Gaurav Sagar > Recent Status Updates

A picture in which the color scheme offered only blue or red would be far from the truth and would fatigue the eye.

Frequently perfection in works of art keeps the soul from raising them to greater heights.

The madness so close to genius must be incurable in this world.

He sat down and wept. "I'm an imbecile then, a madman with neither talent nor ability. Just a rich man who makes no more than what buys..... I've created nothing!

But suddenly he felt silent. The look of joy faded from his serious, energetic countenance as he compared the immensity of his hope to the insignificance of his resources.

There's no escaping it; too much knowledge, like too much ignorance, leads to a negation. My work is ....... my doubt!

''Young man," Porbus said, seeing Poussin stare open mouthed at a picture, "don't look at that canvas too long, it will drive you to despair."

Neither painter, nor poet, nor sculptor can separate effect from cause, they're invincibly united!

The young man was expecting that profound emotion which has stirred the hearts of all great artists when, in the prime of youth and their love of art, they approach a man of genius or stand in the presence of a masterpiece.

Bare reality: what a crook it sometimes is. It steals things, and afterwards it has no idea what to do with them. It just seems to spread sorrow for fun. Of course, I like sorrow very much as well, it's very valuable, very. It shpaes one.

They're all alike in their rapid kindness, which just comes and goes, and I think this is because of the fear these people feel.

One day I shall be laid low by a stroke, and then everything, all these confusions, this longing, this unknowing, all this, the gratitude and in-gratitude, this telling lies and self deception, this thinking that one knows and yet never knowing anything, will come to an end. But I want to live, no matter how.

Time has passed,
we have aged
landscapes have changed
the world has evolved.
Mischiefs of nonage
we wish to replicate
aspirations of childhood
became chores of adulthood.
Basic rule of life
remains the same
define your life yourself
by the rules
which can very well change.

I would be attracted by deep things and by the soul, rather than by distances and things far off.

Something great and audacious must happen in secrecy and silence, or perishes and falls away, and the fire that was awakened dies again.

Keep on being poor and despised, dear friend. Give up the money-idea, too. It's most lovely and triumphant thing, it makes one a very poor devil. Rich people, Jakob are very unsatisfied and unhappy. The rich today: they've got nothing left. They are the really starving people.

My desire for experiences is growing into a domineering passion, and the pain which this strange man's annoyance causes me is small in comparison with my trembling wish to lead him into saying something a little revealing.

Pain at the dreadfulness of what I had done chased me out of bed. I had seized the holy one by her respect-arousing hair and had thrown her to the ground. Oh, not to think of such things. The tears shot like sharp jets from the motherly eyes.

What is the use of thoughts and ideas if one feels, as I do, that one doesn't know what to do with them?

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
the empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth.

If the lost word is lost, if the spent. word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Where shall the word be found

Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.

We have proved, sitting eating, sitting talking, that we can add to the treasury of moments. We are not slaves bound to suffer incessantly unrecorded petty blows on our bent backs. We are not sheep either, following a master. We are creators. We too have made something that will join the innumerable congregations of past time.

I wish, then, after this somnolence to sparkle, many faceted under the light of my friends' faces. I have been traversing the sunless territory of non-identity. A strange land. I have heard in my moment of appeasement, in my moment of obliterating satisfaction, the sigh, as it goes in, comes out, of the tide that draws beyond the circle of bright light, this drumming of insensate fury.

Between idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the wrinkle of a fading star.

Poetic:
The sun fell in sharp wedges inside the room. Whatever the light touched became dowered with a fanatical existence. a plate was like a white lake. A knife looked like a dagger of ice. suddenly tumblers revealed themselves upheld by streaks of light. Tables and chairs rose to the surface as if they had been sunk under water and rose, filmed with red, orange, purple like the bloom on the skin of ripe fruits

What dead poet said, you have forgotten. And I cannot translate it to you so that its binding power ropes you in, and makes it clear to you that you are aimless; and the rhythm is cheap and worthless; and so remove that degradation which, if you are unaware of your aimlessness, pervades you, making you senile, even while you are young.

I am one person-myself. i do not impersonate Catullus, whom I adore. I am the most slavish of students, with here a dictionary, there a notebook in which I enter curious uses of past participle. But one cannot go on for ever cutting these ancient inscriptions clearer with a knife. Shall I always draw the red serge curtain close and see my book, laid like a block of marble, pale under the lamp?

There is some flaw in me- some fatal hesitancy, which if I pass it over, turns to a foam and falsity. Yet it is incredible that I should not be a great poet. What did I write last night if it was not poetry? Am I too fast, too facile? I do not know. I do not know myself sometimes, or how to measure and name and count out the gains that make me what I am.