Remembering Myself, Travestying Time…and Phonying towards Perfection



Quote #102

Similarly, we do not know what is happening at the moment farther away in the universe: the light that we see from distant galaxies left them millions of years ago, and in the case of the most distant object that we have seen, the light left some eight thousand million years ago. Thus, when we look at the universe, we are seeing it as it was in the past.

A Brief History of Time. Stephen Hawking.


“the vision of a coming calamity”

All these things, like the vision of a coming calamity, were compressed into a moment of consciousness. Nothing could be done to-day; everything must be deferred.

Felix Holt. George ELIOT.

“living in a reality that was slipping away”

Thus they went on living in a reality that was slipping away, momentarily captured by words, but which would escape irremediably when they forgot the values of the written letters.

One Hundred Years of Solitude. Gabriel García Márquez.


We are leaving today.
No body listens to us.
It gets uglier day by day.

It takes all the time
to just get to the front seat
Then the road slowly caves in
As we go.

It makes one’s heart go dizzy
With the pain
the boredom and the deaths.
It takes all the time
to love each other
And you die before you can prove it.
As we speak.

What is so personal about
being personal in public?

How does your fingerprint count
Among trillions of their prints?
You are just one in the crowd

You do not count as personal.

“fifty years is nothing”

… fifty years is nothing. It might look very big for you, who are quite young. But when 50 years end, you find it just the same–the illusion of time. you know. We are what we are. Whether you grow older, more decrepit, inside, the sense of awareness of being is the same throughout…the chap inside is the same, unchanged…

(on turning 90) R K Narayan to Frontline, 1996

“We do not know very much of the future”

We do not know very much of the future
Except that from generation to generation
The same things happen again and again.

Murder in the Cathedral. T S ELIOT.

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