- Kolkata, West Bengal, India
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Sunday, 27 January 2013
Tempus fugit. A fortiori. Time flies. With stronger reasons. On 19th December 1910, a supercilious penman named Jean Genet was born in
Paris, and with his heretical pen, stultified
all the vulpine and lupine hegemony of the jackanapes of his contemporary
literary world. A thousand thousand gun salutes to this plenary Quixotic for
the veracious proclivity of his adroit pen, on behalf of us, on his birth
An illegitimate child abandoned by his mother, Genet began to write while imprisoned for burglary. Apart from his first novel ‘Our Lady of the Flowers’ (1944) portraying an underworld of thugs, pimps and hustlers; and the ‘Miracle of the Rose’ (1945-46) telling of his adolescence at a notorious reform school; perhaps his most demented polemic is ‘The Thief’s Journal’ (1949) recounting his life as a tramp, pickpocket and prostitute. Genet does not write about homosexuality. He writes as a homosexual --- sans defense, sans justification, sans repentance or a plea for social understanding. His taste and activity as a thief were related to his homosexuality that had set him apart in solitude in his society. To him the prison embodied freedom --- freedom from heterosexual taboos, freedom from bourgeois preoccupations of glory and wealth, and it united him in abjection with the humiliated and the deprived sections of humanity. He became a leading figure in avant-garde theatre with just five plays --- ‘Deathwatch’, ‘The Maids’, ‘The Balcony’, ‘The Blacks’, and ‘The Screens’ --- stylized Expressionist dramas designed to shock and implicate an audience by revealing its hypocrisy and complicity in an exploitative social order. Admired by the Existentialists, he was the subject of Jean-Paul Sartre’s historic and adulatory biography ‘Saint Genet’ (1952).
Today, as we should doff our hats verily in honour to this genius; we also must vow to proscribe every single puerile and jejune pen-shit of each such asinine writer, who itself is an astringent bane, a stigma, an onus --- in the literary territory. Thereby, in culmination, heralding an adage for the non-cerebral mediocre readers before choosing books to buy : “Caveat emptor.” Let the buyer beware!
“You are too old to be influenced by me.” --- Such was the audacious and candid opinion of a then-unknown James Joyce merely in his mid-twenties, to the already iconic mellow-aged contemporary literary titan W. B. Yeats. Such truths are eternal. And such truths do we too believe in. So we herald our readers as well as writers to --- Be Audacious ! Be Anomalous ! ! Be Reactionary ! ! ! When today’s reader-writer world has become entirely ‘of the mediocres, for the mediocres, by the mediocres’, where there are few ‘cerebral readers’, and even fewer ‘cerebral authors’; here, on our behalf, is the eponymous debut of this web-magazine, bruiting some authors and artists, who are tirelessly lyminalising the alternative paradigm shifts of counter-contemporaniety in their contrapuntal creations. This e-zine, with its neo-literature, fruitfully resonates better for those very few cerebral readers, as a balancedly blended synchronization of some peerless cerebra and their respective reflections --- an astounding compendium of the writers’ as well as of the readers’ minds, eventually culminating into such a cluster of polemics which exposes a race that is often guilty of being laden with the vain legacy of mythologizing mediocrity, and eulogizing them underrating the true literary prodigies. The gospel truth of history that we, the Bengalees, as a race, have failed to make our gamut of literary genii (namely --- Dhurjotiprasad Mukhopadhyay, Kamalkumar Majumder, Jagadish Gupta, Amiyabhushan Majumder, Manik Bandopadhyay, Satinath Bhaduri, Gopal Halder, Nareshchandra Sengupta, Ramesh Sen, Asim Ray, Sandipan Chattopadhyay, Subhash Ghosh, Subimal Misra et. al.) arrive at the home-shelves of the foreign readers, is a shame unpardonable. We, the Rebellare-Team, ourselves being Bengalees, have dared to betray the audacity here to raise erect an unforeseen era of creativity, invoking as well as defying simultaneously, the timeless aura of our unquestionably cerebral creative heritage of ‘alternative literature’, with our ‘wea-pen’, as a rebel army, in this regard, as if to atone for this sin of our clan. Hats off to us! All hats verily off to us!