(via Https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UYa3_Ph7nHc)

अनन्त का छंद - 4

अनन्त का छंद – 4 प्रसन्न कुमार चौधरी मनुष्य का अस्तित्व क. सामान्य 45. मनुष्य के अस्तित्व की एक विलक्षणता यह है कि वह अपने विकसित मस्तिष्क के साथ जन्म ही नहीं ले सकता ।22 उसके मस्तिष्क का पूर्ण विकास जन्म के डेढ़-दो साल बाद जाकर सम्पन्न होता है । उसके अस्तित्व की इस विलक्षणता के कारण उसकी प्रोग्रेमिंग में एक फांक उत्पन्न हो जाती है । वह पूरी तरह नियोजित प्राणी नहीं है । नियोजन की यह कमी ही…

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MANDELA: A CELEBRATION

July 15 to 20, 2013

The Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture will mark Nelson Mandela’s birthday and Nelson Mandela International Day (July 18) with six days of commemoration.

Mandela: A Celebration is a special...

Real life, life finally uncovered and clarified, the only life in consequence lived to the full, is literature. Life in this sense dwells within all ordinary people as much as in the artist. But they do not see it because they are not trying to shed light on it. And so their past is cluttered with countless photographic negatives, which continue to be useless because their intellect has never 'developed' them. Our lives; and the lives of other people, too; because style for a writer, like colour for a painter, is a question not of technique but of vision. It is the revelation, which would be impossible by direct or conscious means, of the qualitative difference in the ways we perceive the world, a difference which, if there were no art, would remain the eternal secret of each individual. It is only through art that we can escape from ourselves and know how another person sees a universe which is not the same as our own and whose landscapes would otherwise have remained as unknown as any there may be on the moon. Thanks to art, instead of seeing only a single world, our own, we see it multiplied, and have at our disposal as many worlds as there are original artists, all more different one from another than those which revolve in infinity and which, centuries after the fire from which their rays emanated has gone out, whether it was called Rembrandt or Vermeer, still send us their special light. This labour of the artist, this attempt to see something different beneath the material, beneath experience, beneath words, is the exact inverse of that which is accomplished within us from minute to minute, as we live our lives heedless of ourselves, by vanity, passion, intellect and habit, when they overlay our true impressions, so as to hide them from us completely, with the repertoire of words, and the practical aims, which we wrongly call life. To put it briefly, this art, complicated though it be, is actually the only art that is alive. .... The work carried out by our vanity, our passion, our imitative faculties, our abstract intelligence, our habits, is the work that art undoes, making us follow a contrary path, in a return to the depths where whatever has really existed lies unrecognized within us. And of course it was very tempting to recreate real life and rejuvenate one's impressions in this way. But it called for all kinds of courage, including emotional courage.

Marcel Proust, 'Finding Time Again'. Translated by Ian Patterson.

Women scientists made up 25% of the Pluto fly-by New Horizon team. Make sure you share this, because erasing women’s achievements in science and history is a tradition. Happens every day. http://pluto.jhuapl.edu/News-Center/News-Article.php?page=20150712

Happy Birthday, Rousseau

For Rousseau’s birthday, 21 essential reads on education – Bertrand Russell, Susan Sontag, Noam Chomsky, Isaac Asimov, Kio Stark, Richard Feynman, and more:

A quiet spring weekend was suddenly shattered on Sunday when news of the “Panama Papers” investigation broke.

In the Shadow of the Trylon, New York World’s Fair, 1939, Stanley Rayfield

How Macedonia Became A Global Hub For Pro-Trump Misinformation

BuzzFeed News identified more than 100 pro-Trump websites being run from a single Macedonian town.

BuzzFeed News identified more than 100 pro-Trump websites being run from a single town in the former Yugoslav Republic.

Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration.

James Joyce in Araby

Song: “Lovesick Misery” by Sanders Bohlke

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