the double edged sword
of being lazy and being bored
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose or topaz or arrow of carnations the fire shoots off:
I love you as certain dark things are loved, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant never blooms but carries hidden within itself the light of those flowers, and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the dark earth.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving
but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep, it is your eyes that close.
Today Google celebrates Shakuntala Devi’s 84th birthday. She was popularly known as the “Human Computer”, was a child prodigy, and mental calculator. She passed away on April 21 2013, she was 83 years old. Her achievements include:
- In 1977 in the USA she competed with a computer to see who could calculate the cube root of 188,132,517 faster (she won). That same year, at the Southern Methodist University she was asked to give the 23rd root of a 201-digit number; she answered in 50 seconds. Her answer—546,372,891—was confirmed by calculations done at the U.S. Bureau of Standards by the Univac 1101 computer, for which a special program had to be written to perform such a large calculation.
- On June 18, 1980, she demonstrated the multiplication of two 13-digit numbers 7,686,369,774,870 × 2,465,099,745,779 picked at random by the Computer Department of Imperial College, London. She correctly answered 18,947,668,177,995,426,462,773,730 in 28 seconds. This event is mentioned in the 1982 Guinness Book of Records.
Happy birthday Shakuntala!
Had fun with my buddy Grover at Sesame Street today.
I don’t know what to make of the term “immigrant fiction.” Writers have always tended to write about the worlds they come from. And it just so happens that many writers originate from different parts of the world than the ones they end up living in, either by choice or by necessity or by circumstance, and therefore, write about those experiences. If certain books are to be termed immigrant fiction, what do we call the rest? Native fiction? Puritan fiction? This distinction doesn’t agree with me. Given the history of the United States, all American fiction could be classified as immigrant fiction. Hawthorne writes about immigrants. So does Willa Cather. From the beginnings of literature, poets and writers have based their narratives on crossing borders, on wandering, on exile, on encounters beyond the familiar. The stranger is an archetype in epic poetry, in novels. The tension between alienation and assimilation has always been a basic theme.
The world carries on without you
But nothing remains the same
I’ll be lost without you
Until the last of days
Last of Days, A Fine Frenzy