Trailer up for Guru the movie. Must admit Abhishek Bachchan does have great screen presence.
Do we really want to be friends with the 'friends' from the past? Are their pictures in our friends list merely niggling reminders of inevitable drift? "Old Joy": Thoughts on Friendship in the MySpace Age ruminates on the like.
Celling Out talks about how bookstores have sold their soul, how insensitive folks can walk the aisles of bookstores talking loudly on their cellphone about last week's dinner (that's so true. At Landmark, I've had the strongest urge to walk up to such weasels and ask them to shut up. Unfortunately most of the pretentious versions of such weasels have turned out to be women. I don't know what that means but that's what I've noticed)
A while ago, one of my friends sent me a link to The Final Verdict (an ebook on Mother Teresa - not all flattering) asking me what I thought of it. I read several pages, was skeptical about the content and never got around to finishing it. On a rain-soaked Saturday like today I am inclined to read it entirely and then make my call.
For some reason, Thoreau's Walking has a lot of appeal today
It must be the surprisingly insistent Chennai monsoon...walking being the forbidden fruit...Life consists with wildness. The most alive is the wildest. Not yet subdued to man, its presence refreshes him. One who pressed forward incessantly and never rested from his labors, who grew fast and made infinite demands on life, would always find himself in a new country or wilderness, and surrounded by the raw material of life. He would be climbing over the prostrate stems of primitive forest trees.
Hope and the future for me are not in lawns and cultivated fields, not in towns and cities, but in the impervious and quaking swamps.
...
The civilized nations--Greece, Rome, England--have been sustained by the primitive forests which anciently rotted where they stand. They survive as long as the soil is not exhausted. Alas for human culture! little is to be expected of a nation, when the vegetable mould is exhausted, and it is compelled to make manure of the bones of its fathers. There the poet sustains himself merely by his own superfluous fat, and the philosopher comes down on his marrow-bones.
If you are stuck with stains on your silks, try shampooing them away. Yeah really.
Booklist and booklist for the addicts.
