The relentless rainlessness has made us all listlessly restless. And with my elliptically hyperbolic innuendo on this, one may find the following either very gross or very abstract, gross to the level of being misinterpreted, and abstract to the level of not getting the least hint of association. But these would rake up some of the chambers in our minds full past moments and of our lost innocence quite like the William Wordsworth's 'Ode to Immortality'.
Some may possess the treasure of proclivity towards the names where the season summer stays immortal:
"Shall I Compare thee to a summer's day "
or
"Summer of 69"
or
"I Know What You Did Last Summer"
This morning suddenly I was struck by the tunes of these lines again
"I wake in vain
I dream of love
As time runs through my hand
I dream of rain
I lift my gaze
To the empty skies above
I close my eyes
The rare perfume
Is the sweet intoxication
Of love...."
and the consequences were quite like an array of reverie entailing nightmarish heat and sweat.
After all, as people ( e.g. the other sex) proclaim that "Men are men", below is the best testimony of it. Thirty years back...Higher Secondary English Book of Prose (West Bengal Council of Higher Secondary Education):
"A man, they say, who Is a perfect remembering machine is seldom a man of first rate intelligence, and they quote various examples of children or men who had marvellous memories and who yet had no intellect to speak of. I imagine however, that on the whole the great writers and the great writers and the great composers of music have been men with exceptional powers of memory. The poets I have known have had better memories than the stock-brokers I have known. Memory, indeed, is half the substance of their art. On the other hand, statesmen seen to have extraordinarily bad memories. Let two statesmen attempt to recall the same event what happens, for example, at some cabinet meeting-and each of them will tell you that the other’s story is so inaccurate that either he has a memory like a sieve or is an audacious perverter of the truth. The frequency with which the facts in the autobiographies and speeches of statesmen are challenged suggests that the world has not yet begun to produce an ideal statesmen-men who, like great poets, have the genius of memory and of intellect combined. At the same time, ordinarily good memory is so common that we regard a man who does not possess it as eccentric.
I have heard of a father who, having offered to take the baby out in a perambulator, was tempted by the sunny morning to pause on his journey and slip into a public-horse for a glass of beer. Leaving the perambulator outside, he disappeared through the door of the saloon bar. A little later, his wife had to do some shopping which took her past the public-house, where, to her horror, she discovered her sleeping baby indignant at her husband’s behaviour, she decided to teach him a lesson. She wheeled away the perambulator, picturing to herself his terror when he would come out and find the baby gone.
She arrived home, anticipating with angry relish the white face and quivering lips that would soon appear with the new that the baby had been stolen.
What was her vexation however, when just before lunch her husband came in smiling cheerfully and asking; ‘Well, my dear, what’s for lunch today?’, having forgotten all about the baby and the fact that he had taken it out with him.
How many men below the rank of a philosopher would be capable of such absent-mindedness as this ? Most of us, I fear, are born with prosaically efficient memories. If it were not so, the institution of the family could not survive in any great modern city."
--
Forgetting
Robert Lynd
***(Now I understand why we had been taught this in+2 level at school. It was a clear precaution before we all get married after a few years. And all the lot was such a fool, that despite such explicit warning, it deliberately ignored this. The Higher Secondary Syllabus Committee, finding its uselessness, changed the entire syllabus, later.)
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