How would you describe an angel? Do they have two white wings fastened to their bodies which glow in luminosity and a halo also luminous, over their head? Then there is a supervisor who is called, Archangel. Seriously, who believe in this stuff?
Then you will have to believe in stuff about demons too. Mind you ‘demons’, not ‘devils’. Those demons who have two horns with a tail which is in control of them truly, madly and deeply. They also have their supervisor called, Elder Demon. then comesthe stuff about heaven and hell, blah blah blah and so on.
Well whether you believe in those stuff or not, you can still read this book called, ‘Death byChocolate’by Emma Walker, in which she describes an angel and a demon as housemates, both having a similar work to collect the souls of dead ones on earth. They would appear(as they would be forward with information about who is going to die, where and when on their PDA’s) when a human soul gets itself free from all the dirtiness and miser life, to guide them whether the souls should dwell in heaven or hell, and believe me, its all marketing skills. If you are skillful, you’ll be able to manipulate your customer easily but if you’re not, you’ll loose you’re customer. But there is a caution: if the soul is an ‘arguer‘ and can’t decide between heaven and hell, then there is a big problem for the angel and the demon. The book is a light read and will try to cheer you up from time to time.
The Metamorphosis (Die Verwandlung) is a novella by Franz Kafka, first published in 1915. It is often cited as one of the seminal works of fiction of the 20th century and is widely studied in colleges and universities across the Western world. The story begins with a traveling salesman, Gregor Samsa, waking to find himself transformed into a monstrous vermin.
Although Kafka wrote many stories on animals but this book is the only one where an animal is an insect.It is a tragedy but it is not an ordinary tragedy. The style and plot are simple and nothing is complex accept the fact that the a human has transformed itself to a bug. Character of Gregor Samsa is a very miserable, both as a human and as an insect. While facing the consequences he is helpless. First supporting his family and then accepting the fact later when he can’t help his family he tries to indulge himself in his new life. Though there is not much explanation can be given for the story, a reader will find it quite different from what he reads in day to day.
The gloom of the darkness and the heaviness of the rainfall had added another load of misery as he already had one.’People are always happy,’ he thought, carrying the overweight of misery on his shoulders, ‘And they become happier, day by day. And me. My load of miser is only getting more and no less. Even the single droplet of rain is incrementing the load by a ton. And this darkness makes the road hard and uncomfortable to travel. What am I to do? What wrong have I done? Whose fault is this?’
And with a long sigh he took a half crumbled cigarette out of his wet pocket which was half moist due to rain. He observed he had two matchsticks left in the matchbox. No shed and shrewd rain, how in the name of god is he going to light that cigarette? But what you seek is what you get, only you have to make your own way to it. And he stood in front of a glass of a shop where some mannequins were on display inside, wearing wicked hats and fancy dresses. He holds his hands in an oval covering the strike which he was going to make and managed to light the cigarette with both of the matchsticks in one strike. As he took his first puff, he sees a reflection in the glass and then he looked carefully. It was more than the reflection, it was his image with a blurred background of cause of mannequins as the matchsticks were still managing to emit enough light to see. He looked carefully and he saw a man looking old, very old with unshaved facial hair, and the swollen and dry skin as it had been months since a drop of glycerin has been rubbed off his skin. He realized he wore a more wicked hat than those lifeless creatures which were never going to make to life. He said to himself, ‘Shall I go back?’
No was the answer in his ears, mechanically ringing like church bells.
He already knew the answer: abandoned.
‘Abandoned from what?’
Abandoned from love, shelter, and food. The three things a man needs to survive and live happily. But he had none and so unhappy was he.
He throwaway the illusion and those matchsticks on the road which caused a sound ‘psss’ as hot, on fire, as matchsticks made contact with water. He knew the sound was not only the matchsticks but also the illusion which made him see the three different keys of happiness.
‘It must be my fault as I have always avoided consequences and situations in ignorance, and for my own little pleasures which I have been too fond of. I always wanted to paint, but I never paint one. I had canvas, I had colours, I had the idea. But now it’s all gone and I am lost on this road which seems less traveled. Misery is my slut or I am hers’. Which is true, it might be both. And add to the misery, I can’t even make myself lifeless by a monotonous colour as my life is already faded in a single colour. But it’s time to change. Its time to leave this harlot here and go with the wind. Through these black clouds soon there will be a beam of sunlight on my face which will bring back all the glycerin on my skin and make it soft as it was soft in my offspring, and take away all the dryness. With morning light I’ll follow till my destination arrives and my departure from this world of Hades’ be confirmed. My life would be my canvas as I’ll paint it and fill each and every colour that is in existence of nature. Thus, now I shall dream of paint and then I’ll paint my dream.’
People often brag about Nature. They say that Art makes one love Nature more than he loved her before. Art reveal her secrets. But my personal experience says the more we study Art, the less we care for nature. What Art really reveal are the Nature’s unfinished conditions and lack of design. Nature has good intentions but as Aristotle once said, she cannot carry out them. It is fortunate that nature is so imperfect, otherwise there would be no art. Art is a protest, an attempt to teach nature her proper place. As for the variety of nature, it’s a myth. It is the man’s imagination who with some blindness looks at her and says, ‘Beautiful it is, the landscape’. But the truth is nature is so uncomfortable, grass is hard, lumpy and damp, and full of dreadful insects.