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“God tirelessly plays dice under laws which he has himself prescribed.”
WHEN Chairil Anwar wrote
AUGUST 6, 1945.
THERE is a story—fictional of course—from a kingdom in the Dakkhana hills of south western India in the first century CE, about Subhrata.
It’s the weekend
And we’ve had enough of death
WHAT kind of America is it over there in the west, sprawled between paranoia and optimism, between entropy and fantasy, with Donald Trump antagonizing all and sundry, and the cry ‘Let’s make America great again’ sounding like an old cracked record?
WHO among us still reads Robinson Crusoe? Hopefully no one.
THE past is like a Rorschach test: indistinct ink spots on pale paper which we interpret as we wish. These interpretations are used to make assumptions about our psychology.
Galileo analyzed God’s creation using mathematics. Einstein observed it with wonder.
Blood on the leaves
And blood at the root
Black bodies swinging in the Southern breeze
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees
—Strange Fruit, sung by Billie Holiday, 1939
Death changed in Florence in the 14th century. Plague plundered the famous Italian city like a foreign army wreaking wrath.
“Official secrets are as shy as young girls.”—Kafka, in his novel The Castle
Life consists of various kinds of solitude. Every one of us sometimes has (or would like to have, or on the contrary is afraid of having) isolation.
FOR centuries, pestilence has meant uncertainty. Today too.
A French philosopher, aged 60, travelled 2,100 kilometers by horse-driven carriage to meet an empress in Russia.
One and a half hours before my brother breathed his last, I visited him in the Intensive Care Unit where he had been treated for a few days.
We quickly became close.
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