Waltz of Life E-Book

Anand Bose

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The novel waltz of life is a work of experimental fiction. I have dabbled into philosophical aesthetics. It is an amalgamation of inter-textuality, memoirs, autobiography and a metaphoric explication of life. The novel should be interpreted as a work of art. I have also indulged in a form of non-phonetic writing or art writing. The novel bears semblances with the Cubism of Picasso, the Surrealism of the Dadaists and the writjngs in streams of consciousness. 

Leseprobe

Anand Bose

Waltz of Life

Dedicated to NonetteBookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Waltz of Life

What is being? Phenomenologists have played with the ontological structure of being. For Heidegger being was presence. I am taking being a step further. Being for me is angst or celebration of presence. The onticity of being lies in a processual ontology. Meaning of being takes a celebration or angst as presence of meaning. Being is continually being processed. Time as consciousness of being lies in interiority—that is streams of consciousness. Streams of consciousness are just not a narrative but a lived process of being. The enigma of time is lived presence, a theater of the present, past and the future. Being, you become a metaphor of a poetic blast.

Call me Paul. I was proselytized into Christian faith and I became a preacher. For that reason, my wife and I were paraded naked through the streets of Oudh. Yet I stand with conviction. Another missionary of faith Graham Stains was burnt alive with his kids. Why should the skin of Christianity should be persecuted in this manner? India is becoming a serpent of fanatic Hinduism. In another incident the entire villages of Christians were torched to shambles. I would like to recall the Ghodra massacre. A train bogy full of Muslims was set apart to burn in flames.  India is no longer a free country.

Clouds, they are swimming in purple, crimson and orange hues. Birds are floating symphonizing the sky. I became a dreaming metaphor. Beauty lives the passion of being. Monet you are a painting picturesquely alive. Time, pulchritude of epiphanies, a passage of thoughts lying in a poem. I am hungry to taste beauty. Clouds are dragons eating each other.

Dusk

The splendor of the sky dazzled as an ornament. The sky, a golden furnace, robes of orange, mystic flames of purple all serenaded me like a catharsis. Angels on wings danced in the pulchritude of delight. Time has become a frozen dream of music. Evening is a tranquil lullaby, a poetic sonata of love. I watch the sun go into its hive. Dark has become a mourning night.

Dream

Had a strange dream—in this dream, a black cat was hissing at me; it was only a kitten. Looked at dream interpretations and it said: ‘I am afraid of my own intuition’. I am not fully convinced by the interpretation.

Writer

A well-known gentleman of our locality asked me what I am doing. I replied to him: ‘I am a writer’. When I said that he burst out laughing. A friend of mine asked me the same question: and I replied that I am writing. He burst out: ‘don’t you have anything else better to do’? My wife keeps replying to me that what I write is ‘trash’. But what is the in-thing in heart that prompts me to be a writer…character, I lack it completely…values…I am a Philistine hedonist with strange erotic fantasies that I want to fulfill…I write decolonized English, subaltern in expression and passionate and creative in vitality. Sometimes, I feel like breaking into sobs thinking that I am writing. No, no, no, I am stubborn and persistent in my will to be a writer.

The Cult

Vladimir Brodinsky was writing a report in the New York Times on the murder of Professor Ioan Couliano, the Prof. of Religions at the University of Chicago who is famous for the book ‘Eros Magic and Murder in the Renaissance’. Prof. Ioan was shot dead in the bathroom from a bullet sustained on the head. There are various conspiracy theories at work about the murder of the Prof. and they range from him having plotted against the Communist regime in his native country to him having been assassinated by the secret cult called the Signeggmati for having been blunt on the agenda of secret societies. The police and the FBI remain clueless about the murder. He sighed after finishing the last letter on the keyboard. Yes, he was loyal to the cult and he contemplated that a brilliant mind had to be put to sleep. After that he gave an enigmatic smile.

Meanderings

What is the soul…is it a puff of cloud…is it a whisper of sacred secret…the soul is the magic of life…a tiny faint whisper…a chant of the hymn of the birds…a psychedelic music of the heart…ants creep into the soul and sing a lullaby…the soul should be rid of fanatic faith…the soul is a fecundity of the heart…I have been writing the sin of the fruit… Yes, I am drunk now…proletarian rum of Karl Marx…where are my values…they are buried in a heap of dirty clothes…I am sunk in the abyss of existential shit…Nations you have to be fucked up in the Illuminati of the UNO……let me coin metaphors of poetry…love, you have left me Sheeba Johnson…I am a fucking piece of shit…How many times do men and women shit and piss in a day? Every day I pour incense on to the all Seeing Eye and the Unfinished Pyramid. I don’t care about money. I am under the tutelage of the Illuminati. I am a wandering piece of shit. I am a fucking brown. I enjoy shitting. I love the feeling of pain when my anal muscles contract and expand. Pieces of shit long ones, short ones are released into the commode. Shit is the poetry of music.

Epiphanies

My body is corpse of rotten flowers –my soul an angst ridden Sisyphus—Where’s warmth of a woman gone? When can I smell sweet Jasmine on your hair? When can I caress your hair with trembling fingers—your lips are sweet wine—When can I immerse on them—I long to plant loving kisses on you—When can I kiss the vermillion on your forehead, the sign that you have a husband. When can I fondle your mounts of Venus, suckle your nipples like a child.

The Evangelists

They came to my house with two books. I thought they were giving it for free. Then they said the books cost 200 Rupees. They asked please help them to have lunch. To my irony I didn’t have a single paisa in my pocket. I told them that, they went away angrily without believing me. I thought of celebrity evangelists and I thought of them. All beg in the name of Christianity. When I was having a good job, I was liberal with my money and I used to dish out hefty sums for Christian work. Now I am penny less.

Resurrection of Babel

Babel meaning an idiom of confused noises came from the Biblical Old Testament when people tried to build a tower reaching out to skies, God scattered them as nations and different tongues. Resurrection of Babel is an idiom meaning globalization of the English language with the spread of the internet and social media. As an example: resurrection of Babel is synonymous with the coming of the New World Order the Illuminatium, the World of Abundance and Light for all as prophesied by the Illuminati.

Britney