Reading Liz Phair’s review of Dean Wareham’s “Black Postcards” reminded me of a song I once used to like, “Slash Your Tires” by Luna. So I shall self-indulge:
This is from their 1992 album, Lunapark. If you like what you hear, I’d also recommend Penthouse.
Reading Martin Wolf on Bear Sterns, I rediscovered an old favourite:
Fire and Ice
By Robert FrostSome say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Do read Hari Balasubramanian’s fine post, Meelad’s Nationality. For some strange reason, it reminded me of Nissim Ezekiel’s fine poem, “Background, Casually.” There’s no reason for such a connection, but blogs don’t need to follow logical narratives, so here’s the poem in full, below the fold. I love the way it ends…
This is a lovely poem:
The Writers
by Amit ChaudhuriOn constantly mishearing ‘rioting’ as ‘writing’ on the BBC
There has been writing for 10 days now
unabated. People are anxious, fed up.
There is writing in Paris, in disaffected suburbs,
but also in small towns, and old ones like Lyon.
The writers have been burning cars; they’ve thrown
homemade Molotov cocktails at policemen.
Contrary to initial reports, the writers belong to several communities: Algerian
and Caribbean, certainly, but also Romanian,
Polish, and even French. Some are incredibly
young: the youngest is 13.
They stand edgily on street corners, hardly
looking at each other. Longstanding neglect
and an absence of both authority and employment
have led to what are now 10 nights of writing.
(First published in the Observer. Link via Salil Tripathi, during an email conversation about writing in Kolkata.)
In an exceptional speech, Steven Pinker tells us that “we are probably living in the most peaceful time in our species’ existence.”
Watch:
This, of course, is a TED Talk. There’s much more brilliant stuff here.
Reader Rachna Shetty brightens up my Monday with a lovely poem I’ll share with you:
A Contribution to Statistics
by Wislawa SzymborskaOut of a hundred people
those who always know better
-fifty-twodoubting every step
-nearly all the rest,glad to lend a hand
if it doesn’t take too long
-as high as forty-nine,always good
because they can’t be otherwise
-four, well maybe five,able to admire without envy
-eighteen,suffering illusions
induced by fleeting youth
-sixty, give or take a few,not to be taken lightly
-forty and four,living in constant fear
of someone or something
-seventy-seven,capable of happiness
-twenty-something tops,harmless singly, savage in crowds
-half at least,cruel
when forced by circumstances
-better not to know
even ballpark figures,wise after the fact
-just a couple more
than wise before it,taking only things from life
-thirty
(I wish I were wrong),hunched in pain,
no flashlight in the dark
-eighty-three
sooner or later,righteous
-thirty-five, which is a lot,righteous
and understanding
-three,worthy of compassion
-ninety-nine,mortal
-a hundred out of a hundred.
thus far this figure still remains unchanged.