Analysis of Death of a Salesman

Death of a Sales Man by Arthur Miller is one of the prominent plays which won a Pulitzer Prize. The play depicts the life of an American Middle Class Family in pursuit of the great American Dream. Here I would like to analyze the play from various schools of literary thought.
Existentialism
The protagonist Willy Lowman can be compared to Albert Camus’ Myth of the Sisyphus where the Gods torture Sisyphus by making him roll a boulder all the way uphill to find that it rolls down again. Willy Lowman is forced to do a menial job for a selling company. The tragic hero of the play is a person in pursuit of the great American dream but fails to achieve and succumbs to suicide. Looking at him from Sartre’s existential point of view, we find him a bearer of existential angst. Plagued by the power of negative thinking, Billy relapses into existential solipsism. Billy’s character reveals an overarching narcissism.
Marxian Perspective
Looking at the play from a Marxian perspective we find the play is littered with oppressive symptoms of a leviathan, showing the perils of a capitalist society. The proletariat are struggling workaholics. We find a society that is inhuman and dehumanizing. Society is fragmented and proceeds on bettering oneself with the forsaking of one’s neighbor.
Psychoanalysis
I would like to introduce the Lacanian concept of the mirror stage. The mirror stage in psychoanalysis is a stage where the child enters the realm of language and becomes a self, a subject. The mirror stage is an arena where Billy’s psyche conflicts with the aspirations and goals set by him. The mirror becomes an absurd theater of life. From a Jungian perspective, Billy Lowman is an archetype of a fool. He is living in an illusory demented world. I would also like to make a comparison of Billy Lowman with Cervantes’ Don Quixote. The follies of Don Quixote at one point of time were denigrated as a fool’s conquest for utopia. Don Quixote in psychoanalysis can be considered as a narcissistic hero who creates the myth of existential anarchic living. Billy Lowman is a tragic, stoic hero who becomes a king of neurotic behavior.
Feminism
Billy’s wife Linda Lowman is an essence of the sacred feminine. She can be compared to a mother Goddess who tries to balance with the realities of life and who strives to cope up with Billy’s dementia. She is an archetype of a classic American middleclass woman who tries to cope up with the realities of life.
Postmodernism and Post structuralism
Postmodern perspectives analyze how binary divide is created in language. Certain structures are privileged signifiers and others are marginalized. In Death of a Salesman we find capitalism and the bourgeoisie to be privileged signifiers where as Billy Lowman and the proletariats are marginalized. Capitalism and the bourgeoisie become structures that can be read as texts of interpretative deconstruction.

 

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Analysis of Milan Kundera’s Art of the Novel

The Depreciated Legacy of Cervantes
In the beginning of the depreciated legacy of Cervantes, the author makes the assumption that the whole History of Europe extending up to America has plunged into a crises with the development of science and technology.
As a novelist Kundera states that the founder of Modern Europe is Cervantes the author of Don Quixote.
The European novelists focus on various themes. With Cervantes it was adventure. With Balzac it was man’s rootedness in History. With Flaubert it was the incognita of the day. With Tolstoy it was intrusions into the irrationality of human behavior.
The theme of the European Novel lay in the passion to know that is the concrete character of life.
The novel began to have an own phases of life which was renegade with Nietzsche’s theme: Death of God. With Cervantes, truth became baptized as a dead fossil and there emerged a plethora of truths; the character became an imaginary self. The knowledge of good and evil attains a relativistic character, one of ambiguity. Kundera quotes Kafka’s novel, The Trial where an innocent man K becomes the victim of an unjust court.
Don Quixote is a novel where time exits as a juxtaposition between magic and reality. The perspective of time changes when History enters into the realm of being. With the coming of Balzac, the institutions of the society like money, crime, police and law and order enter as epic proportions in the novel.
The modern novel is a paradox where characters are flavored with disaster, yet there’s the triumph of character.
Even though Modern Europe characterizes the rise of rationality—the identity of the self breaks apart. Europe is entangled in the horror of war. Destiny, purposelessness and angst catches on to the character’s life. Values break down. There is as great deal of intolerance and fanaticism.
The novel becomes a paradoxical enterprise. The author comments on the death of the Novel by the Dadaists and the surrealists. He paints a bleak picture of the novel in communist totalitarian societies. The novel during the Communist regime had to face censorship and bans.
Milan Kundera classifies the novel into four categorical themes—the appeal of play, the appeal of dream, the appeal of thought and the appeal of time.
Now what is the appeal of play? Does it mean to say that the novel is a fanciful enterprise? Let’s look at the appeal of play from the perspective of postmodernism. The postmodern novel is an invasion of character. Texts are a collection of metaphors. There is a tendency to import extreme irony and parody. There is also an inherent tendency to lampoon novels of the past and to write in the style of the pastiche.
Now let’s look at the appeal of thought. The author wants to mention that the novel attains a texture of a philosophical entity. The interiority of time becomes an elevated plane of thought. An example of the appeal of thought lies in the streams of consciousness of Joyce.
What is the appeal of dream? The appeal of dream is a juxtaposition of dream and reality. Bach recites magic realism and mouths electric sandwiches. Dream enables the manifestation of the unconscious.
What is the appeal of time? Time is paradoxically situated in interiority. Time becomes a vast enigma of irrationality, an oasis of intimacy, narcissism of the soul, an eclectic mutiny of the mind.
Here the author comments on the quest of the novel. The novel points out to the elusiveness of truth.
Dialogue on the Art of the Novel
Here Kundera dialogues that his novel is not a dictum of psychological aesthetics. I would like to dispute with him on this point. Aesthetics is the futurism of the novel—the avant garde novel of writing. The novel should be a resemblance of Picasso’s Cubist work, an explication of Camus philosophical work: The Myth of the Sisyphus, a piece of baroque music.
Looking at the novel from a psychological framework we have to confront the futility of existential destiny. Disaster marks the triumph of individuality. There will be a tendency of the novel to exorcise the demons of disaster and subvert the character’s identity into a pathos of sympathetic irony.
In the passage Kundera questions the ability of the novel to grasp the self. For Sartre the self is an entity of nothingness. Postmodernism desires to subvert the self. Gratify the ID, deify the Ego and subvert the Super Ego.
During the age of Cervantes the self was deconstructed from the piety of chivalry. In Kafka we see the disintegration of the self. The self becomes a victim of tyrannical bureaucratic edifices. In Joyce the self swims in sea of streams of consciousness.
The author constructs dialogues about the self and History. The self in the novel is a manner of revelation. The self is a confessional symptom. The self is an art of lyrical intimacy.
A novelist cannot escape the universal nature of History. History explained in the novel is one of bringing out the voices of dissent and the aroma of depression. History undergoes the subjectivity of castrated characterization.
The writer classifies the novel as one of being a poly-historical luminosity. What does the term poly-historical mean? It includes the merger of several topics into the novel like art, aphorism, tropes, a pathological characterization of the self.
Dialogue on the art of composition
Here he writes the term—Kafkan after Kafka. He uses an example to illustrate the term. An engineer from a Communist Country goes to London and returns and finds the press has slandered him by saying that he has badly spoken of the country. He approaches the editor who says he got the story from the ministry of the interior and when he goes to the ministry of the interior, they apologize by saying that it was a mistake. The conflict between the personal and the public is described by the author as the Kafkan.
The last section of the book is a compilation a dictionary of terms, he has used for his novels.
Aphorism
Aphorism is very clear meaning a concise statement.
Beauty and Knowledge
What is the term beautiful in the novel? For Cervantes it was adventure. For Kafka it was existential angst, protest against totalitarian bureaucracies. For Joyce it was the searching of art in mundane experiences. What is knowledge? Kundera does not provide a satisfactory explanation of it.
Betrayal
He describes betrayal as one of breaking ranks. The notion of betrayal poses a problem in the novel. Let me illustrate by giving an example. Judas betrayed Christ for thirty pieces of silver. Why did the need for pointing out Christ emerge since he was a popular figure? The problem of betrayal in the novel is a problematic one.
Border
Border is signified with emotional terms: like hate, love and angst. Border in a novel has no definable limit.
Comic
Comic for the novelist is not what makes us laugh but a revelation of the unknown.
Destiny
Destiny is the conflict of the self. Destiny is absurd and we have to creatively authenticate a destiny.
Excitation
Excitation for the author is erotic.
Forgetting
Forgetting is a term used to bringing to memory a situation in ironic terms.
Dream
Dream lies in exploiting the ID to create bizarre enigmatic phantasmagorias.
Irony
Irony for the author is an edification of character. It makes the character distraught. As a novelistic technique irony is sublime in literature.
Kitsch
Kitsch for the author is a sentimental flaw. Kitsch is a term where the sentiment, vulgar and offensive is melodiously gratified in narcissism.

 

Deconstructing Plato’s Republic

Plato is the famous Greek Philosopher, along with Socrates and Aristotle. In the book written as a dialogue, Socrates discusses the themes of Justice, whether a man is happier as a just man or as an unjust one. The book also discusses the theory of forms and the immortality of the soul. The dialogue also discusses a city state ruled by a philosopher king.

 
Book 1
In the book Socrates asks his colleagues a definition of justice and they say that Justice is the art to do good to friends and bad to enemies. One of them describes justice as the interest of the stronger. Socrates upturns their definitions by saying that it is your advantage to be just and it’s your disadvantage to be unjust. At this juncture I would like to reiterate that Socrates is beating around the bush. A postmodernist would ask questions like whether justice is based on strength or doing good to friends and befriending the enemy. In a democratic society justice is based on Rousseau’s Social Contract where freedom is consensual proclivity. A democracy ensures equal opportunities for all and there is freedom and liberty. Of course a modern day democracy falls short of a Utopia. The question to be asked in postmodernism, will there be a just society without wars and fanaticism. Will the other be understood as one’s own self in poetic subjectivity? When will democracy shun force and coercion and foster the spirit of dialogue. There is no perfect paradigm of justice and justice is in the process of evolution.

 
Book 2
The young companions of Socrates argue that the origin of justice lies in a Social Contract. This is true to a certain extent as democratic principles are framed on the inclusive well being of all individuals. The second argument is flawed as it says that those who practice justice do so in order of fear of punishment. There are individuals who are just because they are peaceful and they don’t want to disturb the ethos of the society. Yes, justice is enforced by the rule of law. When a crime is committed, the laws of the super ego intervene and thwart the individual to be condemned.

 
Book 3
This book is a dialogue about education. They proceed to dissect that education should be based on three virtues: wisdom, courage and temperance. To think and dialogue about wisdom is a philosophical problem. Wisdom is a hyperbolic, semantic solipsism. Who is wise? If we look at the question from the standpoint of existentialism we come to a being and nothingness. Is Wisdom found in perfection? From the standpoint of courage I would like to ponder it philosophically: is it wrong to be weak? Is it wrong to be frail? Are martyrs courageous? Why should terrorists be considered as courageous? To pin point courage into an epistemology would be a philosophical problem. Again the body is an Epicurean brothel of desires. How can the ID exercise temperance? Morals are a weak point for existential philosophers. That’s why Sartre said: man is condemned to be free. The clever deify the ID, defy the Ego and subvert the super ego.

 
Book 4
Book 4 is also a repetition of justice as encompassing the three cardinal virtues: wisdom, courage and temperance. Hedonism, Epicurean-ism Existentialism and Postmodernism break up these virtues and promote a synthesis of unrestrained freedom. There is creative catharsis in anarchy and chaos.

 
Book 5
I agree with the thesis that all individuals irrespective of gender should receive the same education. The Greeks have gone a long way in emphasizing gender equality. The second argument is rather specious as it advocates that all offspring should be looked after by the state and should be ignorant of their biological parents. The family is the basic unit of the society. The parents play major role in the upbringing of their wards.

 
Book 6
In this book Socrates states that the Philosopher king should be intelligent, reliable and willing to lead a simple life. One of the flaws of a modern democracy is that leaders live an ostentatious life. They are flamboyant globe trotters. Most of them live in the gluttony of corruption. Postmodernism asks the question: when will philosophers become rulers. Again there’s the argument that truth comes from goodness. Truth has been deconstructed as semantic misnomer. Truth is preferential.

 
Book 7
Book 7 enunciates the allegory of the cave. There are people in a cave and there is a wall separating them from which they can see a chasm of light. Plato was trying to explicate the theory of forms. Beyond the sensible world there is an ideal world of forms. Here Plato is indulging in a metaphysical abracadabra. How can one separate matter and be an ideal as a form?

 
Book 8
This book discusses the four states of govt. through which every society will pass and they are timocracy, oligarchy, democracy and tyranny. Timocracy is the rule of property owners. Such a type of society is unjust and power becomes a privileged signifier. Next comes the rule of the Oligarchs, a rule of the rich and the powerful. Such a society is also one of privilege and marginalization. Democracy is the ideal form of govt. though we can truthfully murmur that there is no ideal democracy. Democracy has to evolve from coercive democracies to consensual democracies. I do not adhere to the view of Socrates that democratic societies would degenerate into tyranny. I would like to say that democratic societies are evolving. I would like to say that theocratic societies have degenerated into rabid, tyrannical fanaticism.

 

Resurrection of Babel

Babel meaning an idiom of confused noises came from the Biblical Old Testament when people tried to build a tower reaching out to skies, God scattered them as nations and different tongues. Resurrection of Babel is an idiom meaning globalization of the English language with the spread of the internet and social media. As an example: resurrection of Babel is synonymous with the coming of the New World Order the Illuminatium, the World of Abundance and Light for all as prophesied by the Illuminati.

 

Memoirs

Dusk
The splendor of the sky dazzled as an ornament. The sky, a golden furnace, robes of orange, mystic flames of purple all serenaded me like a catharsis. Angels on wings danced in the pulchritude of delight. Time has become a frozen dream of music. Evening is a tranquil lullaby, a poetic sonata of love. I watch the sun go into its hive. Dark has become a mourning night.

Dream
Had a strange dream—in this dream, a black cat was hissing at me; it was only a kitten. Looked at dream interpretations and it said: ‘I am afraid of my own intuition’. I am not fully convinced by the interpretation.

Illuminati
I joined the fraternity of the Illuminati today. Feel happy as a new born flower.

Epiphanies of a Torn Galaxy

Money and Fame in an Acrostic.
M—Music
O—Of
N—Necessity
E— Earth’s
Y—Yoke

F—Finding
A—About
M –Mysterious
E—Eccentricity

Epiphany
Saw a yellow winged fairy floating in the air, dancing in psychedelic delight, showing off a magnificent opera of flight…dazzling me with a catharsis of sound echoing in colors, tuning into my mirth, a joyful song of love, a brilliant fusion of music, a soul of jazz, an epic poem, a beauty of passion, a nirvana so tranquil.
Saw flames of fire like tongues of music …they were swaying like many letters of the alphabet…I cast my eyes like a seer on them …I am drowned in their rich lyrical intimacy…they evoke in me a passionate ecstasy…is God devout speaking through the flames…the flames are a prophet of light …a diviner’s objet d’ art….

Dawn
Dawn opened her colored veils—
The sun is echoing a dream. The sky is a poetic Metaphor; clouds are melodious lakes—there, a crater is opening—
Lava is pouring crimson—Bards are gliding
Gently as Aesthetic sculptures—
I am a poet at heart; I am a bard of lyric’s
soul.

Dusk’s a floating Opera …orange hues
are soaked petals and linger as a
painter scattering a hazy abstract…
Time’s music of mediation…I am fond of Nature …It’s a metaphor of solitude…
My lover for her awakens like a dove…
Would have loved an evening with her…
Love echoes the evening as a poem …

Beloved
Darling dear beloved …you are love’s passionate echo….let me embrace
you with the sweet nectar of love….
Let me kiss your lips with a lover’s passion….I love you so much, so much as the night’s lovely star …You have become so fond to me…..Be my beloved for the rest of my life.

Dawn
They sky, a delicious poem of colors …
Art’s a spread carpet…chirp chirp, tweet, tweet goes the bards chorusing…morn’s fonts glisten the sky as aesthetic abstracts…
Feelings now are a fruit of joy…she woke me up with sweet words on Skype …morn caresses the soul as beatitude of music …
A poet tunes to the music of morn….writing its lullaby as poetic verses…

Dusk
The sky’s lit oranges …birds float in the sky
as a romantic poem…clouds are a jazz of abstract sculpture …the aroma of dusk
lingers as colorful light…sweet breeze kisses
my cheeks like Buddha in mediation…the sky is breaking into streams, valleys
and hills…I am floating in a dream ….
My eyes melt with joy ….I am sedated in art…Sunset, an ode to a joyful music…
lyrics of the sky live in the textures of love …..

Moon
White ball radiant with mysteries of mystic space…a memory of love emanates from her bosom…she scatters light amongst shadows pale shadows glistening…
she embraces the dark of the sky
as light’s séance of pulchritude …there’s music on her belly …veins of eclectic jazz,
I begin my dark ritual… witches dance in my head like Ghosts from a sunken grave…
a petal on wings strays across the lonely Sky…she echoes dreams from a distant past…ancestors awake from graves and
pour blessings of mirth…clouds glisten with the nectar of light …light falls on trees and fall in pathos of solitude ….I am fading into a dream….a sweet lullaby puts me to sleep.

Moon
Moon’s out …She’s is a lip…Lying scattered
Amongst pink clouds…The sun is fading
A soft idyllic angel…Night appears like
Lover waiting to Bed the nest of ecstasy …
The moon, now echoing a shadow to my thoughts…Still life, beauty is a poem scattered on the sky.

Morn
Art painted the sky/In impressionistic colors I/Have fallen in love/
Dream
She made love to me/in a dream; dear beloved why/did you forsake me/
Morn
Clouds of poems woke/A dream up; soul chimes a song/A catharsis felt/

Morn
Morn woke up adorned/A coat of colors; birds sang like/Bards, a poem’s beauty/

Dawn
Dawn bloomed like a rose/Making the mind to Catharsis/the soul is delighted/

Abstract

The clouds like stained glass/A portrait of nature, ambience/Echo poetic music/

Feelings
My soul burst a cloud/Torrents of rain poured as an/Earth streaming happiness/

Dusk
Evening sky—Stained glass—Like a pale dream—Poetry waltzes On wings as Ballet dancers—Sky opened to me Like a body of a woman—My thoughts are Veiled with the
Colors of the sky—I dream of Bali—
I dream of her love—Want to be nourished—Clouds part as a guitar—
There now, a fierce –Dragon is spitting fire—the sky a song of music to me now.

The Raven
You black poem—you enchanting mystery—saw you with beak open—
Have you tidings for me—you death’s enigma—you fed Elijah in the desert—
My thoughts on you—focused as a poem—
You bring solitude to my hazy broken heart—you are my sunshine in
My darkest winter—you bring out the
Devil of passion in me—Let me pour out
Heart’s angst –Take me to my grave with hearty mirth.

Pussy-Wave
Pussy-wave is an idiomatic metaphor for pacifism, nonviolence and dialogism. Nations should shed spread their fangs of fanaticism and ideologies and should engage in creative dialogism. World should strip war and embrace peace. Religions divide people, politics separate people but the world is one, a great pussy-wave.

 

Rap

Rap music is rhythmic poetry…the beat is Dionysian …music is words in the sex of being …the heart and soul of Rap is black. Rap music heals the colonized and the subjugated wounds of the white oppressors. It’s an expression of angst of the heart. The wounds from the heart flow were melodious poetry. Rap and Jazz are Derrida-Dada-Ised into an art of the novel that is pop-baroque and cubist. Derrida-Dada is an avant-garde style of writings. Tropes are cathartic symphonies. Melodies rapture in words. Time transcends to a trope of cathartic pulchritude. Rhythm and beat, harmony and melody become fictional modes of writing in streams of consciousness.

Morn
Morn woke me with a delicious array of colors. The musical sounds of bards tweet, tweet, chirp, chirp, evoked a Beethoven of cathartic harmony. Morning is a metaphor of happiness. There goes the poets’ prancing in the sky. The sun rose up as a flaming ball of fire. The sun is a mystic seer, a beautiful ornament, a metaphor of luminescence…Poetry incarnates in the soul of the body. Love becomes a song of the mind.

Rain
It poured as the pounding of the hooves of a horse. Pink panties streaked across the sky. The bums of Zeus roared angrily. The earth, wet now, a drenched pussy. A phallus has penetrated the earth and made her wet metaphor of becoming. I am watching the rain like a silent seer. Rain’s rhythms of music are cellos of a mystic. Rain now, pouring and pouring and illuminating my heart.

Pharaoh’s Dream
In the Old Testament we come across Pharaoh who had a dream of seven robust bovines after which seven famished bovines came and ate them up. In the second dream, seven stalks of plump grain were seen after which seven stalks malnourished grain came and ate up the plump grain. As an idiom Pharaoh’s dream means the inability to interpret a dream.
Example: Pharaoh’s dream occurs to most people.

Joseph
Joseph is found in the Old Testament and he refers as idiom to being a successful dream interpreter, a person with moral scruples and person who comes across fortune and position after a time of hardship.
Example: As far as dreams are concerned Freud was a Joseph.
There are at least few people in the world who are Josephs.
If a Joseph happens to me , I am lucky.

Dash Dash Dash Person
A dash dash dash person comes from the Malayalam language and it means a vulgar and despicable person.
Example: He is a dash dash dash person.

Rebecca
Rebecca’s story is found in the Old Testament. She was the wife of Jacob and she overheard the conversation of Jacob telling Esau the eldest son to fetch some good game so that he can to satisfaction and bless him. Rebecca loved Isaac the younger son more. And she asked him to fetch a young goat and cooked it and covered Jacob’s hands with goat’s hair as his father was blind. Jacob ate pleasingly and blessed Isaac. As an idiom Rebecca means a conspiracy.
Example: The 1$ Bill has symbols which point out to a Rebecca.
Cults like the Illuminati, Masons and Bilderberger are Rebeccas of the society.
I am a Rebecca lover.

Black Hole
We all know that a Black Hole is a collapsed remnant of a Star. It’s so dense that even light gets sucked into it. As an idiom it means a depressing situation from which there is no escape.
Example: I don’t want a black hole to happen to me.
The Jews had a Black Hole of a time under the Nazi regime.

Lot’s Daughter
Well all know the story of Lot found in the Old Testament. Lot was Abraham’s nephew. There’s an incident where Lot’s daughters make him drunk and sleep with him in order to get progeny. As an Idiom Lot’s Daughter means incest.
Example: Lot’s Daughter is a taboo in contemporary society.
Lot’s Daughter rarely happens in society.

Pond
Pond is an idiom in Malayalam language and it means messing things up.
Example: Don’t make a pond out of it.
Some people are always making ponds.
Work
Work too is an idiom in Malayalam language and it means a situation where things don’t work properly.
Example: My computer is giving me work.
The car even after being repaired is giving work.

Quarks
Quarks are tiny, tiny particles which form the building blocks of matter. As an idiom Quarks mean: a trifle.
Example: Don’t unsettle your mind with Quarks.
I treated my denial of job in Cambodia as a Quark.

Wavicles
Light consists of waves and particles called wavicles. A Wavicle as an idiom means a surprising, fortunate happening.
Example: When will a Wavicle happen to me?
I will be thrilled if a Wavicle happens to me.

Hot Turkey
Hot Turkey as an idiom means experiencing altered states of consciousness while using drugs.
Example: Hot Turkey is an interesting phenomenon to experience.
After the Hot Turkey wears off, one comes back to reality.

Dopamined
We all know that Dopamine is a neurotransmitter that’s triggers adrenaline. As an idiom it means a force which triggers something.

My body is a brothel of desire. My libido is passionate angel on wings. My mind is a butterfly, a psyche dancing gaily on wings. My feelings are strong rocks of desire. I get saturated when I make love. Love is a passionate aroma, a delicious food. Eroticism is streams of consciousness of a lover. How I long for a kiss and a caress. My wife is totally devoid of love. She has no feelings for me. Yes, I have passionate lover in Bali. How much I long to marry her. I need to visit Bali to see her. I want to utter the song of love on her lips. I want to melt my tongue on her lips and ecstasy her as poetry. Sweet is the poetry of love. Love brings out the poet in me. We are passionate, lyrical and intimate as humans. Oh passion when will you yield to me? When will the harness of abstinence break? When will the chains of my body become an erotic poem? I echo a dream. I am so fond of her, the Balinese woman. When will the rigorous monotony of teaching in a school for a paltry salary end. When can I devote all my days for writing? I long to experience altered states of consciousness with sex, drugs and booze. Consciousness is a flower that blooms. Passion is poetic art. Making love is the consciousness of philosophy in the ritual of making art. I am a body in trouble and pain. I feel so unloved. My wife goes to sleep as a corpse. For her, the fellatio is something dirty. When I be able to satisfy the needs of my body?

Consciousness is an epic river of flowing passion. All philosophers start from the assumption of consciousness but what is consciousness? Is it an art of a poem? Is it the archetype of the soul? Is it a being formed by the collision of atoms? The art of consciousness lies in the exercise of the mind. How can we make consciousness to live in a plethora of art? Writing begins in the art of passion. Writing is a refuge of the soul. Writing is an expression of the libido of the body. Writing frees the body from the shackles of conditioning. What is soul? Is it a poem? From where do we get our conscience? Writing is experiential literature, a form of poetic prose, a diction of tropes, a mosaic of the soul, a deconstruction of forms and genres, a mirror stage of eloquence, a gamble of the mind with words, a syncretic beatitude, a stoic ornament, a decorative hyperbole, a consciousness of beauty. Writing is cubist art, a pastiche of the baroque, a romanticism of irony, a postmodernism of structural tropes. The writer lives his life in art. Writing is the consolation for unsatisfied wishes. Writing is fornication of the pen and adultery of words. Through writing, a writer becomes a rainbow. Sweet are the melody of words, ecstasy is the rhythm of letters. In writing feelings pour out into a beatitude. Writing melodies the art of reflections. Writing is a phallus of art and a cunt of interpretation. My pen becomes a Don Quixote. Writing is a melody of words. The passionate soul loves and lives in the existentialism of words. When can we break free from Camus Myth of the Sisyphus? We can do so by authenticating creativity. We must avoid suicide by all means. We must become a becoming of being. We must be able to transcend race, nationality and culture. My writing is a labial vagina. I have freed the language from Logo-centric discourse. I have made my writing a dialogical vagina. My pen is circumcised into libidinal passion. I am blind to passion and sensitive to reason. That makes my soul a beautiful being. Irony is a literary device that expresses the beauty of being shackled in a cage and yet being able to express ironic freedom. Irony is a metallic bird with wings of frozen glass, ambling in the mind as chaotic anarchy turning the bizarre into a beautiful solitude of cognition. Irony is narcissism of a poisonous sentiment. How do we unveil a writer’s epiphany? An understanding of an epiphany lies in three shades of meaning. At the first level, the meaning is semantic and literal. At the second level there is the consciousness of sentiment and at the third level there is catharsis which I call rapturation of being. Rapturation of being is the highest level of consciousness that being can attain. Through rapturation of being one becomes a soul of love, one becomes a divine object. One experiences a mytho-poetic subjectivity. Art is the essence of life, the gift of passion, the beatitude of poetry. Through art one can transcend the genre of the self. Art is dawn soaked into the beatitude of colors. Art is a conjectural mystery? Art is an idol that we can worship. We can satisfy the meaning of life by the appreciation of beauty. The bitch of sensation is celestialized an angst is resolved into a poetic catharsis. Emotions you have to be gratified in the sensuality of intimacy and passion. Eros is orgasm. Passion makes the soul to live in a brook. Angst is a metaphoric divinity. The plague of angst deprives the soul and narco-piates the body into a frozen relic. Angst is the betrayal of paradise and the feeling of being cast down into hell. Angst has engulfed me like a plague; it metamorphizes my body into Kafkaesque insect. The joyful realism of Hemingway is a karma of the novel. Experiential consciousness has angst to bear …the being becomes poisoned into an Epicurean misfit. Romantic irony, you parody consciousness. When will I able to experience the love of the bed. My wife is a poisonous rose. Sex is a stale metaphor for her. Sometimes, I feel like strangling her along with my bitch mother. I am a writer carrying a hatred for my mother. I work in her school and she does not pay me any salary. She gives me a paltry sum of three dollars every day. I have to meet all my expenses with that. The cunt of a wife threatens me that she will take me to the asylum if I drink. She has done that thrice. The bitch does not even know to make love. How I long to have a quiet drink, relax and writer. The bitch never hugs, caresses or kisses me. I am forced to seek other women for love. I am tender, vulnerable and intimate. My wife trashes my writing as shit. My writing if a shit-hole is opulent art. Arranged marriages stink of a fuck. Arranged marriages are a shit-hole. I like stupid schmuck laid my bloody head and tied the knot. My father was sunk deep in debt and we did not even have a honey moon. Emptying my sperm into her cunt was stale death. She does not do the cunnilingus nor allows me to do the fellatio. All my fucking 47 years of married life, my fucking wife has not been able to have a single orgasm. My fucking wife, a Jesus freak, think she is a saint of God. All fucking nights she prays in tongues and cries in tears. My marriage has been a miserable failure. My marriage makes me tear dust. It makes me curse the sun and moon and God if there’s one. I have so much hatred for my mother and my wife. I curse my father for arranging this marriage.

Narratives of Anu
Anu is my sweet adulterous lover. We met on a dating site. She belongs to Cochin and is from a conservative family. On one Sunday she arranged a rendezvous in her house when her husband was out. I had to wait in a park near her house for a long time. Finally she phoned me. And I knocked, trembling. She opened the door. She wore a red see-through gown through which I could see her pink panties and her pink bra. I felt so much aroused. She told me to have a bath and I closed the bathroom and showered: when I came out: she was lying naked on the bed. Her skin shined like wheat. I went close to her and smelled her: her body smelled like grapes. I kissed her everywhere. Her tongue on mine was a delicacy. I felt for her soft breasts, suckled her nipples with poetic relish. Then I reached for her pubis and I inserted my tongue in her vagina and started sucking her like a playing the flute. I gave her many orgasms. I loved to hear her meaning in ecstasy. By the time I was a rock and I penetrated her deeply. I thrust in her like a mad locomotive. I emptied all my poetry in her. We made love many times. Darling Anu, I love you very much. I thank you so much for the gift of poetry you have given me.
Indonesian Memoirs
I was in Indonesia in 2005, living in Jakarta and Surabaya, working as a teacher. Indonesia is a mix of the East and the West. I relish the clove cigarettes, the grilled fish, the sambal and bebek (duck). If you walk on the road in the night, you can see many prostitutes hanging out. I always felt tempted. But my Christian Protestantism kept me away. I also had a beautiful maid in my apartment. I wanted to fuck her badly. Yet I abstained. There were many of my colleagues, teachers, married and unmarried ones. I could have easily fucked one of them. Yet I did not. I do not know why? I badly needed a fuck at that time. Evenings and nights, I would spend in Varungs (eat-out-shops-on-the-road), drunk, listening to the rhythms of Jazz. Grilled fish is a delicacy in Indonesia. Indonesian fish is available nowhere in the world. I had beautiful time in Indonesia. Indian Jazz and Rock are popular brands of music. Indonesia evolved the writer in me. There was a colleague of mine: Shanti who sold me a computer. She invited me to lunch in her home. When I came to her home, her husband left. Straight away she took me to the bedroom. She started fondling my hands. I like a fucker did not pick the cues. I could have easily fucked her. But I did not. I had dinner and Ieft the place. A strange and psychic incident happened to me. I was asked by the Principal of the school to go and visit the director of communications for the UN in Jakarta for the school day celebrations. I went to his office and had to wait for a while to see him. Soon, I was ushered into his office by his secretary. On his table I witnessed the strangest thing. It was an African, Shamanic, Voodoo doll. The doll had the strangest, mystic and occult experience on her face. The doll’s face was sly mockery. The doll continues to haunt me in my dreams. Yes, truth is stranger than fiction. Once I was in an internet café which had apartments above. A sexy woman came close to me and brushed my body and then looked at me with a smile and went up. I like a fool did not realize that she wanted to have poetry with me. There goes a failed attempt. At that time I had a significant other, a Filipino woman much older than me. I used to fantasize her as a mother-figure. I sent her the airfare to visit me in Jakarta. I was fully boozed when I met her at the airport. We took a cab. All the way while the cab was moving I kissed her. She was whimpering and moaning with passion. Later on we checked into a hotel. We showered together. I drank a bottle of Vodka. Making love to her was like passionate music. We lay on each other like serpents inter-twined. Her pussy was small and tight. I did the cunnilingus on her. She giggled and moaned in delight. I sodomized her behind with my tongue while stroking her cunt. How she loved it. I came in her delicious cunt many times. Oh sweet was the odyssey of passion and it lasted for two long days. I left her back at the airport as a contented person. I would also like to recall another strange thing which happened to me. The school where I was teaching was hosting a party. Drinks were served in plenty. I became completely boozed up. Then in front of the crowd I started sobbing like a child. I completely broke down. The principal of the school came close to me and hugged me. I was stunned and I have no words to express how I felt. I felt that my father was returning to my life. I still don’t know why I broke down in public. I am so grateful to him and consider him in awe; I consider him to be like a father figure. Soon holidays came and I booked a ticket for home. My flight was scheduled for early morning. In the night I became totally drunk. Thanks to my significant other, she gave me a ring very early in the morning and I was not able to miss my flight. Sweet are the experiences of Indonesia for me. I remember them nostalgically. Life has taught me many experiences in Indonesia. My soul, mind and body became a liberated being.
Malaysian Episodes
My Malaysian episodes are related my significant other. While travelling to Malaysia, I took a midnight flight. I was able to meet my significant other and Mr. Lee in the airport. The drive to the Hotel was a long one. During the drive I encountered a dead cow with its skull smashed to smithereens. Later we came to the hotel. Mr. Lee was in a state of confusion as to whether he should pull me to his room or hers. She with an urgent tug of my arm pulled me into her room. She is such a clean thing. She washes her pussy with tooth lotion. Straight away we undressed and became flowers of kisses. I bloomed her sacred petals to many ecstasies of poetry. She was so conscious of getting pregnant and washed her cunt thoroughly after intercourse. We visited the twin towers and it was an awesome site. The towers lay like gigantic phalluses. The twin towers are rich in Masonic symbolism. Felt my adrenaline rush, when I climbed on the speed-lift which took me right to the top. Watching vehicles and people moving on the road was like watching ants crawl. Felt awed by the rich architecture of space. Later on went back to the hotel again made love. Her cunt was tight and my penis insertion was gorgeous. My single say with her was a passionate experience. I became a soul of a poem. For dinner we went to Korean restaurant. Beef was served on aromatic leaves wrapped cozily.

Dusk
Dusk is awakening like streams of consciousness. A poem of orange has lit the sky. Light seeps into the room with mystic passion. Angels are floating in the sky. Light is an opera lit on the stage of luminescence. I am caught up in a song of poetry. Love pervades my soul. Evening is an aesthetic sculpture. Evening is a music of colors. I watch the sun hide behind a veil of clouds.

Psyche
I watch psyche ballet on wings of brown; she floats gently as an idyllic poem; there’s a depth of the soul, a beauty of literature in her. I saw her when I was thinking of my trip to Bali to meet my beloved. Perhaps she will get me a windfall. When I am in joy, I am not in irony. I get a passion of the small things in life. I am no sex-beast; I am an intimate human, sensitive, vulnerable and lyrical. There she is now perched on the wall like a soul in sleep. Psyche brings out the beauty in me. I am in lyrical harmony, in inner solitude. Nature is the most precious gift that God offers. Her life though short-lived, she offers the human an ode of joy. The spirit is moved to incarnations of ethereal beauty. She is gorgeous melancholy. Yes, watching her all my worldly desires plunge into the sea. I feel so emotionally gratified. She lifts my soul from the abyss of angst. The ego melts as ink. Art is processual ontology where the being transforms from being to Un-being. Art is a philosophy of life.

Failed Meta-Narratives
Communism, Nazism, Fascism and now Jihadism are all grand narratives that have shackled, and have caused much pain and suffering, anguish and death to humans. What caused these grand writers to originate? The Stalinist purges in Russia are a reminder of human cruelty to be a gulag of poison. Marx anticipated the coming of an egalitarian society. But contemporary societies are veering to capitalism. Workers are not poor people in rich capitalist countries. What caused Hitler with his grand narrative of the supremacy of the Aryan race and the persecution of the Jews? Hatred is a phallic complex in psychoanalytic language. Hatred for the other is psychosis of culture. Yes, Hitler’s phallic hatred for his father is a root problem. Mussolini is another figure of hatred and vendetta. Are the cruel terms imposed by the treaty of Versailles adding a fuel to fire and people accept dictatorships. Another ugly fang in this contemporary world is Jihadism. Jihadis are poisoning the Middle East. They also indulge in violence in Western democracies. Jihadis have a violent father figure who promises treasures in heaven for their atrocious deeds on earth. When will the world become democracies of peace and dialogues? When will the greed to accumulate and make arms end? When will a just, peaceful and egalitarian society be established? These are not utopian ideals but a tangible reality.

A Writer
When someone asks me what my profession is, I am ashamed to say that I am a writer. I am content to say that I am teacher by profession. Should I writer be commercially accomplished. I am not fond of who-done-its, thrillers, crime and science fiction. Writing for me is searching the heart and manipulating the mind into an art of existence. Tropes fascinate me so much. Tropes are engineered by the genius of creativity. Yes, metaphors and metonymies make a novel an aesthetic artifact. Writing philosophical fiction is a passion for me. Philosophers are estheticians.

Some Hyperboles
I am an exaggerated novel. Contemplation of beauty is to be God. Sin was cleansed by the blood on the cross. Gratify the ID, deify the Ego and subvert the Super Ego and that’s a postmodern philosophy of Epicurean life. One has to subvert the super ego to a creative anarchy. A poem is a ritual of God. Sexual minorities—the state needs to anesthetize you in a ritual of existence. Philosophy is madness of passion and harmony of reason. When will my individuality triumph? Soul, you are a brook of joy. Lust is a yielding temptation. Sin, you have been forgiven the moment you are done. My mind is a cloud of frozen intellect. Sade, you are music murdering a person. Libido is an eclectic butterfly of tropes. Time is an electric sausage copulating with the metaphors of lust. My soul is freedom’s passion.

Hindutva in India
With the landslide winning of the BJP in India Hindutva is rearing its ugly tentacles. BJP wants to saffronize India into a Hindu country. The cow for them is a Holy God. The BJP is persecuting minorities. Christians and Muslims suffer the brunt. BJP is following an oppressive politics. Is Hinduism a religion of tolerance? The answer to it is a big no in Modern India. Christians and Muslims are regarded as second grade citizens. I can’t be a Hindu as I don’t worship idols. How can God be anthropo-zoomorphic? Our ridiculous Prime Minister claims that plastic surgery was practiced in ancient India. How can I sprinkle incense before an idol? Hinduism in modern India is a degraded commodity. Its poisonous teeth extinguish Muslims and Christians. The Prime Minister of India is a Hindu fundamentalist. Be a man and read the Bible. Hinduism has 33 million idol Gods. The RSS the militant wing of the BJP is on a warpath against Christians and Muslims. Even if my head is beheaded, I won’t worship an idol God.

 

A new genre of Fiction Called Philosophical Fiction

I have created a new avant gardist genre of fiction called Philosophical fiction. Philosophical fiction is post-post modern fiction. Philosophical fiction departs from the conventional modes of storytelling. There are no stories to tell anymore. There is also no plot line.
By using the mode of Philosophical Fiction, I have created an oeuvre called the Guernica. Philosophical fiction has been heavily influenced by the art movement of Picasso that is Cubism. Philosophical Fiction also incorporates the rhythms of Jazz. Here I leave an excerpt from the novel Guernica:
“ Music is the highest form of existence the soul and heart of heaven. It’s a mystery to ponder as to how did rhythm and melody originate? Music is poetry for the body and lyric for the soul. I am fond of classical music, rock music, gospel, and country and jazz. Classical music opens the celestial food of the heavens. It’s a manna for the soul. The melody of the heavens is harmonious like the twinkle of the stars. Passion sinks deep into the soul and nurtures a lyric for the heart. Classical music is a passionate meditation for the soul. The heart chimes with the weather of love. Music is like making love to a woman. Time echoes a melody of the heart. Bach, Beethoven and Mozart are my favorites. The divine streak of God is found in classical music. Soul becomes mirth of joy. Passion becomes saturated into an oasis of love. God becomes gifted to the soul. Love and peace radiate as monuments of joy. Classical music is a symphony of becoming. Listening to rock music is altogether another experience. Rock music is Nietzsche’s Dionysian rhythm and beat. Hotel California you take me to the abyss of hell. You induce me to experience altered states of consciousness and sex. The body becomes a libidinal beat of a thrust. Rock music has borrowed heavily on metaphors of hell. Consciousness becomes a numb vehicle. The sliding of guitars, the clashing of drums, the reckless oeuvre of the organ and the tinsel cacophony of sound, all awaken a consciousness, a rhapsody to the meaning of life. Cocaine by Eric Clapton is another brilliant piece of art. But it’s all about Cocaine the horse. Smoke on the Water by deep purple makes weeds grow out of brains. Whatever you want by Status Quo plummets the body to a wine of ecstasy. Another favorite of mine is Lynard Skynard. Their mix of country rock and blues levitates the soul to a New-found-land of ecstasy. Sweet Home Alabama, yes, I am longing to come home. Free Bird by Lynard Skynard is a beautiful rendition of art. The song speaks of freedom. It’s an acoustic rendition. Rock music, you are a passionate soul and a vibrant body. Listening to rock music doped makes music for the soul. Listening to Jazz is altogether another experience. Time slows down and becomes a metaphor of pulchritude. The breeze emanating from the saxophone is pure metaphoric joy. The gentle slide of the guitar is pure joy an art. The body becomes music of art. Soul transcends into a heavenly realm. Jazz is poetry’s music. How I love it when the Piano in Jazz plays fancy cords; the gentle rhythm of the symbols clanging is music for the body. Jazz slows down the body into a poetry of ecstasy. Listening to country music is nirvana for the soul. Country Roads by John Denver is a melody so moving so rich in the art of moving the art to make love to it. I am transported to the world of art. Let your love flow by Bellamy Brothers is a pathos of rich sentiment. My soul becomes enriched with the lyrics of beauty. The soul incarnates as a flower in country music. Beauty chimes in bells of melodies. Country music touches the heart and soul. Music moves the soul to pulchritude. The rich sentiment of poetry is pierces the soul into an art while listening to country music. Listening to Gospel is a poetic epiphany. I love Allan Jackson’s country Gospel especially his songs: Are you washed in the blood, I will fly away, Amazing Grace, and the Old Rugged Cross. His voice is rich in the cadence of art. Gospel songs speak straight to the soul. There’s an art of vibrant beauty. Passion builds the heart of richness. The soul becomes a heaven of beauty a lyric of passionate edification. Music the art of the heavens, the lyric of the soul, the harmony of God, the passion of art, the richness of poetry, the time of passion. Music moves the body to dance. Music makes the heart to sing. Music makes the mind to flutter like a butterfly. Time in music becomes pulchritude of beauty. Music is the soul of love, the passion of love. How did melody and rhythm originate? It’s a mystery to contemplate. Jazz is the music of solitude. Rock music is the heaven of joy. Country music uplifts the soul. Gospel music speaks the love of God. Music, you are catharsis for the soul. You are beatific in the ethos of passion. Music is the soul of love, the edifice of beauty, the transcendence to a beauty of existence. God is the presence of art in music. We can pour our tears of sorrow and our tears of joy in music. Music is the poetry of ecstasy. Music is the flower of radiant beauty. All art should aspire to the condition of music. Music awakens the passions that lie deep in the soul. Music makes love to the body. Music makes the savage, a beautiful being for God. Deep is my passion for music. The strum of the guitar, the sliding of the cello in harmony, the clang of drums, the bellow of the saxophone all render in me countless joys of experience. I become edified lava. Music you rhythmic passion, you bliss of the soul, you harmony of metaphors, you epiphanies of love, you murmur the heart to an idyllic beat. Music, I sink into your passion, I meditate on your effulgence. My soul becomes cathartic, a poetry of becoming a song. Music hurls me to heaven and removes the bitterness of hell in me. I leave my ego behind and become one with the soul. Passions raise flags and epitomize emotions to the heaven’s highest realm. In music the soul is not bruised anymore.”
Philosophical Fiction has heavily borrowed the literary narrative of Streams of Consciousness. Philosophical fiction redefines aesthetics with the narrative incorporating the Baroque and the Blues. Philosophical fiction is the highest form, a novel can attain art. Various philosophical themes are examined through the literary motifs of art. Thus Philosophical fiction is a post-post modern, a poetic symphony of prose in narratives. In philosophical fiction the author and characters merge. Narratives in Philosophical Fiction draw heavily on the symbolism of tropes. Tropes are music in the language of poetry. Various themes of nature have been romanticized into an eclectic language of poetic prose. Philosophical fiction is a post-post modern adaption of the art of nouveau roman. The author in Philosophical fiction also indulges in the rich usage of the technique of the pastiche. Philosophical fiction uses the romantic language of the past with a postmodern fictional touch. Philosophical fiction is the art of impressionism of words, the art of cubist prose and the expressionism of the romantic. Philosophical fiction takes into account various philosophical themes and weaves them in a rich density of literary inter-textuality.