Been a very long time since I blogged.

Can’t say that I was busy, but yeah, I didn’t find time for this. For the past 5 months, I guess I was actually taking in other people’s words and worries for a change, instead of rattling about my own.

The harder you listen, the sharper you grow,

As long as its not outside my door                                                                                                 

Been going for Keyboard classes and I am surprised to find that I like them! I mean, I usually drop out of classes as fast as I can but this time, I just feel like staying on. My classmates are all younger than me and maybe thats one of the reasons. And one fellow in particular, aged not more than 4, is too cute for words!

My college life is at an all time low level and am suffering because of that. All major subjects and am not interested even in one!

But my literary world has been good and keeps me happy at all times. Started on Wodehouse on bro’s compulsion and found his works to be marvellous. Jeeves and Wooster make a pair and Psmith (though I read only three of his) never failed to amuse me. Wanna read all of Wodehouse’s works that bro has.

Got to buy IBSAT and CAT forms this week Hope I’ll get through them with flying colors. Okay, that was a bit too much, sorry :p

That is all for now, will try blogging once every week.

You want to meet Nature? Some lovely children of the North? A few interesting pets? Or some pestering ghosts? Read Ruskin Bond. I read one of his collections The Ruskin Bond Omnibus a few years back. Recently I got hold of another collection, The Ruskin Bond Mini Bus. It’s lovely, beautiful and it’s funny as well.

        It’s a collection of his stories and verses and essays, all about his favorite people and animals:  Himalayan Tales, The India I Love, A Little Night Music and Roads To Mussoorie.

        His poems are so simple and nice. Here is a small one titled These Simple Things…

The simplest things in life are best-

A patch of green,

A small bird’s nest,

A drink of water, fresh and cold,

The taste of bread,

A song of old;

These are the things that matter most.

The laughter of a child,

A favourite book,

Flowers growing wild,

A cricket singing in a shady nook.

A ball that bounces high!

A summer shower,

A rainbow in the sky,

The touch of a loving hand,

And time to rest-

These simple things in life are best.

I thought I would restart my writing efforts with poetry. But wait, if you are ardent fans of poetry, please stop reading, this is my humble request.                                                                                                             

Uncertainty

Hi.. I thought i would write a post on the Booker prize…

The Man Booker Prize for Fiction represents the very best in contemporary fiction. Known as the Booker Prize (after Booker McConnell Ltd) this prestigious literature award was initiated in 1969 and is one of the world’s most prestigious awards, and one of incomparable influence, it continues to be the pinnacle of ambition for every fiction writer.
the prize aims to reward the best novel of the year written by a citizen of the Commonwealth or the Republic of Ireland. The Man Booker judges are selected from the country’s finest critics, writers and academics to maintain the consistent excellence of the prize.

Authors and their books that have won the Man Booker Prize for Fiction in the past include:

1969: P. H. Newby – Something to Answer For
1970: Bernice Rubens – The Elected Member
1971: V.S. Naipaul – In a Free State
1972: John Berger – G
1973: J.G. Farrell – Siege of Krishnapur
1974: Stanley Middleton – Holiday
1975: Nadine Gordimer – The Conversationalist and Ruth Prower Jhabvala – Heat and Dust
1976: David Storey – Saville
1977: Paul Scott – Staying On
1978: Iris Murdoch – The Sea, The Sea
1979: Penelope Fitzgerald – Offshore
1980: William Golding – Rites of Passage
1981: Salman Rushdie – Midnight’s Children
1982: Thomas Keneally – Schindler’s Ark ((filmed as Schindler’s List)
1983: J.M. Coetzee – Life and Times of Michael K.
1984: Anita Brookner – Hotel Du Lac
1985: Keri Hulme – Bone People
1986: Kingsley Amis – The Old Devils
1987: Penelope Lively – Moon Tiger
1988: Peter Carey – Oscar and Lucinda
1989: Kazuo Ishiguro – The Remains of the Day
1990: A.S. Byatt – Possession
1991: Ben Okri – The Famished Road
1992: Michael Ondaatje – The English Patient and Barry Unsworth – Sacred Hunger
1993: Roddy Doyle – Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha
1994: James Kelman – How Late It Was, How Late
1995: Pat Barker – The Ghost Road
1996: Graham Swift – Last Orders
1997: Arundhati Roy – The God of Small Things
1998: Ian McEwan – Amsterdam
1999: J.M. Coetzee – Disgrace
2000: Margaret Atwood – The Blind Assassin
2001: Peter Carey – True History of the Kelly Gang
2002: Yann Martel – Life of Pi
2003: DBC Pierre (Peter Warren Finlay) – Vernon God Little
2004: Alan Hollinghurst – The Line of Beauty
2005: John Banville – The Sea
2006: Kiran Desai – The Inheritance Of Loss

Am not so interested in Poetry, but i find the following two, totally good….

Daffodils
William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never – ending line
Along the margin of a bay;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out – did the sparkling waves in glee.
A poet could not be but gay.
In such a jocund company;
I gazed – and gazed – but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought

For often when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.