Of celebrating life, even in death — this category contains some of my more personal posts.
Memories of a classmate of mine from IIT who passed away recently. When I heard the shocking news, I wanted to write something about him. What came to mind were a couple of disjointed memories, and I thought I would share them here.
A word of caution on charismatic gurus and shortcuts to salvation.
What does it mean to say that something happened if you cannot remember it?
To say that Humboldt’s Gift is a masterpiece is like saying that sugar is sweet. It goes without saying. I will read this book many more times in the future because of its educational values (and because I love the reader in my audiobook edition). I would not necessarily recommend the book to others though. I think it takes a peculiar mind, one that finds sanity only in insane gibberish, and sees unreality in all the painted veils of reality, to appreciate this book. In short, you have to be a bit cuckoo to like it. (If you like the book and still maintain that you are not cuckoo, well, you just feel that way because you are!)
This brief look at possibly the best book I have ever read is perhaps my last post in the book review series. At least for a short while, as I’m beginning to find it a bit hard to keep up with all the demands on my time now, what with my next book efforts and everything. Besides, the books have already said it all better, haven’t they?
I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I did not realize that Catch-22 was caricature, the first time I read it. I thought caricatures are visual. I was wrong, of course. Here is an unreal review of this masterpiece that needs to be more widely read.
As we bury our loved ones and mourn the fallen heroes, we have to ask ourselves, what is the right response to terrorism? My ideas, as usual, are a bit off the beaten track. And on this emotional topic, I may get a bit of flak for them. But if we are to wipe out the scourge of terrorism, we have to defend ourselves, not only with fast guns and superior fire power, but also with knowledge. Why would anybody want to kill us so badly that they are willing to die trying?
This is going to be my last post of a personal kind, I promise. This French eulogy was an email I received from my friend Stephane, talking about my father who was quite fond of him. Some day I will translate it and append the English version as well. It is hard to translate it right now, but the difficulty is not quite linguistic.
Death is as much a part of life as birth. Anything that has a beginning has an end. So why do we grieve?
No, this post is not a sales pitch for a Sony radio receiver. If anything, it is about a health condition called Congestive Heart Failure. And about the passing of the torch. May be a little bit about my father as well.
[…] Perhaps nothing and nobody really passes on. We all leave behind a little bit of ourselves, tiny echoes of our conquests, gusto and passion, memories in those dear to us, and miniscule additions to the mythos that will live on. Like teardrops in the rain.
Of nostalgia and travels, remorse and choices — and me getting sappy in one of my sentimental moods.