Friday, July 29, 2005
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Also in news, There's a Clean-up Drive on Monday at 9:30am( I think).Check with someone better informed.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Blabberwocky is stunned. The BlabberBoard, it seems, was sacrificed to thunder lightning and rain on the day of the BA admissions. An abandonment of this sort to weather fit only for the darkest corners of Hell has cut us to the quick. Indeed, we have been rendered blabberless at this colossal act of treachery. We might even bawl. So there.
However, good news! The Board has been wiped and dried and will start dishing out the usual trash as soon as we get enough intellectually-bankrupt freshers to contribute. (It appears everyone else has wised up by now). True to our stringent quality control, this semester too will see a lack of creativity of the worst sort. After all, we have a standard we never rise above, and it shall be maintained always.
We are delighted to have been informed that we have now become, among other things, an Agony Aunt column. Anything to attract more readers, we say. (Readership was last estimated at 2 editors, the Agonised, 1 Bob Kane wannabe, and the department dog). So, Angry? Lonely? Hurt? Depressed? Suicidal? Maniacal? Ecumenical? Grammatical? Indefinite article? Worry not. Write us at The BlabberBoard, c/o Blabberwocky. Oh, and by the way, do remember the liberal donations.
And now to the freshers (heh heh). We recommend copious quantities of the Jeevesian Pick-Me-Upper before you set eyes on Blab (or rather thick dark glasses. Opaque, preferably). Also, to reiterate, our Cult of Anonymity is now the stuff of legend – in spite of the few determined idealists who are still fighting, in vain, we may add, to preserve their right to individual expression. Therefore, if you’re writing for Blabberwocky, Anonymity is Guaranteed. Trust us, you’ll need it. Of course, if you want to put up bad poetry and be the butt of all jokes for the next fortnight, you’re welcome. We don’t mind a good butt ourselves.
On a more serious note, we have been observing with no little concern this disturbing habit of teachers to unleash examinations left right and centre. What with PROTESTS of all kinds being in vogue this season, we think we should protest against this highly inconvenient practice. So, Blabberwocky welcomes protest literature in prose, poetry and drama. Interesting protest names will receive special mentions. Some helpful tips – Stuff you can protest against: the government, fascism, any more Matrix movies, Doulas cough syrup, the editors’ sense of humour et al.
By the way, did any of you watch LIVE 8?? History is being created. What are we going to do?
Kanti & Sudipto
P.S. Be cool. Check out the BlabberBlog at theblabberwocky.blogspot.com. It rocks. Grab your invites while they last!!
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Friday, July 15, 2005
- Swapanda on Renaissance Political Thought!!
“In the 18th century opera-houses, some people were fighting, some people were wandering backstage and some people were eating fruit.”
- Tintinda, on Englishmen and The Beggar’s Opera
“Try not to use the acronym for the Oxford History of English Literature – O Hell!”
- SukChau, in form.
“For a long time I have been taking classes with two people. Sometimes three. This is so disconcerting.”
- PB, on being faced with a class of 40-odd.
Dibyajyoti: “He goes to Hell…”
SukChau: “Yes. But he doesn’t stay there, poor
-SukChau, wanting to know the story of The Divine Comedy.
Well, this (along with other, equally cheap potshots at profs) appeared on the BlabberBoard on the 1st of April, 2005, and created quite a stir, believe you me. It seems we haven't lost our flair for yellow journalism yet, eh?
Today being All Fools’ Day, Blabberwocky will carry highly objectionable remarks and expletives. Please feel free to feel offended.
P.S. Blabberwocky is not responsible for the standard of drivel it carries today. All responsibility is merely coincidental.
P.P.S. Blabberwocky’s now legendary ideal of anonymity may or may not be adhered to.
And now, here are the much-debated comments.
Critically analyse and creatively ruminate over the lost locks of Tintinda …
- Who cares why he did it!?! He’s looking DAMN cute!!
- They were beginning to look like a new species of fungus.
- Overheating, mebbe???
- “Rape of the Lock” – someone calling himself Samson Agonistes (methinks this was Samantakda).
- The “lion” minus the mane, ehh?!! (Rafatda, I think)
- Licentious lice.
- The locks were growing inwards.
- They were getting in the way during karate classes!!
- HIGHLY UNFAIR – first he looked like a college kid, now he looks like a schoolboy. Gives him ample scope to sneak up on people discussing him.
- The imagined existence of his locks as knitting yarn for his innumerable pet cats.
- And this one was suggested by the man himself –
“Hadst thou…been content to seize
Hairs less in sight, other hairs than these.” !!!
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Please note: We think our editorial was rather cool.
Blabberwocky is Overjoyed, Ecstatic, and Shocked out of its Smelly Socks to announce that readership has increased, from a previous high of 2 (editors included) to a staggering 7 and a half. The editors claim full credit for this phenomenal upsurge of interest in the inane and demand an immediate refund on their overheads – Rs.14/- for the cello tape and a madur for Rimidi. The pins come free.
It is with a sense of Doylesque beguilement that we note the tendency of BlabLit towards anonymity. You actually believed our “anonymity is guaranteed” bull. It amazes us. We at Blabberwocky feel this is a determined stand in the denying of intellectual property rights. We’re still unsure of exactly how.
In keeping with this recent and evidently popular tradition, therefore, the editors shall henceforth also remain anonymous. We think that’s a rather cool idea.
Blabberwocky’s come out with some great stuff these past few days. We’ve had a triptych cartoon by Anon; a Song for Seventeen Paise by , coincidentally, Anon; severe meditations on the sense of humour of hammers, again by Anon; and a very boring newsletter of the Be Serious Society (founded, among others, by Anon). Which makes one wonder - how, with this enormously talented Anon character around, did Soumik and Aritra ever manage to get put up?
So keep sending us radicalchics and salmonofdoubts. Especially if they’re by Anon.
Now then, here's a sneak preview of the imminent assault on the collective Judean senses, viz., THE EDITORIAL.......
" ..... Write.
Kanti & Sudipto
P.S. Be cool. Check out the BlabberBlog at theblabberwocky.blogspot.com.
Grab your invites while they last!! "
To read more of the scintillating new editorial, rush to your nearest BlabberBoard (or pay me some money and I'll mail it you).
Written with appologies to Douglas Adams and Shakespeare
ACT I,scene i
Enter Slartibartfast and Trillian
Trillian: Here, Slartibartfast. What's up dear?
Slartibartfast: Trillian, speak to Eddy. Quickly (impatient) or we'll hit a star, pronto pronto.
Eddy: You rang.
Trillian: Hey Eddy; be happy be good for once; Prepare the ship! Do what Slartibartfast (oh what a Hunk! ) says. He knows best. Take us through this asteroid belt quickly, and mind the...ah...black hole on the left there.
Enter Arthur, Ford and Marvin
Arthur: Ah! Trillian I see you're working. Where's Slarti?
Trillian: Go away, get back to your room.
Arthur: Where is he, the old town planner? (Aside) Very clever with town planning he is. See he doesn't start with the buildings, he actually starts with the dirt. He says it gives you that individual flair.
Trillian: Can't you see we are trying to save the ship. Go back to your space. If you don't go we will never get through this asteroid belt and we'll hit that black hole on the left. What care these asteroids have for the great President Beeblebrox? To your space. Silence, we're working.
Ford: Great but just remember it's the President we have aboard.
Trillian: There is no other that I love more than myself. If you are able by some art to command these asteroids to their own quarters and make them give up and insult some other weirdly craft. No...I thought not, so look happy and just sod off.
Arthur: I have great faith in thee Slartibartfast. He has never crashed, he knows the ropes, he'll pull us through. A bit like Qantas when you think about it.
Trillian: Steer it gently Eddy steer her, bring her back to main course. Eddy be careful they are monstrous asteroids, careful, steer her right...no left...now left...left a bit more...too much...back right...
Eddy: Would you stop it I know my job, I don't need some one to tell me what to do. Hey guys don't you realise I'm Eddy your friendly shipboard computer here to help YOU and make our journey as comfortable as possible.
Trillian: Shut-up, Eddy what was that a bump, a scrape, perhaps the BLACK HOLE.
Arthur: Stop it you...you dog. I curse you!
Trillian: If you think yourself so clever then why don't you help. Do some work. All the trip you sit in your space playing with that silly thing in your ear.
Arthur: It's not silly it's a Babble fish I might tell you and a very good one at that...bred on the shores of - well I don't know, some bloody good place far off in that part of the galaxy where they wear there skin inside out. I think your a wimp and are scared, Squirede cat sitting on a lion's mat. I indeed do think we will get sucked into the black hole and we will all die.
Trillian: Be quiet! Eddy.
Eddy: Hello there, you rang. Is there anybody there who wants some Tea? I have just put the kettle on.
Trillian: What are you making tea for at a time like this? Can't you see, or haven't you been steering. We are going towards the BLACK HOLE. Eddy now pay attention. Do a uey and get us out of here.
Eddy: No use darlings, there is no way out of this. Nice knowing you guys but I'd like to say guys now would be a good time for you all to gather around in a circle and say a few mantras or discuss what you think happens after you die.
Trillian: A breeze I feel, my body its warping, softening and bending unusual directions. Arthur stop acting like a penguin. My foot has drifted into the back of the console...where's my left arm...Hey Zaphod that's not fair.
Arthur: I see Zaphod you just go and don your peril sensitive glasses and not do anything.
Zaphod: Hey look monkey it's OK by me if you wish to splay yourself all over this cool cabin and turn yourself into funny shapes but just don't do it while I'm watching. Look can't you see I'm in the middle of a crisis, what with my arm flying off with that towel over there...
Eddy: Hello guys I hope you are enjoying the trip. We have entered the black hole and what a pretty sight it is outside, there goes Dame Edna, such pretty colours. Everything out there.
Arthur: Look at us this is getting ridiculous...my arm.
Zaphod: Guys this is great fun but it seems to have the sort of effect on my head as a Pan Galactic Gargleblaster. Ouch!
Ford: Mercy on us dear God save us. Goodbye life, goodbye Arthur, Goodbye Zaphod, goodbye all, goodbye. I'll take the shuttle craft and see you guys on the other side a bit latter, ie Heaven. Ciao.
Eddy: I should like to inform you all at this moment in time that I am not equipped with any shuttle craft but I have booked some to be placed on board when we next dock into a service station.
Arthur: I'm staying to protect the president.
To be continued...(ie,if anybody wants it to)
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Dreamland in B/W
“Literature affects our lives”, said my father beatifically, “by making our lives illusory. Everyone thinks he’s great. Which is a good thing.” The Megalomaniac Effect. When I was young(er?), the source of all my dreams and nightmares was Enid Blyton. Kirrin Island and the Enchanted Forest, I now find, are my retrospective halcyons. Indeed, so great was their effect on me that I once indignantly decided to stop reading Blyton for I knew I’d never be able to swim to Kirrin. With age, thankfully, such stupid notions have vanished, as have my swimming abilities. But the faraway trees of the mind renew their vigour with nostalgic chunks of childhood. Literature makes me happy.Sometimes, of course, literature can have unhinging effects most detrimental to body and soul. People seem to go insane after experiencing what is now in most psychoanalytical circles called a “Shock of the Rings”. Victims start having mock-epic delusions of grandeur (every third statement is followed by a bellowing “Today we fight!”) and an abhorrent propensity to speak in tongues. A note to you, dear reader, if you are an hapless Elf-apparent – you are not J.R.R.Tolkien. Nor are you descended from a Numenorean prince. So spare us the nazg1. As the Harvard Lampoon puts it, we’re bored of the rings.Once in a long while, literature springs up behind us and takes us unawares by creating out of airy nothing great wisps of life we simply cannot do without. Conan Doyle was bombarded with abuses and requests to bring his hero back from the oblivion of Reichenbach. Such was the impact of Holmes on the late Victorian mind they could not imagine a London without him! Even today, the National Abbey Building Society, which occupies the near-mythic address of 221B Baker Street, employs a secretary to look after the personal effects and answer the private correspondence of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Holmes has fosbury-flopped his way over the narrow domestic walls of literature and stepped into sacral reality. Like Santa Claus, he has become a quasi-cultic figure ingrained for ever in the popular consciousness. Holmes is dead. Long live Holmes.The plot, as they say, thickens.2The trouble with Thomas Carlyle (other than his sentences, which are purpler and longer than most modern abridged histories of English literature) is his failure to include that most earthshaking of revolutionaries in his list of heroes3 – the Literary Critic. In Gustave Flaubert’s words, “A man is a critic when he cannot be an artist, in the same way that a man becomes an informer when he cannot be a soldier.” The effect literature has on this distinguished breed is Harmful bordering on the Fatal. Every theory seems to have a counter-theory, every new fiction is but a footnote to existing texts, and if they had their way, Post-Structuralist critiques of the Motionlessness of Pseudo-Modern Lyric Poetry would be part of the school curriculum. Of course, the cumbersome task of eliminating the author altogether troubles critics no more – Roland Barthes did that years ago4. In fact, that is what a critic is. A critic is a dead author. We need more critics.Bestsellers affect our lives in various ways. Three of my Sidney Sheldons keep the dresser from tippling over, and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix serves as heavy artillery in deterring pesky little cousins from nosing about my room. Strange thing this, about Harry Potter. Three absolutely brilliant books, and then that Rowling woman had to give in to that “most vulgar of art’s temptations: that of being a genius”5, or being called one, at least. Which is why her books have started setting benchmarks in the paperweight industry. In this respect they receive tough competition from those immortal Mills ’n’ Boonses that make me appreciate the comforting, mundane, tall-dark-handsome-enigmatic-lover-who-turns-out-to-be-a-Bolivian-guerilla-less life I lead. Flannery O’Connor once said, “Everywhere I go, I'm asked if I think the university stifles writers. My opinion is that they don't stifle enough of them.” And that seems to be that.Perhaps literature makes us all better human beings. It sensitizes us, perhaps. Makes us thinking, intellectually-greased people. Helps us understand the plight of our fellow man, woman, child and small furry creature from Alpha Centauri.Then again, maybe not. Reading literature may often be a health hazard. Wodehouse leads to apoplectic fits if taken in large doses, Joyce can be optically debilitating after Chapter 1 (“Bronze by gold heard the hoofirons, steelyrining imperthnthn imperthnthn.”6), and Jane Austen is almost as effective as Auschwitz7. There are remedies, of course. Sleep and rest. Charles Dickens. Lewis Carroll. Sleep and rest. And poetry.“Poetry makes nothing happen”, wrote Auden. Perhaps it doesn’t. But it is beautiful. It is liquid bright and sparkling. Literature need not stop a tank. It needn’t even try. Literature is, and that is all. The rest, as they say, is silence. W.H.Davies, in his poem “Leisure”, writes “A poor life this is if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare.” In Shaw’s words, “If I could live my life over again I’d catch more butterflies.” Literature lets me stand and stare. It whisks me away to the realm of the Dreaming. And most importantly, it allows me to catch more butterflies.8
1 ‘Ring’, in Elvish or Gibberish or something.
2 Holmespeak. Using such phrases in quotidian speech affords the impression of schizophrenia.
3 Thomas Carlyle. Of Heroes and Hero Worship. Bring your own pillows.
4 See Roland Barthes’s “Death of the Author”. Then see a reliable shrink.
5 Read Jorge Luis Borges’s “The Approach to Al Mutasim”. On second thought, don’t.
6 James Joyce. Ulysses. p. 256. Any other page will do admirably. Every page is equally incomprehensible.
8 “Those out may pout.Those in will grin.”From Henry Carey’s “A Lilliputian Ode On Their Majesties’ Accession”. Desperately wanted to put that in somewhere!
This post is not an attempt to convince all of you to take up Middle English, only for you to support Teleute and myself in our efforts at taking up the same.If you can think of any reasons why the Board of Studies has any right to prevent us from learning about Arthur and the rest of the Medeival gang please do try and convince us that we are wrong, or else help us persuade the Board of Studies...