Saturday, September 13, 2008

Somewhat Conceited Apology/Explanation for this Blog

Why another blog when there are far too many on the blogosphere, including a couple of my old ones as well? The thought started bugging me as soon as I registered for this new one.

Don’t misunderstand me; the primary urge behind creating this blog is not that of communicating to someone else, though most of the bloggers, I feel, are in desperate need to communicate, to reach out to a broader band of netizens (with subjects ranging from literature to lobotomy, sexual adventures to paranoidal ranting). I’m probably not an exception, but, to be honest, that is not my objective when I’m writing these lines. Of course, it would add to my delight if some like-minded person, after stumbling upon this blog, takes the pain of reading some of the posts, but primarily it would be mine, and would serve my purpose only, as a reference, or as a journal.

This blog is, as I’ve already mentioned, more of a personal kind and focussed on books and literature (occasional diversions are allowed though, by way of political thoughts, philosophy, or films). Of late, it has started dawning upon me that I probably resemble, to a certain extent, Funes, the unforgettable protagonist of a short story by Jorge Luis Borges. In that story, Funes, after his accidental fall from a horse, starts perceiving everything in full detail and remembers it all. Thereafter, he engages himself in a quixotic project of reconstructing a full day's worth of past memories, with all the minute details and particularities. The plot of the story has some other nuances as well, but that doesn’t concern me as of now. I sympathise with Funes for his mad pursuit after details, his effort to capture all the fleeting moments with perfect clarity, however impossible it might be. I sympathise with him because I too cherish the dream of embarking on a similar journey down the memory lane, some day.

Let me make myself a little less ambiguous at this point.

These days, I feel that all the books I’ve read in the past years are slipping away from my memory—their details, the way they have impacted me, and the way I’ve given meaning to those texts by my act of reading. This is a curious feeling, similar to vertigo—the feeling of looking into an absolute void from a great height. It makes me feel giddy and insecure. And hence, I want to recreate them now, those memories, a la Funes, before they are completely lost into oblivion.  I want to get rid of this vertigo, NOW!

This is by way of an explanation, or an apology, or both, may be.


Kushal Chowdhury said...


Rage said...

is there any need for an apology?