Prandial musings

I gave a dinner party last weekend to clear out my pantry. A neighbor brought along esteemed company to my humble table, a recipient of the Pulitzer Prize for fiction and author of a book made into an Oscar-winning movie. I haven't seen the movie or read any of his books, unfortunately, so I didn't have anything to add to his ego wall. Anyway, this gentleman so generously led the after-dinner conversation with his signature brash joie de vivre. Here are some gems from that night :


"The Pulitzer isn't about passion. It's about sarcasm. Write a lot of good sarcasm, and you'll win it."

"If you want to be respected as a writer, don't quote Shakespeare. It's cheap. Downright cheap. Anyone who quotes a popular author for the purpose of being romantic is a bleedin' hack. Same could be said if you're quoting Dickinson or Frost. But, you could do it if it's tongue-in-cheek, as a meta reference -- hey, do you have any more of that port?"

"OK, watch as I quote poetry in prose. Who's that good-lookin' fella on your mantel? What's his name? CJ? I once knew a rancher named CJ, craziest son of bitch who'd ever -- anyway, observe:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I

...i took the one less traveled by...

and I saw CJ and beat the Jabberwocky outta him,

and a fly passed by while he died

and that has made all the difference


"Back in my day, being a writer used to mean something. Now everyone's a writer. And that garbage the whole lot of them turn out - there's no charm, no wit, no deep tragedy. Just...wallowing. Actually, they're wading. In shallow water. They want to drown, so they kneel down. When that doesn't work they lie down and bury their faces in the mud."

"You fall out of love, and that son of a bitch hurt you like a mother, rip him up, destroy him in prose. You're gonna grow cold and lonely, but man, years from now you're gonna be quoted. Every pimply-faced kid in high school's gonna know your name. Look at Hemingway, wanna be great like him? Make your life as great as your writing. What I'm trying to say is, you're gonna have to be brave enough to let your life fall into a bit of ruin. The compost - what's left - is your material, your golden nugget. I'm not kidding. Writing's not for the piss weak."

"If you've got the tiniest bit of ambition, you'd have to forget about being happy. Happiness only exists in mediocrity, when you'd have stopped trying. So, shine or die."

"I woke up at noon today. Well, I would've slept until the cows came home.There's something about European cities that encourages you to be downright sybaritic."

"I'm tired talking about what I do for a living. Can we talk about something else? Rachel, don't you own a microwave? Wouldn't you rather just nuke the tea!"


On a happy note, I think I've hit my stride in the art of the souffle-making at last. I'd only ever made souffles twice before, and they didn't come up puffy enough. I remember my grandmother telling me that whenever I'm feeling anxious in the kitchen or in bed, a shot of spirits is gonna make me instantly amazing in both :) Sooo...I chugged down a good amount of gin and tonic while I was cooking this time around. Whether or not that resulted in my souffle's improvement is, uh, debatable :P

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Ever After ( A Fairy Tale )

Some passions don't play by the rules

I.

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

II.

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed:
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

III.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

IV.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks
complaining
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
'The Lady of Shalott'.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance--
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right--
The leaves upon her falling light--
Thro' the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:


But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."



Alfred, Lord Tennyson


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A night without armor

"I hate the dark." It's a nothingness so complete you start to see things that aren't there. Who knew that could be so terrible?

Hum jahaan aaye hain, meherbaan saaye hain where we landed, the shadows are kind

"Sometimes it's easier."

"What is?"

"The darkness. It's like faith -- it's intangible."

Raatein so jaateen hain, raahein kho jaateen hain nights end, paths get lost

"Intangible." The word felt like that reluctant space within him defined by her absence. "As you will soon be?" Tomorrow.

He felt her hesitate, ever so slightly."Yes."

He sighed. "How then does one know faith?"

Dhadkanein hain jawaan, hum yahaan khwaabon ke kaaravaan laaye hain Heartbeats are vibrant, here we have brought the caravan of dreams
Her voice took on a teasing tone. "How does one see a soul? It's about as intangible."

He laughed uneasily. "Go to sleep."

She thrashed around a bit. "You think I haven't been trying? You might have to stop talking first."

"And since we're on the subject of all things intangible --"

...jaane hon kal kahaan... who knows what will happen tomorrow?

"Hmmm?"

"How then does one know love?"

She told him because he wanted to know. She whispered it all into his ear.

Hum hain iss pal yahaan We are here at this moment
Pighli pighli si hain, mehki tanhaaiyaan the air melts with the fragrance of solitude
Har pyar milan to nahin Every love doesn’t end in being united
Judaai bhi toh ek pyar hai Separation is also a form of love
Pyar khotaa nahin, pyar sotaa nahin Love is never lost, love never sleeps
Pyar dhalta nahin, haan badalta nahin Love never ebbs, and never changes
Hum rahein na rahein, hum milein na milein* Whether we live or not, whether we meet or not

Later he would tell her the darkness danced behind her eyes, and he saw it all.










* Rahman+Akhtar

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