Megha > Recent Status Updates

Need suggestions on which edition of Dante's Inferno to pick up. Thanks.

I don't like her attitude. Just because I don't pay, she wants to whip me into a genius; well, I don't genius that easily.

I say let the world go to hell, but I should always have my tea.

..he said to laugh at all that shitmerde at myself at life at death to laugh at everything this way helps you go on forces you to forget a little that's the only way to keep going reinvent yourself in mad giggles laugh your life out into words call it the fourire: laughterature!

I knew someone who used to go to sleep counting, not sheep, but people against whom he had grievances— <...>. When they were rounded up in his mind, he would machine-gun them down. If it turned out he had left out anybody, he would have to start all over. Round them up. Gun them down again. Slept without difficulty.

But what am I? I ask you? A prophet? A superbrain? How am I supposed to know it's the Navy? What am I? The Zorro of knowledge! The Tarzan of the mind! What did they take me for? Napoleon! Jesus! I had to ask!

In fact there can always be more words words! No law No rule No order says to the writer: Here and Now You Must Stop Not a Word More!

...they gasped, they sighed, these short-timers who even at their young age could not buy insurance at any price, not even if all the premiums were paid in rare rich elements, in pearls clustered as grapes, in buckets of billion, in trellises of diamonds, how, glad to be alive, they stared at each other and caught their breath.

...as every one of them stopped laughing at us, "Laugh" did not stop for two hours. As "Laugh" was laughing at us on that night, my wife and myself forgot our pains and laughed with him, because he was laughing with curious voices that we never heard before in our life. We did not know the time when we fell into his laugh, but we were only laughing at "Laugh's" laugh and nobody who heard him laughing would not laugh,

Been reading sluggishly slow. No fault of the book though.

When one is just there like this and doing nothing, one suddenly feels how painful existence can be. To do nothing and yet maintain one's bearing, that requires energy, a person doing something has an easy time in comparison.

Listen. Most people have t'get mugged in Central Park. Lucky f'you I deliver.

She was a step-up transformer of fury. Held at the wrong angle, Bettina could give deep moral paper cuts. Her face was painted with Van Eyck detail, unkissable: making love to her must have been like a game of electric jackstraws - buzzzzz, foul.

It is as if James Joyce, for his sins, had been forced to grow up in Queens; as if Sam Beckett had been mugged by Godot in a Flushing comfort station; as if Sid Caesar played the part of Moby Dick in a Roman Polanski movie shot underwater in Long Island City; as if Martin Heidegger has gone into vaudeville...Mr. Mano is Tom Wolfe, and Hunter S. Thompson and Henderson the Rain King. -- John Leonard, New York Times.

If I enumerated all the contents of my soul, he thought; if I made a thorough list of them; if I overlooked nothing; if I counted twice; if I wrote each down carefully with a spit-wet pencil end like Luther's accomplished clerk; would I find an item I could say belonged to me, made me, formed my core and heart?

How I wept and shrieked, Empedocles has written, when I was born into this world, my grave. It was his opinion that he had been a boy already,a girl,a plant in the woods, an eagle hunting in the mountains, and had spent, in the ocean, the glancing life of a fish. All the elements, he says, were united in rejecting him. The air had chased him to the sea, and the sea had spat him out on the earth's edge,.....

Trees, hills, river ...yet life was monotonously flat, straight ... plankish ... with a dreadful sameness eveywhere like dust. .. a climate without any real extremes, deprived of virtue even in its mean .. though there were trees, the sloping fields, the river, still life was hard, level ... wooden ... inevitable ... and moments ran on mindlessly like driven cattle, ...

Your eyes were open.People looked into them but they didn't think you saw. They were less than a mirror,no more than a painting of eyes.The sickness was nothing. Many times he had struggled to say that he could hear.Being stretched to pieces was nothing.Many times he'd tries to shout I can see,I can see you-hissing instead.Fighting for breath was nothing.Burning was nothing.Locked in a shrinking boot of flesh....

Or did he move so easily, because, despite his size, he wasn't fat inside; he hadn't packed the past around his bones, or put his soul in suet.