Tagore Reader

by Rabindranath Tagore

Selected writings by a Hindu poet covering such subjects as the arts, education, and religion

Genres: Poetry, Fiction

Paperback

First published January 1, 1961

About the author

Awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1913 "because of his profoundly sensitive, fresh and beautiful verse, by which, with consummate skill, he has made his poetic thought, expressed in his own English words, a part of the literature of the West."

Tagore modernised Bengali art by spurning rigid classical forms and resisting linguistic strictures. His novels, stories, songs, dance-dramas, and essays spoke to topics political and personal. Gitanjali (Song Offerings), Gora (Fair-Faced), and Ghare-Baire (The Home and the World) are his best-known works, and his verse, short stories, and novels were acclaimed—or panned—for their lyricism, colloquialism, naturalism, and unnatural contemplation. His compositions were chosen by two nations as national anthems: India's Jana Gana Mana and Bangladesh's Amar Shonar Bangla.

The complete works of Rabindranath Tagore (রবীন্দ্র রচনাবলী) in the original Bengali are now available at these third-party websites:
http://www.tagoreweb.in/
http://www.rabindra-rachanabali.nltr....

Reviews

[K.A. Masters · Rating 3 out of 5]

I was expecting more poetry in the volume, but only the last 40 pages were poetry. The rest of the book contains his philosophical works, letters, memoirs, etc. These provide intimate insight into the poet's life, but I wish the ratio of poetry to prose were more even.

[jj · Rating 2 out of 5]

Got this via a recommendation. Didn't finish it.

[H]

from "Modern Poetry"

A poet's deepest feelings strive for immortality by assuming a form in language. Love adorns itself; it seeks to prove inward joy by outward beauty. There was a time when humanity in its moments of leisure sought to beautify that portion of the universe with which it came into contact, and this outer adornment was the expression of its inner love, and with this love, there could be no indifference. (242)

But there is always illusion at every step of the creation, and it is only the variety of that illusion which plays so many tunes in so many forms. Science has thoroughly examined every pulse beat, and declares that at the root of things there is no illusion; there is carbon and nitrogen, there is physiology and psychology. We old-fashioned poets thought the illusion was the main thing and carbon and physiology the by-products. Therefore, we must confess that we had striven to compete with the Creator in spreading the snare of illusion through rhyme and rhythm, language and style. In our metaphors and nuances there was some hide-and-seek; we were unable to lift aside that veil of modesty which adorns but does not contradict truth. (243)

The subject of modern poetry does not seek to attract the mind by its charm. Its strength consists in firm self-reliance, that which is called "character" in English. It calls out: Ho there! behold me, here am I. (245)

In this poem [Li Po's river merchant's wife] the sentiment is neither maudlin nor ridiculous. The subject is familiar, and there is feeling. If the tone were sarcastic and there was ridicule, then the poem would be modern, because the moderns scorn to acknowledge in poetry that which everybody acknowledges naturally. Most probably a modern poet would have added at the end of this poem that the husband went his way after wiping his eyes and looking back repeatedly, and the girl at once set about frying dried prawn fish-balls. For hom? In reply there are a line-and-a-half of asterisks. The old-fashioned reader would ask, "What does this mean?" The modern poet would answer "Things happen like this." The reader would say, "but they also happen otherwise." And the modern would answer, "Yes, they do, but that is too respectable. Unless it sheds its refinement, it does not become modern. . . ." (251)

The best way of cultivating detachment is repeatedly to instil into our minds a contempt for the reality which we perceive. But the poet is not a disciple of detachment, he has come to cultivate attachment. Is the modern age so very degenerate that even the poet is infected with the atmospheres of cremation, that he begins to take pleasure in saying that which we consider great is decayed, that which we admire as beautiful is untouchable at the core? . . . (252)

[Meena Gupta · Rating 5 out of 5]

I bet you will like this book.