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About Amit Varma

Amit Varma is a writer based in Mumbai. He worked in journalism for over a decade, and won the Bastiat Prize for Journalism in 2007. His bestselling novel, My Friend Sancho, was published in 2009. He is best known for his blog, India Uncut. His current project is a non-fiction book about the lack of personal and economic freedoms in post-Independence India.




Bastiat Prize 2007 Winner

Recent entries

Why Modi Must Learn to Play the Game of Chicken With Pakistan

This is a guest column published today in the Sunday Times of India edit page. There are few things as…

Tragedy Nights on the Cauvery

This is the 16th installment of Rhyme and Reason, my weekly set of limericks for the Sunday Times of India…

Haryana and Qatar

This is the 15th installment of Rhyme and Reason, my weekly set of limericks for the Sunday Times of India…

Poor Paris Hilton Started To Cry

This is the 14th installment of Rhyme and Reason, my weekly set of limericks for the Sunday Times of India…

The God Delusion of Arvind Kejriwal

A slightly shorter version of this is the 30th installment of Lighthouse, my monthly column for BLink, a supplement of…

07 July, 2007

Unspeakable beasts

Quote of the day:

I [am] a God of an unknowable evil. There are countless civilizations which have fallen beneath my horrible might. But in all my years I’ve never been so cruel to the universe as to produce an offspring. What unspeakable beasts are you?

Cthulhu.

And as I sometimes tend to do, let us move from unspeakable horror to sublime beauty in one swoop. Here’s Philip Larkin on the same subject:

This be the Verse—Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.

Man hands on misery to man/ It deepens like a coastal shelf. Even Cthulhu would be moved! My favourite Larkin poem, though, is probably “The Trees.” Something almost being said…  

(Chthulhu link via Facebook from Aishwarya. Previous posts on Eldritch horror: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14.)

Posted by Amit Varma in Arts and entertainment | Personal

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