Witty Blurbs at the Back :)

Reflecting upon Dostoevesky, as one does, on a moonless night: His narrators living in oppressive states, with no resorts to any worldly indulgences, out there in the wild.

You fare far better than the doomed pawns, delineated in astute Cyrilic. But beyond these trivialities, there lingers about a familiarly frightening melancholy, firing off glimpses of past between the busy hours of the life

And yet I rate Dostoevesky tame, tamer at any rate, than the new horrors of the mankind we uncover daily

More NYT Bestsellers than you can count on both hands, per month !

N ?! Y ?! T?! Dishing out commendations with the imperialism of a drunk prince at the royal whorehouse.

Going with gross calculations, we must be the golden age for literature, having had such frequent embellishments and recognitions

If you chance to wander off in the upbeat district of the city, you'd always find an artisinal bookstore.

Inside, there is always this rack devoted to these 'wildifires', NYT Awardees.

And then, there are separate rows of more serious reading material

Any place with a different shelf layout, is being managed by a Finance bro, not a reader.

Aree Baba ! I don't intend to ridicule citizen D., that's blasphemy ! But I happen to take offense at the mindless fanfare. Amongst these motley queues, there are impostors, bigots, incels, tight-lipped academician, the neo-left 'better-future-for-our-kids' lovebirds

I find these people enchanting, I stay back and talk, regrettably nothing I say or they say is original or relevant enough to keep me there long

That's applicable of most things of late. NETFLIX, Hulu, Fox Inc., Amazon Prime, realms greater than literature, ailing of same maladies.

You can feel a certain limbo around here, because there exists the concept of 'tight deadlines'. Great art (or for that fact, science) takes sometimes near death experiences to manifest in one's consciousness (circling back to our Russian Author)

If we keep pushing forth more copies, more editions, more servings of the same limpid, uninspired art, nay content.. there soon approaches a saturation point beyond which, printing a book wouldn't remain a profitable trade off for chopping down a healthy trunk

All of the things that could've been said, would have been said

We will sit, quietly and stare back, with lifeless eyes