It’s 1945...The travelling commentator gives local chiefs a tour of the equipment, showing off this latest British technology, and explains the aims of the film show.
The emphasis on “repatriation,” of an Australian Aboriginal bark art or the Indian Koh-i-Noor diamond, is contemporaneous with the liberal mass migration of our globalised, connected world.
Wilde’s tomb was covered in red lipstick kisses and a young goth man sat at its base reading a book of poetry.
Why did Shakespeare – and not his contemporaries like Christopher Marlowe or Thomas Kyd – “go viral?”
As astrophysicists and avid science fiction fans, we naturally find the prospect of interstellar colonization intriguing and exciting
The clouds leak constantly. I imagine someone doing laundry up in the sky, trying to wash dark smudges from the rain clouds, wringing them dry into white fluff once again. The clouds have no shame. They weep constantly, not caring that all eyes are turned towards them.
Julien Columeau is a compelling story teller. And like Scheherazade, he takes his readers on various journeys – through the dingy alleyways of Lahore’s sex markets, across the incredible dense psychological forests of the Amazon, into the inevitable gloom of mere existence in urban Europe.
Standing in the central square of the Bijlmermeer looking up at the statue of Anton de Kom as people milled around me, walking to and fro, I blended into the background as a young Black man in one of the most diverse areas of the city.
“On the inclined plane of immorality, France is descending with an ever-accelerated speed, till it seems to have almost reached the lowest point of depravity.” Such is the witness of a faithful Frenchman. On such principles we cease to wonder that Paris is the centre of intrigues, the patroness of vice, the asylum of all infamy.
I was eating at an outdoor table on the zocolo when the kid approached me and stopped at my table, his words spewing forth, all business. “Mister, you want your shoes shined. Three pesos, mister, I shine your shoes. Okay?” It didn’t matter that I didn’t answer him right away. The kid with the San Francisco Giants cap that was too big on his head squatted and set up his kit. A rag draped over two fingers was ready to dip into the tin of brown polish.
A breeze in a nearby museum, the Gallery of Contemporary Art, that had as a centerpiece a Basquiat painting of dirty yellows and reds, with a black anthropocentric figure made of thick lines, an abstraction, a negation of the plump oil-rich bodies of the classic Italian paintings of the main gallery. The only black figure in the building seemed to leap like a jazz fugue note in an orchestra.
Can you ever imagine your bedroom in India and your kitchen in Myanmar. Isn’t it bizarre and wouldn’t it be strange to know that your home is divided not between family members or even relatives but between two nations? As bizarre as it sounds they exists!
I drive east toward the coast. It is not long before I am on that high, snaking road that I remember vividly from the days when my brother and I would be sitting in the backseats, arguing about whose tape would be played on the stereo or else asking again and again how long it would take until we got to wherever we were going.
I’ve made the trip and am currently sitting in the hotel lobby waiting for everyone to go Chez Leon for our farewell dinner. Over at the bar, a group of Scotsmen slam Guinness on the counter, raving about a run-in with two English men. A literal run-in.
Shelburne Falls is cold, bright and distant, coated in the sleep of nightfall and the blinking watch of the Great Bear and Little Bear. There are no streetlamps here. Only endless frames of trees and ice leading to a house with an attic and a wraparound porch.
Can one walk into a sleepy town in the early hours of morning and feel like one has entered a novel? A bodily jerk on the electric rickshaw has thrown one into a story and shaken away all vestiges of daily life, that have to be reclaimed as phone chargers and bills in handbags. One’s erstwhile chronicles will find no co-ordinates in the fictional life of this small, nondescript border town in rural Bengal.