Mohit Parikh > Recent Status Updates

"so that,
epistemologically speaking, there is little difference between science and poetry, logic and
literature, history and mythology, fact and fiction." CONVINCE ME! Poetry does not plop men on the moon!?

Fuck, yeah! Realization: My struggles to make my intuition appealing to my rational side are needless.

The storm center of all this grading, shoveling, hauling and hammering is thecollege campus itself. A clean modern factory, brick and glass and big windows, already
three-quarters built, is being finished in a hysterical hurry. (The construction noises are
such dint in some classrooms the professors can hardly be heard.) When the factory is
fully operational, it will he able to process twenty thousand graduates.

The vets themselves, no doubt, would have adjusted pretty well to the originalbohemian utopia; maybe some of them would even have taken to painting or writingbetween hangovers. But their wives explained to them, right from the start and in the
very clearest language, that breeding and bohemianism do not mix. For breeding you
need a steady job, you need a mortgage, you need credit, you need insurance.

Shouldn't have shouldn't have shouldn't have picked it up so late. This is every bit what I like to read.

His sentences, my sentences. My sentences, his sentences.
A shared sense of planar prose.
McEwan, your presence
is a reassurance.

Exactly the book I needed to read. Literature smoothed out my previous paradigms and left me without a footing. Time to reinvent, reconsider, recall.

Finesse

My Bible! The only non-fiction book I needed to read on writing. Woods puts things in perspective, with such clarity.

Well, better late than never.

What is this... an autobiography of *every* self? There must be more to it than what we already know? Martel, man, if all the build up is to make a point it better me astounding.

Cutest, warmest and one of the longest first chapters I have read. In spirit it is similar to Tagore's Boyhood Days.

This is a book. It is a book I found in a box. I found the box in the attic. The box was in the attic, under the eaves. The attic was hot and still. The air was stale with dust. The dust was from old pictures and books. The dust in the air was made up of the book I found. I breathed the book before I saw it; tasted the book before I read it. The book has a red marbled cover. It has large pages. The pages are made...

Capote (2005) is an exceptionally good movie. Highly recommended if you haven't seen it yet.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q4BvvJ...

'Tinker, tinker. Tin, tin, tin. Tintinnabulation. There was the ring of pots and buckets. There was also the ring in Howard Crosby's ears, a ring that began at a dis tance and came closer, until it sat in his ears, then burrowed into them. His head thrummed as if it were a clapper in a bell.' Err...what?

Alice, is everyone so rude to you because they speak their minds in wonderland?

“A serious person should try to write posthumously”
Nadine Gordimer

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs...

Put 'Oxford' in GR search, and the first result is 'Pride and Prejudice'.

I’m astounded whenever I finish sth.Astounded and distressed.
My perfectionist instinct should inhibit me from �nishing; it should inhibit me from even beginning. But I get distracted and start doing sth. What I achieve is not the product of an act of my will but of my will’s surrender. I begin because I don’t have the strength to
think; I �nish bcz I don’t have the courage to quit.This book is my cowardice
Passoa

Dreaming followed by Lucid Dreaming?