কেনো লিখি, আকাশ অম্বর/ Keno likhi 1, by akash aombor by Md. Abdullah Bin Hossain

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All theory, dear friend, is dull, but the golden tree of actual life springs ever green. -- Goethe

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To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now - Samuel Beckett ... The absurd is born of this confrontation between the human need and the unreasonable silence of the world…Absurd is not in man nor in the world, but in their presence together. – , ...

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__________________________ Someone To Walk With Him Before Dinner - SAMUEL BECKETT – ...

Where would I go, if I could go, who would I be, if I could be, what would I say, if I had a voice, who says this, saying it's me? Answer simply, someone answer simply. It's the same old stranger as ever, for whom alone accusative I exist, in the pit of my inexistence, of his, of ours, there's a simple answer. It's not with thinking he'll find me, but what is he to do, living and bewildered, yes, living, say what he may. Forget me, know me not, yes, that would be the wisest, none better able than he. Why this sudden affability after such desertion, it's easy to understand, that's what he says, but he doesn't understand. I'm not in his head, nowhere in his old body, and yet I'm there, for him I'm there, with him, hence all the confusion. That should have been enough for him, to have found me absent, but it's not, he wants me there, with a form and a world, like him, in spite of him, me who am everything, like him who is nothing. And when he feels me void of existence it's of his he would have me void, and vice versa, mad, mad, he's mad. _____________________ Text for Nothing ( by SAMUEL BECKETT ―

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―Pozzo : …. I‘d wait till it was black night before I gave up.‖ (Page 66, Waiting for Godot) , ?

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You're on earth. There's no cure for that. No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found - Samuel Beckett

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... Everything I've ever done, in the writing world, has been to expand articulation, rather than to close it. I think some aspects of writing can be taught. Obviously, you can't teach vision or talent. But you can help with comfort. Freeing yourself was one thing; claiming ownership of that freed self was another. â&#x20AC;&#x2022;You wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.â&#x20AC;&#x2013; - Song of Solomon

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I don't want to be a tree; I want to be its meaning.

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The greatest masterpiece in literature is only a dictionary out of order.

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Asking an artist to talk about his work is like asking a plant to discuss horticulture. _____________________ Professional Secrets: An Autobiography of Jean Cocteau

I am not a pessimist. I don't complain about the horror of life; I complain about the horror of my life.

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I have no ambitions and no desires. To be a poet is not my ambition, Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s my way of being alone. (The Keeper of Sheep)

I asked for very little from life, and even this little was denied me. A nearby field, a ray of sunlight, a little bit of calm along with some bread, not to feel oppressed by the knowledge that I exist, not to demand anything from others, and not to have others demand anything from me. ... Sadly I write in my quiet room, alone as I have always been, alone as I will always be. And I wonder if my apparently negligible voice might not embody the essence of thousands of voices, the longing for self-expression of thousands of lives, the patience of millions of souls resigned like my own to their daily lot, their useless dreams, and their hopeless hopes. The only attitude worthy of a superior man is to persist in an activity he recognizes is useless, to observe a discipline he knows is sterile, and to apply certain norms of philosophical and metaphysical thought that he considers utterly inconsequential. No intelligent idea can gain general acceptance unless some stupidity is mixed with it. Collective thought is stupid because it is collective. Nothing passes into the realm of the collective without leaving at the border most of the intelligence it contained. To oppose the brutal indifference that constitutes the manifest essence of things, the mystics discovered it was best to renounce. To deny the world, to turn our backs on it as on a swamp at whose edge we suddenly find ourselves standing. To deny, like the Buddha, its absolute reality; to deny, like Christ, its relative reality; to deny ... You are free if you can withdraw from people, not having to seek them out for the sake of money, company, love, glory or curiosity, none of which can thrive in silence and solitude. ... To be born free is the greatest splendor of man, making the humble hermit superior to kings, even to the gods, who are self-sufficient by their power but not by their contempt of it. To join in or collaborate or act with others is a metaphysically morbid impulse. The soul conferred on the individual shouldn't be lent out to its relations with others. The divine fact of existing shouldn't be surrendered to the satanic fact of coexisting. ... When I act with others, there's at least one thing I lose -- acting alone. ... When I participate, although it seems that I'm expanding, I'm limiting myself. To associate is to die. To act, then, requires a certain incapacity for imagining the personalities of others, their joys and sufferings. Sympathy leads to paralysis. The man of action regards the external world as composed exclusively of inert matter -- either intrinsically inert, like a stone he walks on or kicks out of his path, or inert like a human being who could not resist him and thus might as well be a stone as a human being, since, like a stone, he was walked on or kicked out of the way. What would become of the strategist if he thought about how each of his moves brings night to a thousand homes and grief to three thousand hearts? What would become of the world if we are human? If man really felt, there would be no civilization. Art gives shelter to the sensibility that action was obliged to forget. The one who ordains is the one who does not feel. The one who succeeds is the one who thinks only of what is needed for success. The remaining lot of humanity -- amorphous, sensitive, imaginative and fragile -- is no more than the backdrop against which these stage actors perform until the puppet show ends, no more than the flat and lifeless chess board over which the pieces move until they are put away by the Great Player. I have something of the spirit of a bohemian, of those who let life slip away, like something that slips through one's fingers because the gesture to 43

seize it falls asleep at the mere idea. But I never had the outward compensation of the bohemian spirit -- the carefree acceptance of come-and-go emotions. I was never more than an isolated bohemian, which is an absurdity; or a mystic bohemian, which is an impossibility. Oh, the dread past that survives in me and that has never been anywhere but in me! The flowers from the garden of the little country house that never existed except in me! The pine grove, orchards and vegetable plots of the farm that was only a dream of mine! My imaginary excursions, my outings in a countryside that never existed! The trees along the roadside, the pathways, the stones, the rural folk passing by -- all of this, which was never more than a dream, is recorded in my memory, where it hurts, and I, who spend so many hours dreaming these things, now spend hours remembering having dreamed them and its a genuine nostalgia that I feel, an actual past that I mourn, a real-life corpse that I stare at, lying there solemnly in its coffin. All I asked of life is what Diogenes asked of Alexander: not to stand in the way of the sun. ... There were things I wanted, but I was denied any reason for wanting them. As for what I found, it would have been better to have found it in real life. Let me give up the illusion of hope, which betrays; of love, which wearies; of life, which surfeits but never satisfies; and even of death, which brings more than we want and less than we hope for. The logical reward of my detachment from life is the incapacity I have created in others to feel anything for me. There is an aureole of indifference, an icy halo, that surrounds me and repels others. I still have not succeeded in not suffering from my solitude. It is hard to achieve that distinction of spirit whereby isolation becomes a repose without anguish.

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... Whether we write or speak or do but look We are ever unapparent. EPITAPH Here lies who thought himself the best Of poets in the world's extent; In life he had nor joy nor rest.

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In order for the artist to have a world to express he must first be situated in this world, oppressed or oppressing, resigned or rebellious, a man among men. - Charles Baudelaire

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I have cultivated my hysteria with pleasure and terror. Any man who does not accept the conditions of life sells his soul. In literature as in ethics, there is danger, as well as glory, in being subtle. Aristocracy isolates us. ... An artist is an artist only because of his exquisite sense of beauty, a sense which shows him intoxicating pleasures, but which at the same time implies and contains an equally exquisite sense of all deformities and all disproportion. Always be a poet, even in prose.

Some people never go crazy, What truly horrible lives they must live.

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Literature is the expression of a feeling of deprivation, a recourse against a sense of something missing. But the contrary is also true: language is what makes us human. It is a recourse against the meaningless noise and silence of nature and history.

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There can be no society without poetry, but society can never be realized as poetry, it is never poetic. Sometimes the two terms seek to break apart. They cannot. Art is an invention of aesthetics, which in turn is an invention of philosophers... What we call art is a game. If we are a metaphor of the universe, the human couple is the metaphor par excellence, the point of intersection of all forces and the seed of all forms. The couple is time recaptured, the return to the time before time. Writers, you know, are the beggars of Western society. ... What is modernity? First of all it is an ambiguous term: there are as many types of modernity as there are societies. Each has its own. The word's meaning is uncertain and arbitrary. Is a name that changes with time a real name? Modernity is a word in search of its meaning. Is it an idea, a mirage or a moment of history? Are we the children of modernity or its creators? Nobody knows for sure. It doesn't matter much: we follow it, we pursue it. Baudelaire was the first. He was also the first to touch her and discover that she is nothing but time that crumbles in one's hands. I am not going to relate my adventures in pursuit of modernity: they are not very different from those of other 20th-Century poets. Modernity has been a universal passion. Since 1850 she has been our goddess and our demoness. In recent years, there has been an attempt to exorcise her and there has been much talk of "postmodernism". But what is postmodernism if not an even more modern modernity? ...

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What is necessary, after all, is only this: solitude, vast inner solitude. The quieter we are, the more patient and open we are in our sadnesses.

Letters To A Young Poet ( by Rainer Maria Rilke

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Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.

Read as little as possible of literary criticism. Such things are either partisan opinions, which have become petrified and meaningless, hardened and empty of life, or else they are clever word-games, in which one view wins , and tomorrow the opposite view. Works of art are of an infinite solitude, and no means of approach is so useless as criticism.

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I cannot speak for more than an hour exclusively about poetry. At that point, life itself takes over again.

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Poets yearn, of course, to be published, read, and understood, but they do little, if anything, to set themselves above the common herd and the daily grind.

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Writing is nothing more than a guided dream.

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...And today? I have turned into a writer, a critic, and I must confess (not without remorse and conscious of my deficiency) that I reread with the pleasure of remembering and that new readings do not enthrall me. Now I tend to dispute their novelty, to translate them into schools, influences, composites... ...Beauty in literature is accidental, depending on the harmony or discord of the words manipulated by the writer, and is not tied with eternity. An inferior imitator, those who frequently lyricized themes, usually achieve it; innovators, almost never... - Literary Pleaure, Selected non-fictions, JLB

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