Gaurav Sagar > Recent Status Updates

Just because a person has a title doesn't make him an aristocrat. Some people are great aristocrats who have no other tile than the one that nature has bestowed on them, and others like us, who have nothing but titles, are closer to being pariahs than aristocrats.

There are those who say that civilization progresses a bit further transportation facilities all move into the skies and under the ground, and that our streets will again be quiet, but I know perfectly well that when that day comes some new device for torturing the old will be invented.

The darkness in which the No is shrouded and the beauty that emerges from it make a distinct world of shadows which today can be seen only on the stage; but in the past it could not have been far removed from daily life.

The light from the pale white paper, powerless to dispel the heavy darkness of the alcove, is instead repelled by the darkness, creating a world of confusion where dark and light are indistinguishable.

I know few greater pleasures than holding a lacquer soup bowl in my hands, feeling upon my palms the weight of the liquid and its mild warmth. The sensation is something like that of holding a plump new-born baby.

We do not dislike everything that shines, but we do prefer a pensive luster to a shallow brilliance , a murky light that whether in a stone or an artefact, bespeaks a sheen of antiquity.

It comes with the thrill of a slap for us then to hear praise of shadows and darkness; so it is when there comes to us the excitement of realizing that musicians everywhere make their sounds to capture silence or that architects develop complex shapes just to envelop empty space.

His absence felt like a lump growing inside me, making me suffocate. I never felt so alone. One is used to reality responding or resounding with whatever one thinks or feels. Death shuts up the living; the real is our enemy in the long run.

Happiness will never come my way. I know that. But it's probably best to go to sleep believing that it will surely come, tomorrow it will come.

There are times, like this, when something is quite affecting- when you think I would feel awkward or ashamed but as soon as it passed, it would be like nothing had happened.

The sly ability to steal someone else's experience and recreate it as if it were my own is the only real talent I possess.

She had just as much right to visit the place as he.

I should like to die now, quickly, before again realizing that I am alone.

But since our correspondence is the cause of your unkind imputation, since we have been so grievously hurt by our fall into reality from the heights to which that correspondence had raised us, since, if you were to write to me now you would think that you were writing only to yourself, since, too, I have not strength to bear another letter like your last- please, for a time, let us stop all communication.

But since our correspondence is the cause of your unkind imputation, since we have been so grievously hurt by our fall into reality from the heights to which that correspondence had raised us, since, if you were to write to me now you would think that you were writing only to yourself, since, too, I have not strength to bear another letter like your last- please, for a time, let us stop all communication.

I seemed to have no other reason for living than my love, and to that I clung, expecting nothing, and with my mind made up to expect nothing, but what should come to me from Alissa.

You are so much absorbed in your own love, that you can't spare a glance for the admirable flowering of an intelligence and a soul like hers!

Some people might have made a book out of it; but the story I am going to tell is one which took all my strength to live and over which I spent all my virtue.So I shall set down my recollections quite simply,and if in places they are ragged I shall have recourse to no invention, and neither patch nor connect them;any effort I might make to dress them up would take away the last pleasure I hope to get in telling them.

Each of those under transport is a human being with a different face and mind, and the same time is nameless part of the collective entity. Each is simultaneously a self-contained whole and a mere part.

Something about Eri suggests that her senses are numbed, as though she is unable to use the full force of her limbs. This is probably because her sleep was so very deep and long. She is trying, nevertheless, to gain some understanding, however limited, of the inscrutable circumstances in which she finds herself.

We sense however, through a certain kind of intuition, that something is there. Something alive. It lurks beneath the surface of the water, expunging any sense of its presence. We keep our eyes trained on the motionless image, hoping to ascertain the position of this thing we cannot see.

A closer look reveals that Mari's image is still reflected in the mirror over the sink. The Mari in the mirror is looking from her side into this side. Her sombre gaze seems to be expecting some kind of occurrence. But there is no one on this side. Only her image is left in the Skylark's restroom mirror.

As we observe Eri Asai,we gradually come to sense that there is something about her sleep that is not normal. It is too pure, too perfect.Not a muscle in her face, not an eyelash moves.Her slender white neck preserves the dense tranquility of a handcrafted product. Her small chin traces a clean angle like a well-shaped headland.Even in the profoundest somnolence, people do not tread so deeply into the realm of sleep.

It was about being true to the very stuff of life, it was about trying to capture, though you never could, the very feel of being alive. It was about being true to the fact, the one thing only followed from the other, that many things in life- oh so many more than we think- can never be explained at all.

And could she disentangle it, the stuff she's seen in her mind's eye, from the actual stuff of her own life? Well of course she bloody well could, she wasn't a fantasist. And of course she bloody well couldn't. It was the whole pint of being a writer, wasn't it, to embrace the stuff of life ? It was the whole point of life to embrace it.

Could she have done what she'd done today if she'd had a mother to go to? Could she have had the life she didn't yet know she was going to have? Could her mother have known, making her dreadful choice, how she had blessed her?

She might retrieve her clothes, put them on and leave at once.What was the phrase she had sometimes read in books? 'Cover her tracks.' But he'd said what he'd said: the house was hers. She would truly make it so. And it would have seemed somehow like a wrongness, a retreat, to put her clothes back on again.

She found it difficult, even as she stared, not to let tears come into her eyes, even as she knew that to allow them, use them, would have been somehow to fail. She must be brave, generous, merciless in allowing him this last possible gift of herself.

The sunshine only applauded their nakedness, dismissing all secrecy from what they were doing, though it was utterly secret.

It is all just the universe doing its stuff, and we are the stuff it is being done to. And so, perhaps, with grief. We imagine we have battled against it, been purposeful, overcome sorrow, scrubbed the rust from our soul, when all that has happened is that grief has moved elsewhere, shifted its interest.