Nalin

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राग दरबारी
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Paulo Coelho
“We love men because they can never fake orgasms, even if they wanted to.

Because they write poems, songs, and books in our honor.

Because they never understand us, but they never give up.

Because they can see beauty in women when women have long ceased to see any beauty in themselves.

Because they come from little boys.

Because they can churn out long, intricate, Machiavellian, or incredibly complex mathematics and physics equations, but they can be comparably clueless when it comes to women.

Because they are incredible lovers and never rest until we’re happy.

Because they elevate sports to religion.

Because they’re never afraid of the dark.

Because they don’t care how they look or if they age.

Because they persevere in making and repairing things beyond their abilities, with the naïve self-assurance of the teenage boy who knew everything.

Because they never wear or dream of wearing high heels.

Because they’re always ready for sex.

Because they’re like pomegranates: lots of inedible parts, but the juicy seeds are incredibly tasty and succulent and usually exceed your expectations.

Because they’re afraid to go bald.

Because you always know what they think and they always mean what they say.

Because they love machines, tools, and implements with the same ferocity women love jewelry.

Because they go to great lengths to hide, unsuccessfully, that they are frail and human.

Because they either speak too much or not at all to that end.

Because they always finish the food on their plate.

Because they are brave in front of insects and mice.

Because a well-spoken four-year old girl can reduce them to silence, and a beautiful 25-year old can reduce them to slobbering idiots.

Because they want to be either omnivorous or ascetic, warriors or lovers, artists or generals, but nothing in-between.

Because for them there’s no such thing as too much adrenaline.

Because when all is said and done, they can’t live without us, no matter how hard they try.

Because they’re truly as simple as they claim to be.

Because they love extremes and when they go to extremes, we’re there to catch them.

Because they are tender they when they cry, and how seldom they do it.

Because what they lack in talk, they tend to make up for in action.

Because they make excellent companions when driving through rough neighborhoods or walking past dark alleys.

Because they really love their moms, and they remind us of our dads.

Because they never care what their horoscope, their mother-in-law, nor the neighbors say.

Because they don’t lie about their age, their weight, or their clothing size.

Because they have an uncanny ability to look deeply into our eyes and connect with our heart, even when we don’t want them to.

Because when we say “I love you” they ask for an explanation.”
Paulo Coelho

Voltaire
“S'il n'existait pas Dieu il faudrait l'inventer." (If God did not exist he would have to be invented.)”
Voltaire, Francois-Marie Arouet Voltaire, Francois-Marie Arouet

Anne Brontë
“I was sorry for her; I was amazed, disgusted at her heartless vanity; I wondered why so much beauty should be given to those who made so bad a use of it, and denied to some who would make it a benefit to both themselves and others.

But, God knows best, I concluded. There are, I suppose, some men as vain, as selfish, and as heartless as she is, and, perhaps, such women may be useful to punish them.”
Anne Brontë, Agnes Grey

Roman Payne
“I once had a love who folded secrets between her thighs like napkins
and concealed memories in the valley of her breasts.
There was no match for the freckles on her chest,
and no one could mistake them for a field of honeysuckles.
Upon her lips, a thousand lies were spread in sweet gloss.
Her kiss was like a storybook from ancient history.
She was at home with the body of a man inside her, beside her.
At night, when she lay in bed crying,
no one could mistake the tears she wept for a summer shower
She is gone, my love. She was a wanderess, a wildflower.”
Roman Payne

Bertrand Russell
“Is a man what he seems to the astronomer, a tiny lump of impure carbon and water crawling impotently on a small and unimportant planet? Or is he what he appears to Hamlet? Is he perhaps both as once?”
Bertrand Russell

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