

My neck is stiff, my voice is weak, 

I hardly whisper when I speak. 

My tongue is filling up my mouth, 

I think my hair is falling out. 

My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight, 

My temperature is one-o-eight. 

My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear, 

There is a hole inside my ear. 

I have a hangnail, and my heart is--what? 

What’s that? What’s that you say? 

You say today is. . .Saturday? 

G’bye, I’m going out to play!”

I AM NOT YOURS BY SARA TEASDALE


I AM NOT YOURS BY SARA TEASDALE

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love - put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

 

HOW DO I LOVE THEE BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING



HOW DO I LOVE THEE BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of being and ideal grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

 

HELAS BY OSCAR WILDE


HELAS BY OSCAR WILDE


To drift with every passion till my soul

Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play,

Is it for this that I have given away

Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control?

Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll

Scrawled over on some boyish holiday

With idle songs for pipe and virelay,

Which do but mar the secret of the whole.

Surely there was a time I might have trod

The sunlit heights, and from life's dissonance

Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God:

Is that time dead? lo! with a little rod

I did but touch the honey of romance —

And must I lose a soul's inheritance?

   

FUNERAL BLUES BY W.H. AUDEN




FUNERAL BLUES BY W.H. AUDEN 

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

A TOTAL STRANGER ONE BLACK DAY BY E E CUMMINGS



A TOTAL STRANGER ONE BLACK DAY BY E E CUMMINGS 

a total stranger one black day 

knocked living the hell out of me - 

who found forgiveness hard because 

my (as it happened) self he was 


-but now that fiend and i are such 

immortal friends the other's each

   

DREAMS BY JAMES MERCER LANGSTON HUGHES



DREAMS BY JAMES MERCER LANGSTON HUGHES

Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.


Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow.

 

DO NOT STAND AT MY GRAVE AND WEEP BY MARY ELIZABETH FRYE

March 09, 2016

O HENRY



O HENRY



O HENRY


Core essence

O Henry was a famous short story writer. Imagine a writer writing hundreds of stories each with a dramatic twist at the end!

What would you say of such a writer?

And each twist is not for the twist, but shows a deep, sympathetic humanity and love and laughter and feelings of warmth.

O Henry had a childlike, innocent and beautiful mind. And the way he uses language was so humorous, warm and deeply touching the heart all at once!

Each of stories has that unity of language, warmth and finally the twist. You cry, laugh, feel good. They are the most feel good stories ever written. Yet they are shorn of silly sentiment yet, deeply mushy and full of feeling!! THAT was and is the art of O Henry.

His stories can be read again and again and they would work as anti depressant pills. They would give you that sense of goodness and bring out the deeply held innocence, the child-man, in you too!!


Works of O Henry

DOSTOEVSKY

DOSTOEVSKY





DOSTOEVSKY

There is only one author who has exposed the dark corner of man’s soul fully down to its roots. That author is Dostoevsky. 

They are classic mysteries, and along with the brilliant plot twists, there is brilliant revelation of the evil in all of mankind, the beastly dark being, lurking within people and finding expression outside. 

Dostoevesky brings that all out, his focus is maniacal and he misses nothing. 

When you see Dostoevskian characters, you see the soul in the way it should not be, and thus you cleanse yourself. His effect is in the way of the negative, he teaches you how NOT to be and how you might be acting in self destruction.

Thus he is serious, morally profound and out to show the soul both in its light and the dark, usually dark!!

You come out of Dostoevsky entertained as you do in horror movies, but here real!! You are deeply entertained in a peculiarly intellectual way of discovering evil and you become wise and horrified , both!!

Dostoevsky remains unsurpassed in his depiction of the psychology of evil. 

LEO TOLSTOY


LEO TOLSTOY



LEO TOLSTOY

Leo Tolstoy was one the greatest writers of all time. As a writer he explored human nature as he saw it. His was a searching soul, ridden with conflicts, never finding peace even at the height of his fame when WAR AND PEACE and ANNA KARENINA got him great acclaim from the public and critics alike.

He was not stable as a person and led a reckless life in the beginning of his life. Later he suddenly turned very spiritual and that conflict raged within him. His marital conflicts also added to his mental burden. 

He wrote some beautiful short stories that showed the flawed nature of human beings. He added a prophetic touch to it, but his search had never got him peace. He was a great influence on Gandhi, and Gandhi too was experimenting with living styles. 

There are two aspects to a literary giant. One is his philosophy and the other is the expression of the truth as he sees it. In the second category, Leo Tolstoy was supreme and the Philosophy clashed with the artistry. But both juxtaposed into a thing of sheer art. He was determined to write it all out and did. 

Thus came out from that genius extraordinary writings in a long life of non stop writing. As an army man too, he would write. 

It was as if writing was his second voice and that voice paved the path for generations of writers with that determined, dogged and utterly never ending search. 


VICTOR HUGO



VICTOR HUGO




VICTOR HUGO (1802-1885)

Victor Hugo is one of the most extraordinary story tellers of the world. He used language, plot twists, deep themes in a manner that left you breathless with excitement. 

The device he used in telling stories were all a unity and it was sheer genius that stemmed from his romantic soul and that could convey an emotion, a thought, a theme, a situation and a story with that ability that would take the reader to dizzy heights of enjoyment. He was the foremost member of the romantic movement. There was a deep concern about man and his place in the universe, in the romantic movement and style of writing. Hugo was the best in that.

Novel after novel proves that. He would see men and his beliefs, and his conviction down to the roots, lay bare the human soul and the most ordinary character thus acquired grandeur in his novels. And the very beliefs deeply held led to ACTION and the conflicts flowed from the beliefs, the main theme at hand, and the characters will to act and assert!!

Thus Hugo created a whole world of life pulsating with drama, color imaginative themes and great , deeply defined and fashioned characters.

To read Hugo is to acquire that mind that reveres life, that loves idealism and realized that the ideal is not a fantasy but here, now before you, in great , deadly conflicts and in the battle to live an defined meaning in life. 

Works of Victor Hugo

MUNSHI PREMCHAND

MUNSHI PREMCHAND





PREMCHAND

Premchand was the greatest modern story teller of India and in the top in the world too. He was primarily a very genuine and concerned artist. For him art was the honest voice of the soul, no pretences and no hypocrisy. 

His stories on the surface are simple, about simple people. But the genuineness he brings to the story, the theme and the style of writing elevates the story to great ART!! 

The very simplicity and genuineness takes the reader to a region he had lived but never confronted. Premchand makes him to confront and see the folly, the danger of egotism, and the blindness. 

Each if his stories touch you deeply, making you ponder on the issues of life. But Premchand achieves this quietly, sincerely not by shouting or preaching. For that very reason the effect is dramatic in the way only Premchand could create. 

That is why he had a huge impact and even today, he is a leader in the modern movement in literature. 


RABINDRANATH TAGORE

RABINDRANATH TAGORE



RABINDRANATH TAGORE

Rabindranath Tagore was a complete artist. He was a story writer, poet, essayist, painter, and musician. 

What moves such an artist who left no field to give expression to the thing bursting within him?

It was his sensitivity to the world and the human condition which was always present. He lived his art and all that he saw, and all his personal quest and experiences found deep , passionate expression in all his various works of art in all fields. 

His poems and stories are filled with very sharp observations and delicate expression. He could move deeply just with his words and each story is touching, haunting and makes you feel the piece. 

He became an icon in India and in Bengal . He was part of the freedom movement but more as an independent mind looking at the events. And he never stopped short to criticize Indians too when he encountered hypocrisy. He stood primarily for internationalism and his novels and stories and poems expressed that. Yet he could be patriotic too, in a defined context and in that sense he was very modern. 

He had a deep spiritual bent of mind too, which is not surprising as all artists finally need to know the roots of things. His spiritual voice found expression in Gitanjali, a collection of haunting poems that got his the Nobel prize for literature in 1913. ,

All his life, he breathed art in all its forms and even taught by establishing a university called Shantiniketan that was a forerunner of modern methods of teaching. 

List of works :



THE STORY OF OSCAR WILDE



OSCAR WILDE




THE STORY OF OSCAR WILDE



A writer is shaped by his nature and the nature of a writer is shaped by the basic beliefs that he deeply holds. From childhood, Oscar Wilde had a wonderful influence both because of his mother and father. His mother was a poet and a linguist and his father was an acclaimed medical practitioner.

Hence deep thought and learning became a part of Oscar Wide. His nature was formed then. But this nature was very first handed. He actually developed a wonderful feeling for the beauty both of language and ideas. In him, the two became one actually. 

This pitted him against the world and his originality became his trademark. H was thus arrogant, confident and looked as if he was not serious. But in fact, he was very seriously in love with language, its beauty and its power to communicate the soul.

His writings thus completely express this fact. They are beautifully written, are sensual with lovely use of word combinations and expressing a light hearten view of life, born of deep wisdom that is above the triviality and pseudo seriousness of contemporary life then.

It was a bold and beautiful life, lived richly with literature and language mastery and brimming with laughter, freedom and carefree outlook!!!

GEORGE BERNARD SHAW



GEORGE BERNARD SHAW







GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

George Bernard Shaw was one of the greatest dramatist the world has known. He was a prodigious writer and wrote nonstop all his life. He had a great struggle initially and the novels that he attempted were not a success with critics and publishers. 

But by 40 his life changed and he reached the greatest success both in terms of quality and fame. He is the only one to have won bt the Nobel and the Oscar. 

He was a sharp observer of events of the world, of human beings and ideas that ruled human beings. Nothing missed his brilliant eyes and mind. 

Thus, he could see the stupidity and the follies of both ideas and men and even grasped how ideas shaped men. He was also active in life not sitting n an ivory toer. He wa a critic in a magazine and also was active in politics. He was a professed socialist but as an artist and thinker he was way beyond politics and was primarily a seer interested deeply in the affairs of the world and men. 

Thus came out some magnificent plays each executed to perfection. 

His plays had satire, intelligent wit, sympathy, deep observation, expose of false and ridiculous ideas. Hence the full, whole effect of the plays was sheer engagement and entertainment. His plays became hugely popular and he lived on to the ripe age of 94 and was writing when he passed away. He wrote prodigiously and his was a mind that had so much content and the greatest talent to express it all in the most serious and yet the most entertaining.

AYN RAND

AYN RAND





AYN RAND (1905- 1982)

Ayn Rand is one of the most popular novelists of the 20th century and her books have sold around 40+ million copies as of 2016 and her sales increase year by year, astonishing the publishing world.

She was voted also as the second most influential author after the bible, in the US.

She is championed by countless people who are convinced of her OBJECTIVIST philosophy and strive to lead a far more meaningful and happy life.

Most of the great leaders whether they are business magnates, inventors, actors, directors, musicians, politicians, writers etc have been greatly influenced by Ayn Rand according to various surveys carried out.

The greatest of thinkers and the commonest man have been influenced by Ayn Rand.

Who is Ayn Rand?

What is her philosophy and why did she capture the minds of millions of people?

What did she really stand for?

Ayn Rand stood for man at his highest possible.

She believed all the good things that any one would believe. She said that Man should live for himself, not sacrifice himself to others nor sacrifice others to himself. She said that faith is not good as it tampers with thinking and she knew that reason, our supreme tool to live and function was man’s greatest asset and value.

She was an atheist but not a militant one; she was an atheist by implication because she did not posit a super nature above the evidence provided by the senses. For her Existence was absolute. Existence exists and only existence exists. The nothing is literally nothing.

She said that Man is a value and his own life is the standard of value. Thus she being a supreme individualist championed Selfishness and Capitalism, the simple deep, egoism of the rational kind.

Man should live his whole life with a purpose and practice rational self interest. She held that reason, purpose and self esteem were supreme values for which thinking were the means.

Thus, she advocated man’s inalienable rights and loved the American Founding principles. All this she held with a blinding and binding certainty and she explored every single issue that concerned life, here on earth.

Who can deny any of the above?

But Ayn Rand’s distinction was her courage to uphold the above as absolute, to fashion the above in beautiful life affirming stories with deadly conflicts and man emerging as the hero and winner.

She believed that man was a heroic being with reason as his tool and his own purpose as the rule of living.

Thus each of her famous novels were received with shock, deep admiration because each of her novels, whether it was “Fountainhead”, “Atlas Shrugged” or “We the Living” etc, had in it plots that were interesting and exciting, value conflicts that were deep and significant, and the writing part was a full expression of a mind that thought and valued at the same time with seam less integrity, clear and deeply passionate together. Her mind went on and formulated a whole philosophy of living on earth and she named her philosophy OBJECTIVISM and wrote and taught that through many landmark non-fiction books too.

Her certainty stung the reader and that “Ayn Rand Effect” would leave you a completely transformed person.

The full Ayn Rand inaugurated a way of thought that has the possibility to bring complete peace to the world, solve each of the problems of the world and the exposing of the ills and madness of the word would pave the way for that ideal that is the practical- each man living for himself with 100% rights, each happy and productive working to the best of ability and each free, the government merely an agency to protect man’s rights.

Thus Ayn Rand is the future world which can be, should be and must be if we love Life and Man.