About Me

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Kolkata, West Bengal, India
A FLAPDOODLE ... A COPROLALOMANIAC ... A DOPPELGANGER ... a blog when written when deranged for a man to give one gyp and what a gyp with a gusto ... this blog a mistaken ladder furnishes its one carrying self-lagoon ... rotten blog holding a periapt to vomit to laugh and cry and shout and yell ... a preface to the birth of an ablazed moon ... all white all gay all blood all sand ...

Friday, 10 August 2012

A COUNTER-POEM WHICH WAS A POEM BEFORE BEING WRITTEN

Before I was in love with her
I had the knowledge of ignorance
Now
After I had smelt the beautiful mole
At Psyche’s cunt
I have the ignorance of knowledge
Aaahh
What a jaundiced life
Is it
Yes
No
Maybe
May not be
I don’t know
Who knows
Heh
Who knows who knows
Good and evil are identical
Merely the two phases of the same life-cycle
Good is what evil was in past
Evil is what good will be in future
Cupid is cooking hell-broth
What an intelligent ass
Creativity sleeps between his legs
Priests are masturbating in temples
Behind the idols of deities
Thoughts and counter-thoughts
And counter-thoughts and counter-counter-thoughts
Nora Molly Bertha
The new manly women
Joyce Leopold Richard
The new womanly men
What can I do
In reality
Nothing
In fact even less than nothing
What do I sense about myself
Truly
Am I real
This truth is false indeed
I can be that only what I am being taught
What I am being made
In fact I am being prevented from being what really I am
And yet I am accepting it
I am being taught to accept it
Without even raising a single question
But why
Why why why I ask 
I need not cry
Need not lie
Need not even die
I am taught so
But what if I feel like crying
And lying and dying too
What a syphilitic society
Dreams are visible
Reality invisible
Where do I stand
Exactly
I don’t like me at all
And I can’t see at all why so many people like me
My outward ‘I’ often fails to do what my inner ‘I’ wishes
Very often
And my inner ‘I’ too
Who is my real ‘I’ then
Nilotpal
Or me
I prefer most to re-create my creativity
Continually
So I murder Nilotpal
Very often
At almost every probable opportunity
And so does he too
At least tries to do so
Sincerely
Honestly
Both of us
And then resurrect each other eventually
Again and again
And again and again and again and again and …
Thus creativity creates creator
In counter-action …
Creator creates creativity
In counter-action …
Creativity creates creator and so on and so forth
When shall I finish cooking the hell-broth
When shall she offer me her cunt again
When shall all these
Knowledge and ignorance
Good and evil
Thoughts and counter-thoughts
Dreams and reality
Visibility and invisibility
Creativity and creator
Begin to melt into utter insignificance
Yes it will
When one blue midnight
She will tell me foreplaying :
Look dear
Your pubic hairs have begun to turn white
Amen !

Monday, 18 June 2012

AN EXCERPT FROM THE PREFACE OF MY THESIS ON JAMES JOYCE'S 'ULYSSES'


In 2006, the poet laureate Andrew Motion recommended that all schoolchildren read ‘Ulysses’ as part of their essential grounding in English literature. One can see why. To read ‘Ulysses’ is to realize that the whole of twentieth-century literature is little more than a James Joyce Appreciation Society. Among the many writers who would have been different, or even nonexistent, without ‘Ulysses’, are Samuel Beckett, Jorge Louis Borges, Dylan Thomas, Flann O’Brien, Anthony Burgess, Salman Rushdie, Umberto Eco, Italo Calvino, Philip K. Dick and Bernard Malamud --- to name but a few. Even a writer as unlikely as George Orwell deliberately echoed the ‘Circe’ episode of ‘Ulysses’ in the play scene of ‘A Clergyman’s Daughter’. Joyce’s hectic layering of styles, his unstoppable neologizing, his blurring of viewpoint, his love of parody and imitation, his obscenity, his difficulty, obscurity and outright incomprehensibility was the beginning of the high modernist style in world literature. Andrew Motion was right in seeing ‘Ulysses’ as fundamental, but in another way his suggestion was absurd. ‘Ulysses’ is not a book for children. It is barely even a book for adults. The paradox of ‘Ulysses’ is that one needs to read it to understand twentieth-century literature, but one needs to read twentieth-century literature to build up the stamina to read ‘Ulysses’.
JOYCE ON IRISH STAMP

The problem starts with the title. Early readers of ‘Ulysses’, exhilarated and appalled after 800 pages, were often still left thinking “Why ‘Ulysses’?” The word ‘Ulysses’ is barely mentioned. The name is mentioned four times, twice in passing as a proper name, Ulysses Grant and Ulysses Browne, and twice as a brief mention among other heroes and notables. The occurances are cited below :---

  1. What softens the heart of a man, shipwrecked in storms dire, Tried, like another Ulysses, Pericles, prince of Tyre?[i]




David Lodge in ‘The Art of Fiction’ wrote that the title, as a clue to the allegorical nature of the book, was “the only absolutely unmissable one in the entire text”.[v] The solution, as we now know, after a century’s worth of scholarly investigation and Joyce’s own prompting, is that the book is an intricate allegory of the ‘Odyssey’ --- the hero being latinized from Odysseus to Ulysses. ‘Ulysses’ is divided into eighteen parts, or ‘episodes’ as Joyce scholars call them, each written in a different style and with a different Odyssean name, though the names themselves are not given in the text.
Each episode is assigned, tacitly, a colour theme, a dominant organ of the body, an hour, a setting, and other characteristics, though many of these remain a matter of scholarly dispute. The action takes place in Dublin on a single June day (June 16th 1904) and its three main characters are Leopold Bloom, Stephen Dedalus and Molly Bloom, who represent Ulysses, Telemachus and Penelope, respectively. Other characters and places also have their Homeric counterparts.
JOYCE ON IRISH 10 POUND NOTE

The problem is that one can know all of this and still be left thinking “Why ‘Ulysses’?” The choice of the ‘Odyssey’ seems somewhat arbitrary. Why not ‘Oedipus Rex’ as a background text? That way Bloom could be Oedipus, Molly Jocasta and Dedalus Tiresias (or someone else). ‘Ulysses’ is not so much a novel as a symbolic system, rather like a clock or a computer programme. Underlying the final, visible product, the time-telling or the computer display, is a corresponding machinery, the cogs or the binary code. Why did Joyce choose the ‘Odyssey’ for his code?

The answer is that it could hardly have been anything else. Joyce was from an early age deeply in love with the ‘Odyssey’. “The character of Ulysses has fascinated me ever since boyhood,” he wrote to Carlo Linati in 1920.[vi] As a schoolboy he read Charles Lamb’s ‘Adventures of Ulysses’, an adventure-yarn version of the story which presents, in Lamb’s words, “a brave man struggling with adversity; by a wise use of events, and with an inimitable presence of mind under difficulties, forcing out a way for himself through the severest trials to which human life can be exposed; with enemies natural and preternatural surrounding him on all sides.”[vii] Joyce said later that the story so gripped him that when at Belvedere College (he would have been between the ages of 11 and 15) he was tasked to write an essay on ‘My Favourite Hero’, he chose Ulysses. The essay title ‘My Favourite Hero’ actually appears in the 17th episode of ‘Ulysses’ :---


He later described Ulysses to Frank Budgen, in an interview in 1934, as the only “complete all-round character presented by any writer”.[ix]

Unsurprisingly therefore, this “complete man” surfaced as early as Joyce’s first major prose work --- ‘Dubliners’ --- of 1914. Joyce had originally planned that it would include a short story called ‘Ulysses’, the plot of which was based on an incident which took place in June 1904. Joyce was involved in a scuffle on St Stephen’s Green, Dublin, after accosting another man’s lady-companion, and was rescued and patched up by one Alfred H. Hunter. Hunter, according to Joyce’s biographer, Richard Ellmann, was “rumoured to be Jewish and to have an unfaithful wife”[x] --- in both of these respects a prototype for Leopold Bloom. In 1906, Joyce wrote to his brother Stanislaus : “I have a new story for ‘Dubliners’ in my head. It deals with Mr Hunter.”[xi] In a letter written shortly afterwards he mentioned its title : “I thought of beginning my story Ulysses but I have too many cares at present.”[xii] Three months later, on February 6th 1907, he had abandoned the idea, writing : “Ulysses never got any forrader than the title.”[xiii] The incident with Hunter was only written up later, in ‘Ulysses’ itself, in a passage at the end of episode fifteen in which Bloom rescues Dedalus “in orthodox Samaritan fashion” from a fight. The idea of Ulysses as symbolic hero --- and as a title --- was therefore present as early as 1906. Its centrality to the early plan for ‘Dubliners’ was revealed in a conversation with Georges Borach : “When I was writing Dubliners, I first wished to choose the title Ulysses in Dublin, but gave up the idea. In Rome, when I had finished about half of the Portrait, I realized that the Odyssey had to be the sequel, and I began to write Ulysses.”[xiv]
The figure of Ulysses could not therefore have been less arbitrary. He existed as a thread through all of Joyce’s prose works from ‘My Favourite Hero’ onward. He was there in embryo in ‘Dubliners’, was being considered halfway through ‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’, and burst out in his full, final and inevitable form in the work that bore his name. It was only after publication of ‘Ulysses’ in 1922 that Joyce was free of his ‘favourite hero’, and could allow his literature to expand to its ultimate extent. The book that came after ‘Ulysses’ was ‘Finnegans Wake’, a work not tied to one hero but inclusive of all heroes, not tied to one myth but including all myths, and using not one language but all languages. The tale of Leopold Bloom, modern-day wanderer and homecomer, is a timeless story illustrating the age-old theme of wanderers who long to return. Joyce himself, in his maturity blind like Homer but with mind’s eye undimmed, would return to the major themes and characters of ‘Ulysses’ by recycling them in the ever-circling book of dreams, ‘Finnegans Wake’.



[i] Joyce, James; ‘Ulysses’; Project Gutenberg edition; Scylla and Charybdis; (9327-9329)
Credits : e-book produced by Col Choat
E-Text No. : 4300
Release Date : 2003-07-01
Base Directory : http://www.gutenberg.org/files/4300/
Download Source : http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/4300/
This e-book is based on the pre-1923 print editions.
[Project Gutenberg, is a volunteer effort to digitize and archive cultural works, to encourage the
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[ii] Joyce, James; ‘Ulysses’; Project Gutenberg edition; Scylla and Charybdis; (10056-10057)
[iii] Ibid; Cyclops; (16032-16033)
[iv] Ibid; Penelope; (31404-31405)
[v] Lodge, David; ‘The Art of Fiction : Illustrated from Classic and Modern Texts’; Penguin (Non-Classics);
   London; 1994
[vi] Ellmann, Richard; ‘Selected Letters of James Joyce’; Faber and Faber, London; 1975
[vii] Pindar, Ian; ‘Joyce’; Hans Publishing; 2004; (pp.10-11)
[viii] Joyce, James; ‘Ulysses’; Project Gutenberg edition; Ithaca; (28481-28484)
[ix] Budgen, Frank; ‘James Joyce and the Making of Ulysses’; Indiana University Press; 1989; (p.258)
[x] Ellmann, Richard; ‘James Joyce’; Oxford University Press, Oxford; 1983; (p.162)
[xi] Ellmann, Richard; ‘Selected Letters of James Joyce’; Faber and Faber, London; 1975
[xii] Ibid
[xiii] Ellmann, Richard; ‘James Joyce’; Oxford University Press, Oxford; 1983; (p.230)
[xiv] Ellmann, Richard; ‘Selected Letters of James Joyce’; Faber and Faber, London; 1975

Tuesday, 10 April 2012

pages ... from … a … banned … diary


                        Now if you ask me ‘what is truth’, first you need to understand that ‘truth’ is ‘the opposite of what seems to be the faCt’, and not ‘what seems to be the fact’. Man invents god to mAsk his excuses under the omnipotence of god. Gods reside iNside

                        his head. I have told the ‘cunt’ ¾You are a white lie.” Only a whore’s cUnt

                        is purely unClaimed. GOd’s Pocket has beEn

                        picked. I have no time noW to shoulder god’s corpse. KIss your concubine. Shed blood. Indoor game. OuTdoor game. Daffodils. Tulips. THe

                        day dawns. Semi-feudalisTic aristocracy is dead. Semi-feudalistic aristocracy never dies. Long live semi-feudalistic aristocracy. Even more dead tHan alivE

                        than usual. Beckett told that. SophistIcation is synonyMous to bourgeoisie. Hit below the belt. NoAh’s ark indeed is an instrumental scheme to annihilate the imperialistic paradiGm. CrimEland.

                        Addictionland. White bitches. Watchdogs. An unique blade. God’s semen contains nO sperms anymore. Situations vacant. Gravediggers wanted. Bullets are Free

                        from gender-biasness. Wipe out the drops of sweat from Your fOrehead. Cherish the sUnset. Feel the moistuRe

                        of yOur Wife’s cuNt

                        with Your urinal bludder. The peOple will do the rest. We will become the people. What if yoUr appendix bursts out one cruel midnight?

                        The lightposts at the stReet-crossings conspirE for A counter-revolution. All at miDnight. CigarEttes buRn themselves. Sartre Camus Adorno Foucoult Castro Lukacs Said Beckett Hawking!

                        All upstarts. Where exactlY is the center Of gravity of yoUr

                        scroTum? I Have already been warned. Now I vomIt. There are wolves at every corNer of the roads. The vigil is inescapable. Incubus is in charge tonight. Hang zoon politoKon.

                        Hang zeitgeist. Sex is sumptuous. More when catered. Wait. Don’t trY tO escape. Give me a cigarette. Give me the manifesto. OUrs

                        is A countRy whEre

                        we have pRinted M. K. Gandhi on thE five hundred rupee note. Munnabhai told that. Ours is A race of chameleons. Communism has lost amiDst the weeds of pubIc hair. Socialism is felt at public uriNals only. Between idea and reality falls the shadow. Invest body. Earn money. Invest money. Earn love. Claim freedom of free sex. You are the monarch of all you survey. You are a Global

                        ciTizen. The NeHrus. The GandhIs. The TataS.

                        The Birlas. The AmbaNis. The MIttals. The Bajajs. The Dawoods. The Bin Ladens. The ClintOns. The Bushes. The Kennedys. The Fords. The Bachchans. The Khans. The KaPoors. The RAys. The Tagores. The Sarkars. BLissful exIstence. Peaceful co-exiStence. You are free. You are out of danger. Celebrate. Enter the ante-chamber. You are alone. I am Not alone. We are not alone. Is not she sweet? Make profit of her meat. Where have all the cerebral writers Gone?

                        This land is my land . . . your land. Which side aRe yOu oN? Crows are flyinG!

                        VultuRes Are flying! Who will dig The grave of capitalism? Do you know that JoHn Stuart Mill was defEated in the 1868 GReat

                        BriTain elections because He had publIcly proclaimed that he did not believe in god? Ideology of bourgeoiS

                        is the ideology of aNarchy. Cash Is the music of Labour in bOurgeois socieTy. It is inevitable for a culture to become bankruPt, when it is but A money-oriented cuLture; for no true culture, under no cIrcumstanceS, can ever be made a commodIty; and oNce you are raped by the bourGeois

                        culture, you get dehumanIzed. An artiSt’s

                        integRity is like a woman’s virginity; oncE lost, it cAn never be regaineD. Hemingway told that. Form of creatIve writing is form of life. SaNs story. Sans plot. Sans narration. Sans form. Assassin protaGonist.

                        Assassin antagonist. Let writing itself be attitude. Do not be content. Be audacious. Be anomalous. Be reactionarY. ModulatiOn of diction. The opportUnist’s

                        anus is always the Easiest to fuck. Do not be a Don QuiXote. Give blank cheque to none. The language of true creative writing must be Psychosomatic. It’s anti-aristOcratic, becauSe It’s Not neutral. A psychosomatic lanGuage

                        can never be neutral. It’s a corrosive language. Just like gasping. Rawness of language. NowadaYs a true penman need tO feel the bUrning waRmth

                        of the hot moon, to feel the Potency of fleShly voices that ask uneasY questions. IonesCo BurrougHs BaudelaIre JoyCe

                        Genet Eliot Nietzsche DalI NiloTpal RimbAud HegeL Sartre!

                        Quest¡ons af¿er quest¡ons af¿er quest¡ons af¿er quest¡ons af¿er quest¡ons . . .

Saturday, 25 February 2012

SANSNESS

           [The ageless Cumaean clairvoyant, Sibyl, presently lives as the house-lizard in my room. Earlier, she was the priestess presiding over the Apollonian Oracle at Cumae, a Greek colony located near Naples, Italy. It was she herself, who taught me that the word ‘sibyl’ comes via Latin from the ancient Greek word ‘sibylla’, meaning ‘prophetess’, and that there were eventually many Sibyls in the ancient world. When Nachiketa asked Yama about the meaning of ‘Death’, Yama taught him the ‘Kathopanishada’. Now, when I ask Sibyl about the meaning of ‘Eternity’, she teaches me the following.]


abandon hope
all ye who enter here
welcome to inferno
HOW MAN BECOMES ETERNAL
here are the twin gates of sleep
this gate of horn allows an easy exit
for shadows which are true
and it is through this gate of ivory
that false dreams or visions which in fact are illusions
are sent to living creatures by the spirits
HOW MAN BECOMES ETERNAL
north east west south
acheron cocytus lethe phlegethon styx
northeast northwest southwest southeast
woe wail oblivion flaming oath
HOW MAN BECOMES ETERNAL
the dead and the living travel on the same boat
they are the two tails of the same coin
the head is missing
no
the boat is the head
they are not dead
and they were never alive
am i alive
are you alive
am i dead
are you dead
are we dead
are we alive
HOW MAN BECOMES ETERNAL
clapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclap
shameshameshameshameshameshameshameshameshameshameshame
cheercheercheercheercheercheercheercheercheercheercheer
HOW MAN BECOMES ETERNAL
row on your skiff charon
ahh
poor old ferryman
what a filthy beard
there lurks cerberus
to dispute the way
merciless
nevertheless
remember psyche
follow her honeyed cake
HOW MAN BECOMES ETERNAL
ohh
what unforeseen fecundity
richness of invention
prolificness
impregnatibility
and of course
too overnice
ehh
what darkness
empty shades are passing
how vacant and infinite the space
HOW MAN BECOMES ETERNAL
and pus and blood and semen and sweat and vomit and
the images are all dumb
yet they are conveying secret pains
unseen sufferings
cursed souls
uhh
what silence
what obscure faces
what mystery
HOW MAN BECOMES ETERNAL
mine our your his her its their everyones noones anyones someones
conscience conscience conscience conscience conscience conscience conscience
is is is is is is is is is is is
dying dying dying dying dying dying dying dying dying dying dying
HOW MAN BECOMES ETERNAL
no
not dead
rather they are trapped
between life and death
why nilotpal why
why such hankering after eternity
you are alone
we are all alone
and we can no more sense
our todays tomorrows and yesterdays
are we alive
are we dead
are you dead
am i dead
am i alive
are you alive
HOW MAN BECOMES ETERNAL
the truth is that we are doomed
destined to damnation
at nowhere
even worse than nowhere
HOW MAN BECOMES ETERNAL
each everyday is a quest
floating upon the waves of time
yhh
what timelessness
what ethereal enigma
what vast emptiness
who can fill it up
and who can wash all bloodstains
from the blades of our teeth
silence is seldom anonymous
HOW MAN BECOMES ETERNAL
i will let you know
if thats what you want
that we are all trapped
yes
and damn well trapped too
between the beginning and the end
and the end and the beginning
between entry and exit
and exit and entry
and above all
HOW MAN BECOMES ETERNAL
welcome to inferno
abandon hope
all ye who enter here

Sunday, 29 January 2012

A GLIMPSE OF MY BOOKSHELF




Nilotpal's bookshelf: read


Wittgenstein's Mistress
This is Not a Novel
Vanishing Point
Reader's Block
The Last Novel
Hegemony or Survival: America's Quest for Global Dominance
9-11: Was There an Alternative?
The Chomsky - Foucault Debate: On Human Nature
What We Say Goes: Conversations on U.S. Power in a Changing World
Deterring Democracy
Interventions
A Briefer History of Time
The Universe in a Nutshell
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
Dubliners
James Joyce
Ulysses
Things Fall Apart
Finnegans Wake
The Interpretation of Dreams



Nilotpal Roy's favorite books »


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Sunday, 2 October 2011

আত্মজবানীর অংশ : পঞ্চম অধ্যায় থেকে দুটি পৃষ্ঠা


                   AvR iv‡Z mvš—vK¬R Avm‡e| Avgvi Kv‡Q| †hgb G‡mwQ‡jv, mvZ eQi Av‡Mi GK w`b|

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                   AvR iv‡Z mvš—vK¬R Avm‡e| Avgvi Kv‡Q| †hgb G‡mwQ‡jv, mvZ eQi Av‡Mi GKw`b|

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                   AvR iv‡Z mvš—vK¬R Avm‡e| Avgvi Kv‡Q| †hgb G‡mwQ‡jv, mvZ eQi Av‡Mi GKw`b|

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                   AvR iv‡Z mvš—vK¬R Avm‡e| Avgvi Kv‡Q| †hgb G‡mwQ‡jv, mvZ eQi Av‡Mi GKw`b|

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                   24/12/2007  t  ivZ  11-Uv  26  wgwbU

Friday, 16 September 2011

SUBIMAL MISRA : THE WRITERS' WRITERS' WRITER


                        As James Joyce is ‘the writer’s writer’, Subimal Misra is ‘the writers’ writers’ writer’. Writing since late 1967, he has hitherto remained inevitably unknown, as an off-the-beaten-track author like him should mandatorily be, in his own native land India, as well as among Bengali-language readers in his mother-tongue speaking state West Bengal. In the hitherto 44 year span of his writing-life, he has never ever allowed himself to print (despite being invited several times) even a single letter in any commercial periodical or any daily or journal of any establishment, always kept himself away from all sorts of media propaganda (like TV shows, Radio broadcastings etc.), felicitation meetings and award ceremonies (whether invited or not); and they have also remained wholesomely allergic to him, never risked to review any of his books throughout his entire life so far, nor do even dare to mention his name anywhere in their papers. He, the outcast, publishes and sells his own books, and never gives advertisements. As the immense magnitude of his ganglionic pen ranges from ‘samizdat’ via ‘tamizdat’ to ‘magnitizdat’, since ‘blue blouse’ through ‘aleatoric’ unto ‘degree zero’; he offers with effortless ease, a sojourn to cerebral literature.
                        He says that he is afraid of success, because if it comes in contemporaniety, he feels that whatever he is writing is not that much novel or unforeseen. He claims that his books are in no way ‘commodities’, and never prints the word ‘price’ in his books. It is printed as ‘Binimoy’ (exchange) and after that the phrase ‘Or what you as a reader of Subimal Misra think it should be’. In his own wors : “I am entirely an author of and exclusively for the Bengali little magazines. In the most ordinary sense, the little magazine of the Bengali language (nearly 2200 in number) is, in parallel to the establishments, a literary flow that publishes the writings of the authors keeping in tact their liberty, honouring their individuality; all the off-the-beaten-track writings in Bengali language are published chiefly in little magazines. But the number of true little magazines (in the most imbued sense of the term) that have some distinguished characteristic values, has lately come to almost a cipher. Even here, my stand is a bit awkward; I am not a parallel writer of the establishments, not parallel, rather mine is a reactionarily counter one. I do want to write, have written, am writing such pieces, to publish which even the little magazines will shudder in awe, and the establishments will never ever dare to touch them.”
                        His works, written with rebellious narrative forms as well as an anachronistic jumble of labyrinthine style and anomie-imbued content --- all these being the substance of the writer’s vision, symbolize modern man’s anxiety-ridden and grotesque alienation in an indifferent and hostile world. In the history of 700 years of Bengali literature, he is the only author who has experimented the most with form and language. He, a self-proclaimed disciple of Jean-Luc Godard, has been the first to employ Eisenstein’s ‘montage-technique’, to implement the ‘film-language’ in the arena of the Bengali literature; as well as to use Burroughs’s ‘cut-method’ in the narrative mode. His effervescently inventive narrative forms and multitudinous diversity of scattergun techniques using collage, cut-out, fusion, montage etc. enmeshing the ‘avant-garde’ underpinnings of his texts exhibit the endless process of interchange between his ‘language of thinking’ and ‘language of writing’. The myth of narrative has been vehemently rejected by him as he hates the age-old tradition of story-telling. His works are never thematic and in several cases merely handy repositories where his self-criticism is overtly severe, as are his fecundity of language and almost superhuman erudition. Almost all of his texts are polyglot in nature as he frequently quotes Latin, German, French and English, and even Sanskrit, and never offers a translation. In fact, his every single text deals with heterogeneous themes, and is imbued with contemporary socio-political-economical messages, thus symbolically illuminating upon the bourgeois-proletariat class dialectics. His writings seem indecipherably chaotic to the unprepared readers, as the riddles of his language are prone to trap his readers in their respective subconscious matrices of thought. Here language becomes a tendency, a phenomenon to which his readers fall preys as he lures them to psycho-penetrate into his language’s indigenous absurdity.

                        As he neither possesses nor knows computer, his encyclopaedic knowledge reflected in his writings speaks only of his voracious reading habit. He literally ‘lives together’ with books residing at a small 3-room apartment, 2 of which are loaded with nearly 15000 books, the other being his centenarian mother’s bedroom. Apart from Brecht and Sartre, he considers Proust, Dostoevsky, Kafka, Joyce and Borges his ‘soul’s companion’ for their cerebral fecundity. In every sense, he is the one and only anti-establishment author alive in the Bengali literature. With venomous language he attacks middle-class sentiment and rotten heaps of values. His every book is a cluster of polemics that exposes a race which is often guilty of being laden with a vain legacy of mythologizing mediocrity, underrating the true literary prodigies. Let us bruit this iconoclastic thinker, emblematic of post-post-modern times, who is his own adjective!