So to beat the night time ennui that comes the silences that he had fallen out of the habit of, and also because he is too unsettled to use such time to read an actual book, he wanders, meanders, reading others' words on their readings.

The first one that catches his attention is a piece from a to be published book on Joseph Cornell by Mr. Foer, the recently annointed literary rockstar. He remembers his first encounter with Cornell's boxes a few years ago at the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC. These boxes, if he remembers right were displayed right next to Calder's crazy, because they are magical, mobiles, and also in close proximity to Andy Wharol's trashy vision of Marylin Monoroe.

And their effect on him was immediate, and subconcious; so much so that by the time he had to leave that city, out of an ammalgamation of shells, pebbles, algae, twigs, cardboard, yellowing newspapers and glue; he left behind a construction, for his friend and host, and this was perhaps nothing more than the continous extension of his backyard sandlot revieries that ended when he was thirteen

Later he encountered Joseph Cornell again, this time via the work of Octavio Paz, who had termed Cornell's boxes “slot machines of visions”. This encounter happened when he was browsing a curious book of poems in a bookstore, which was born as a result of a joint collaboration between Paz and his wife Maria Jose, with Paz's wife constructing boxes similar to Conrell's and Paz writing a poem for each new box. This process he later attempted to recreate using photographs in writing what he termed Image-ned Words.

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This review of a biography on Orson Welles (of Citizen Kane fame) is interesting for this interesting observation on the recently beautified St. Ronald:

This is also makes for interesting reading from an Indian context given that over there showbiz charisma routinely translates into political capital.

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Jane Smiley continues her exploration in the dense and magical forest of the novel by talking about "Zeno's Conscience", which is apparently in the same leauge as Kafka's 'Trial", and whose name I haven't encountered until this review. A funny qoute:

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A.0. Scott's essay in the NYT Book Review explains the process through which Toni Morrison's "Beloved" is chosen as the best American novel in the past 25 years. And yes, since I spend too much time catching up on book gossip like this, I must admit I haven't read any of the novels, perhaps beyond the first 5 pages, mentioned in this essay.

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For music we have Frank Zappa, whom I consider one of the most indespensible musicians of the last 25 years, for all his very very vulgar and very very postmodern work:

Translated by Hubert Moore and Nasrin Parvez

The poem, originally in Farsi, is for Fahimeh Taghadosi, executed in Iran, 1982. The writer is unknown. Farkhondeh Ashena, who recently escaped from Iran, heard it when she was in solitary confinement, and memorised it.

Dear Fahimeh

That day, that hot day in July, when the Evin loudspeakers called out your beautiful name and your lips smiled, your eyes said to your friends, 'So today is the day.'

You went and your walk was a perfume filling the corridor. Everyone gasped, everyone asked with their eyes, 'Is today then the day?' The Pasdar flung back an answer : 'Where is her bag? Where are her veil, her socks, her money?'

A rumour went round that you'd given a sign that yes, today was the day : 'I don't need my food,' you had said.

So tonight is the night. A silence hangs in the heart of it. Friends look at friends and tell themselves that perhaps you'll come back.

Fahimeh dear, tell us, spare a word for your friends. Is the sky sad where you are, does it weep? And the wind, does it ruffle your veil? Back here, the ward sweats for your news.

And a message gets through : wind-blown breathless dandelion comes from the mountains to say that clouds are massing up there and they're big with child.

Head held high, you are standing and waiting for this, for the clouds to open, for you to be mother of change.

Rifles crack. The moorland holds its breath at a star shooting across it.

It would be good to sing and go with friends to face the firing squad, to dance, to float in the rain.

In the long sea-silence, a wave lifts, oars clip at the water.

A young fisherman bringing his boat to land, rice-growers trudging home, they shape their lips to your name.

Your name is beautiful for young girls born in July.

Cattle out of their byres are dungy still, lambs Have stepped from last year as from an enclosure. Five or six men stand gazing at a rusty tractor Before carrying implements to separate fields.

I am travelling from one April to another. It is the same train between the same embankments. Gorse fires are smoking, but primroses burn And celandines and white may and gorse flowers.