I have nothing against the look-good industry represented by the likes of David and Victoria Beckam (I will call them DavVic, the representatives of sports and entertainment, both multi-million dollar businesses) except the following:
Firstly, why does a writer of a book – who should offer something novel and unique to the thinking process of people the world – need to look good to be worth promoting? Aren’t literary ideas worth their salt anymore? Is it because of the DavVic factor?
Secondly, sports and entertainment have been hijacked by the sponsorship brigade and have been turned into businesses for the benefit of the DavVic brigade. I would have rather preferred to keep it in the old fashioned “sportsmanship” and “showmanship” matrix, after all, who wants spoilsport businessmen who fight association elections like dogs to manage a sport? Be a sport, will you, and give sports to the sportspersons?
Thirdly, and what promoted Victoria to write a book (Learning to Fly) and the publishers to publish it? Doesn’t it show the stupid brainlessness of the publisher who put it through the press? Will this prompt David to try his hand too?
Fourthly, does the beauty business have an, ah, well, ulterior motive in promoting the looks of these celebrity writers, sportspersons, entertainers to sell their fairness creams, vanishing creams, make-up, etc. at highly inflated prices. Does it help the couturiers to sell their skimpy dresses for prices that would feed a family of five in Palanpur for a year?
I know looks are important, always have been, but haven’t the whole manufacturing-promoting-sponsoring-advertising-publishing industries been overdoing the DavVic factor? Should all the plain-looking, obese, thin, dark people of the world kill themselves like suicidal lemmings?
Just some thoughts that passed through my mind. As Anthonybhai would say: “Whaddappen, no, men, my item should be beautiful-ich only, no?
Victoria Beckham | David Beckham |
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Namdeo Dhasal: Street Fight Poet "Hurl Poems Like Stones"
Here's what poet Dilip Chitre has to say about poet Namdeo Dhasal in an interview first published in Tehelka (Street Fight Poet: navayana):
"Namdeo’s a lumpen, as he describes himself, with no assets except poetry — he sometimes says he hurls his poems like stones, so they’re a street-fighting weapon as well. To convey the idea that poets can come from anywhere, that they bring from wherever they come something to the surface of the world — that’s a role he plays exceptionally well. Namdeo’s also an activist, and he’s been a good activist. But like most Dalit leaders, small-time and big-time, he knows he lives in India where Dalits cannot, by themselves, form a government anywhere. They can only act as a pressure group…"
"Namdeo’s a lumpen, as he describes himself, with no assets except poetry — he sometimes says he hurls his poems like stones, so they’re a street-fighting weapon as well. To convey the idea that poets can come from anywhere, that they bring from wherever they come something to the surface of the world — that’s a role he plays exceptionally well. Namdeo’s also an activist, and he’s been a good activist. But like most Dalit leaders, small-time and big-time, he knows he lives in India where Dalits cannot, by themselves, form a government anywhere. They can only act as a pressure group…"
Moved house
Moved house during the weekend that was, I mean the week ended September 8, 2007. That is, um, after twenty years. A truckload of books, files, papers, vessels, clothes was transported to the new abode in what else – a truck. I didn’t think I could do it, but I did it. The truckwalla gave me a fright when he turned up one and a half hours late after tens of frantic cellphone calls. But he showed up as promised.
Then the double bed wouldn’t go through the door. Ronnie suggested that we dismantle the whole thing and being an engineering student he knows how to wield the spanner and make things work, which I loathe doing. He has to, that’s going to be his profession, isn’t it?
At the new place, there is no television on the first night, and I start having withdrawals symptoms. I am alone in the house since wifey and sonny are back at the old place. I phone the cable vendor ten times; he promises to turn up – not immediately - but the next day. Oh hell! But the net on my laptop works anywhere in India, and I surf and reply to Ryze and Facebook messages.
The morning of the second day, a Sunday, I wake up early. And… I listen… there are bird sounds like a distant symphony, sparrows and I know not what all (I am a bad Orinthologist, sorry, Salim Ali), singing their various sweet songs. Seems like I can’t do without bird sounds in the morning, they are my morning symphony, or raga, or whatever. I woke up to bird sounds in Artist Village and I am gratified that I can do so here, too.
Then I go for a walk. The road in Sector 9 of CBD Belapur leads me into a thickly wooded jungle of sorts. I guess we denizens of CBD Belapur are such a blessed lot. Just behind this wooded jungle is a smallish hill and if one crests it, one is in Artist Village which is again a valley surrounded by thick, green vegetation. And to add to it, there’s the small pond in the middle, and two waterfalls that feed it.
In front of my present house are a couple of tall Ashoka Trees and a tree nursery of sorts which is called “Mango Garden” because there are plenty of mango trees in it, in addition to a lot of other fauna on top of a smallish hill that adds to the “birdsound” factor. Just when I think this, I see a man with a discman earphone clamped to his ear, jogging ahead of me. Aaaarrrggh! Some people will never learn!
See, I am surrounded by thick vegetation on all sides and, of course, there has to be bird sounds, which seem like a sine qua non in my life now. Then I have a hectic time taking out all my things from cartons and putting them back into shelves and cupboards and inside table drawers. That finished, the cablewalla appears at six in the evening, after having promised to come at twelve in the afternoon. He is a rakish guy with the nervous mannerisms of a smalltime goon; the sort you see parodied to death on the small screen.
I refuse to pay up a transfer fee, as I say that he used to supply me a cable connection at Artist Village, which is where I used to stay. So he rakishly, and making some film-like adjustments to his hair, tells me that if I pay for six months he won’t charge me transfer fee. So I say okay, and pay for six months and save Rupees Two Hundred and Fifty.
That settled I lean back on my sofa and surf the channels. The flat is pleasantly situated and we spend the first day getting adjusted to the various utilities. Wifey doesn’t like western toilets (unhygienic) but has to adjust, son ditto. I say I have washed and rinsed it with Harpic, nothing less.
The cartons that seemed endless are in various cupboards, safely out of sight except a few that are dumped in the bedroom. I have to work on them when I am more settled. I also want a small corner where I can write and am told I can have one in the bedroom. So that settles it, readers, do look forward to more literary output in the days to come.
This quote of VS Naipaul about Nirad Chaudhuri came from Jaya Tripathi of SASIALIT, a literary network I am a member of:
"Chaudhuri, in spite of all the great names he takes, was not a scholar. He had no idea what scholarship meant. He held on to the idea only because it was the main part of his self-esteem. Take that away and he would have been completely lost.... Being Chaudhuri, he thought successes came to him not for his picture of East Bengal and Calcutta between 1890 and 1920, but for his hundred pages of 'scholarship', his ideas about the history of India...."
moved house | CBD Belapur | New Bombay
Then the double bed wouldn’t go through the door. Ronnie suggested that we dismantle the whole thing and being an engineering student he knows how to wield the spanner and make things work, which I loathe doing. He has to, that’s going to be his profession, isn’t it?
At the new place, there is no television on the first night, and I start having withdrawals symptoms. I am alone in the house since wifey and sonny are back at the old place. I phone the cable vendor ten times; he promises to turn up – not immediately - but the next day. Oh hell! But the net on my laptop works anywhere in India, and I surf and reply to Ryze and Facebook messages.
The morning of the second day, a Sunday, I wake up early. And… I listen… there are bird sounds like a distant symphony, sparrows and I know not what all (I am a bad Orinthologist, sorry, Salim Ali), singing their various sweet songs. Seems like I can’t do without bird sounds in the morning, they are my morning symphony, or raga, or whatever. I woke up to bird sounds in Artist Village and I am gratified that I can do so here, too.
Then I go for a walk. The road in Sector 9 of CBD Belapur leads me into a thickly wooded jungle of sorts. I guess we denizens of CBD Belapur are such a blessed lot. Just behind this wooded jungle is a smallish hill and if one crests it, one is in Artist Village which is again a valley surrounded by thick, green vegetation. And to add to it, there’s the small pond in the middle, and two waterfalls that feed it.
In front of my present house are a couple of tall Ashoka Trees and a tree nursery of sorts which is called “Mango Garden” because there are plenty of mango trees in it, in addition to a lot of other fauna on top of a smallish hill that adds to the “birdsound” factor. Just when I think this, I see a man with a discman earphone clamped to his ear, jogging ahead of me. Aaaarrrggh! Some people will never learn!
See, I am surrounded by thick vegetation on all sides and, of course, there has to be bird sounds, which seem like a sine qua non in my life now. Then I have a hectic time taking out all my things from cartons and putting them back into shelves and cupboards and inside table drawers. That finished, the cablewalla appears at six in the evening, after having promised to come at twelve in the afternoon. He is a rakish guy with the nervous mannerisms of a smalltime goon; the sort you see parodied to death on the small screen.
I refuse to pay up a transfer fee, as I say that he used to supply me a cable connection at Artist Village, which is where I used to stay. So he rakishly, and making some film-like adjustments to his hair, tells me that if I pay for six months he won’t charge me transfer fee. So I say okay, and pay for six months and save Rupees Two Hundred and Fifty.
That settled I lean back on my sofa and surf the channels. The flat is pleasantly situated and we spend the first day getting adjusted to the various utilities. Wifey doesn’t like western toilets (unhygienic) but has to adjust, son ditto. I say I have washed and rinsed it with Harpic, nothing less.
The cartons that seemed endless are in various cupboards, safely out of sight except a few that are dumped in the bedroom. I have to work on them when I am more settled. I also want a small corner where I can write and am told I can have one in the bedroom. So that settles it, readers, do look forward to more literary output in the days to come.
This quote of VS Naipaul about Nirad Chaudhuri came from Jaya Tripathi of SASIALIT, a literary network I am a member of:
"Chaudhuri, in spite of all the great names he takes, was not a scholar. He had no idea what scholarship meant. He held on to the idea only because it was the main part of his self-esteem. Take that away and he would have been completely lost.... Being Chaudhuri, he thought successes came to him not for his picture of East Bengal and Calcutta between 1890 and 1920, but for his hundred pages of 'scholarship', his ideas about the history of India...."
moved house | CBD Belapur | New Bombay
Monday, September 10, 2007
The top 10 guitar solos - Times Online
John Perry has short-listed the 10 great guitar solos of all time. Knowing as to how much I love the instrument, here it is with the kindest courtesy of John Perry and The Times. (The Top 10 Guitar Solos - Times Online. And, yes, my favorite band The Doors is on top of pack. I recently held my friend Abu Abraham's Statocaster guitar in my hand and strummed it. Was it heaven? Don't ask!
Here it is:
Quote
1 MOONLIGHT DRIVE Robbie Krieger, the Doors Krieger created visual soundscapes: look at Francis Ford Coppola’s use of The End in Apocalypse Now. With a lyricist of Jim Morrison’s singularity, he had to devise a way of accompanying narrative. Krieger did it without ever straying into melodrama, as on this signature track from Strange Days.
2 LOVE IN VAIN (live) Mick Taylor, the Rolling Stones Live from Madison Square Garden on the Stones’ 1969 US tour, the one that stepped in something nasty at Altamont, Taylor’s solo (among the loveliest he created) can be heard on the album Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out, but it’s better watched on DVD (the Maysles brothers’ documentary Gimme Shelter). As Taylor improvises an achingly lovely bottleneck refrain (on a standard-tuned guitar), the film cuts to slo-mo footage of Mick Jagger doing his Nijinsky routine.
3 OMAHA & HEY GRANDMA Jerry Miller, Moby Grape Moby Grape are among several groups with peerless credentials whose careers were wrecked by CBS Records. Bursting at the seams with talent – three great singers, three great guitarists and one authentic loony in a five-piece band – here was a band that simply could not fail. What’s more, they were great live.
4 BANGKOK Alex Chilton He was the 16-year-old Memphis prodigy who sang The Letter with the Box Tops. Chilton’s later work included Big Star’s essential third album, Sister Lovers, released shortly before Bangkok, a solo single of 1978. The guitar solo here is made up almost entirely of feedback, noise and random squeaks.
5 PAINTER MAN Eddie Phillips, the Creation Unless you’re familiar with rock’s back streets, you probably know this song as a mid1970s MOR hit for Boney M. But, 10 years earlier, the original, by pop-art band the Creation, scraped into the Top 40. Phillips used a violin bow on the guitar, and, since electric-guitar strings don’t respond well to a bow, all sorts of strange overtones are generated. Hard sound to describe. Red with purple flashes.
6 DRIFTING Jimi Hendrix, on First Rays of the New Rising Sun “Drifting. . . on a sea of forgotten teardrops” – Jimi’s favourite compositions were his ballads.
He was clearly a man carrying a weight.
His melancholia found its purest expression on ballads such as The Wind Cries Mary, Little Wing and Angel. Drifting is not the greatest of these, but it contains three or four seconds of the most beautiful electric-guitar tone ever recorded: 2’23” to 2’26”. Amid sparse backward-guitar, Jimi hits a high note, slides down, then, playing with just one hand (his right), weaves a melodic phrase through his backwards-guitar part. It’s Hendrix in cameo; beautiful, effortless, casual, throwaway.
7 I CAN SEE FOR MILES Pete Townshend, the Who (best on 7in vinyl)/CINNAMON GIRL Neil Young, on Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere Two very different examples of that specialised solo form, the one-noter. Townshend uses (rapid) mandolin picking to turn that one note into a blur; Young keeps steady time and holds a single high D going over eight chords.
8 YOU’LL BE MINE Hubert Sumlin, with Howlin’ Wolf The one and only Sumlin mixing it with the Wolf’s peerless Chicago blues band. Marc Bolan “borrowed” most of the song for T Rex’s Jeepster.
9 CHAMBERTIN Bert Jansch Davy Graham came first, but Bert had the charisma. This record is unobtainable on CD, but there’s a knockout live version on an album called River Sessions. Jansch at his finest.
10 I’M LEFT, YOU’RE RIGHT, SHE’S GONE Scotty Moore, with Elvis Presley On this B-side of Presley’s fifth single for Sun, Moore rocks up the basic Chet Atkins style to give the King the bounce he needed. The solo is a gem, mirroring the vocal in the treble register and bouncing it off syncopated picking in the bass line.
Unquote
Here it is:
Quote
1 MOONLIGHT DRIVE Robbie Krieger, the Doors Krieger created visual soundscapes: look at Francis Ford Coppola’s use of The End in Apocalypse Now. With a lyricist of Jim Morrison’s singularity, he had to devise a way of accompanying narrative. Krieger did it without ever straying into melodrama, as on this signature track from Strange Days.
2 LOVE IN VAIN (live) Mick Taylor, the Rolling Stones Live from Madison Square Garden on the Stones’ 1969 US tour, the one that stepped in something nasty at Altamont, Taylor’s solo (among the loveliest he created) can be heard on the album Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out, but it’s better watched on DVD (the Maysles brothers’ documentary Gimme Shelter). As Taylor improvises an achingly lovely bottleneck refrain (on a standard-tuned guitar), the film cuts to slo-mo footage of Mick Jagger doing his Nijinsky routine.
3 OMAHA & HEY GRANDMA Jerry Miller, Moby Grape Moby Grape are among several groups with peerless credentials whose careers were wrecked by CBS Records. Bursting at the seams with talent – three great singers, three great guitarists and one authentic loony in a five-piece band – here was a band that simply could not fail. What’s more, they were great live.
4 BANGKOK Alex Chilton He was the 16-year-old Memphis prodigy who sang The Letter with the Box Tops. Chilton’s later work included Big Star’s essential third album, Sister Lovers, released shortly before Bangkok, a solo single of 1978. The guitar solo here is made up almost entirely of feedback, noise and random squeaks.
5 PAINTER MAN Eddie Phillips, the Creation Unless you’re familiar with rock’s back streets, you probably know this song as a mid1970s MOR hit for Boney M. But, 10 years earlier, the original, by pop-art band the Creation, scraped into the Top 40. Phillips used a violin bow on the guitar, and, since electric-guitar strings don’t respond well to a bow, all sorts of strange overtones are generated. Hard sound to describe. Red with purple flashes.
6 DRIFTING Jimi Hendrix, on First Rays of the New Rising Sun “Drifting. . . on a sea of forgotten teardrops” – Jimi’s favourite compositions were his ballads.
He was clearly a man carrying a weight.
His melancholia found its purest expression on ballads such as The Wind Cries Mary, Little Wing and Angel. Drifting is not the greatest of these, but it contains three or four seconds of the most beautiful electric-guitar tone ever recorded: 2’23” to 2’26”. Amid sparse backward-guitar, Jimi hits a high note, slides down, then, playing with just one hand (his right), weaves a melodic phrase through his backwards-guitar part. It’s Hendrix in cameo; beautiful, effortless, casual, throwaway.
7 I CAN SEE FOR MILES Pete Townshend, the Who (best on 7in vinyl)/CINNAMON GIRL Neil Young, on Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere Two very different examples of that specialised solo form, the one-noter. Townshend uses (rapid) mandolin picking to turn that one note into a blur; Young keeps steady time and holds a single high D going over eight chords.
8 YOU’LL BE MINE Hubert Sumlin, with Howlin’ Wolf The one and only Sumlin mixing it with the Wolf’s peerless Chicago blues band. Marc Bolan “borrowed” most of the song for T Rex’s Jeepster.
9 CHAMBERTIN Bert Jansch Davy Graham came first, but Bert had the charisma. This record is unobtainable on CD, but there’s a knockout live version on an album called River Sessions. Jansch at his finest.
10 I’M LEFT, YOU’RE RIGHT, SHE’S GONE Scotty Moore, with Elvis Presley On this B-side of Presley’s fifth single for Sun, Moore rocks up the basic Chet Atkins style to give the King the bounce he needed. The solo is a gem, mirroring the vocal in the treble register and bouncing it off syncopated picking in the bass line.
Unquote
Friday, September 07, 2007
Portraits of Thirty Beautiful Women on Flickr
If you are an ogler of beautiful faces, are overwhelmed by the beauty of delicate feminine features, and wondered (like me) how the female of the species can look so good and the male, well, um, hmm, er, erm, krrr, so ugly, then these pictures are for you: 30 Portraits of Beautiful Women on Flickr . Ogle to your heart's content, and don't forget to come back and read my other posts.
Sigh!
beautiful women | beautiful faces | pretty faces |
Sigh!
beautiful women | beautiful faces | pretty faces |
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Poet Namdeo Dhasal
Here's a post I wrote on Caferati replying to a post by David Raphael Israel regarding the prominent Dalit poet Namdeo Dhasal who was hospitalized recently. When the press wrote about how he didn't have money to pay his bills Amitabh Bachchan came to his rescue and contributed Rs 5 lakh.
"Namdeo Dhasal is a revolutionary dalit poet who has many admirers. He is also an activist for the rights of the downtrodden lower caste people of India. His poetry reflects the anger and rage of black poets in the US of A and speaks out against oppression, discrimination and bias of an age-old system.
"Recently the poet was in the news as he was hospitalized following a debilitating illness and didn't have the money to pay his medical bills.
Film star Amitabh Bachchan who contributed Rs 5 lakh to pay his bills came to his rescue and reportedly he is making progress. Shows the Big B has a big heart too!
Namdeo Dhasal | Amitabh Bachchan
"Namdeo Dhasal is a revolutionary dalit poet who has many admirers. He is also an activist for the rights of the downtrodden lower caste people of India. His poetry reflects the anger and rage of black poets in the US of A and speaks out against oppression, discrimination and bias of an age-old system.
"Recently the poet was in the news as he was hospitalized following a debilitating illness and didn't have the money to pay his medical bills.
Film star Amitabh Bachchan who contributed Rs 5 lakh to pay his bills came to his rescue and reportedly he is making progress. Shows the Big B has a big heart too!
Namdeo Dhasal | Amitabh Bachchan
Latest Book Deals from Publisher's Lunch
Here are the latest acquisitions in the publishing world with the kind courtesy of Publisher's Lunch of Publisher's Marketplace reproduced here for information:
Mystery/Crime
Colin Cotterill's sixth and seventh "Dr. Siri" novels, featuring the
septuagenarian Laotian state coroner introduced in The Coroner's Lunch,
to Laura Hruska at Soho Crime, by Richard Curtis of Richard Curtis
Associates (NA).
rcurtis@curtisagency.com
Foreign rights to the series to Albin Michel in France, Quercus in the
UK; Text Publishing in Australia; Fanucci Editore in Italy; Sony
Magazines in Japan; and Goldmann in Germany, by Danny Baror of Baror
International.
barorint@aol.com
Thriller
NYT bestselling author Steve Berry's three additional international
thrillers, again to Mark Tavani at Ballantine, for publication running
through 2011, by Pam Ahearn of Ahearn Agency (world).
Rights: ctisne@randomhouse.com
Women's/Romance
Daddy's Girls author Tasmina Perry's Gold Diggers, about four beautiful
and powerful women who will stop at nothing in their quest for the heart
of the world's most eligible bachelor, a handsome, sexy American real
estate tycoon, to Trish Todd at Touchstone Fireside, in a very nice
deal, for publication in summer 2008, by Sheila Crowley at AP Watt (US).
General/Other
Wife in the Fast Lane author Karen Quinn's Holly Would Dream, about the
madcap adventures of a calamity-prone young woman named Holly, whose
obsession with Audrey Hepburn could be either her blessing or her curse,
to Trish Todd at Touchstone Fireside, in a nice deal, for publication in
summer 2008, by Robin Straus at Robin Straus Agency (NA).
Phillip Lopate's Two Marriages, a pairing of novellas portraying two
less than perfect unions, to Rosemary Ahern at Other Press, in a nice
deal, for publication in Fall 2008, by Wendy Weil at the Wendy Weil
Agency (World).
clazare@otherpress.com
John Vernon's Lucky Billy, a postmodern take on Billy the Kid, to Anton
Mueller at Houghton Mifflin, for publication in February 2009, by Susan
Wyler at King Hill Productions (NA).
Dreams of Speaking and Sixty Lights author Gail Jones's Sorry, about a
lonely child raised in the remote outback of Western Australia during
World War II, and her friendship with a deaf mute boy and a forsaken
Aboriginal girl -- and the terrible event lays waste to their lives, to
Kent Carroll at Europa Editions, for publication in spring 2008, by
Melanie Jackson (NA).
Young-ha Kim's Empire Of Light, Manhae Prize-winning novel about a day
in the life of a North Korean spy who is recalled from the South and
must decide to either give up his family there or return to an uncertain
fate in the North, to Jenna Johnson at Harcourt, by Barbara Zitwer
Agency (NA).
Dale Peck's Body Surfing, a dark literary thriller about a race of
demons who possess their prey, moving from body to body via sexual
release, and the female hunter bent on destroying them, to Peter Borland
at Atria, by Richard Abate at Endeavor (NA).
Foreign rights: roliver@endeavorla.com
Children's: Young Adult
Sarah Rees Brennan's debut urban fantasy trilogy starting with The
Demon's Lexicon, about two brothers hunted throughout England by a
powerful magician's circle after their mother steals a charm and when
the eldest is marked by a demon, the younger uses swords and dark arts
in an effort to save him but unwittingly uncovers the darkest of
secrets, to Karen Wojtyla at Margaret K. McElderry Books, at auction, by
Kristin Nelson at Nelson Literary Agency (world English).
knelson@nelsonagency.com
Translation: wlee@fieldingagency.com
Film: EvashevskiK@unitedtalent.com
Barry Lyga's Hero-Type, in which a 16-year-old boy goes from hero to
zero in his small town after he is seen removing "Support the Troops"
magnets from his new car, to Margaret Raymo at Houghton Mifflin
Children's, for two books, for publication in Fall 2008, by Kathleen
Anderson at Anderson Literary Management (NA).
Children's: Middle grade
Eight books from Yang Hongying's children's series Naughty Ma Xiaotao,
said to have sold over 10 million copies in China, about a mischievous
boy and his eccentric, naughty father and the scrapes they get into at
home and school, to Gillie Russell at Harper UK and Stella Chou of
Harper China, for publication in spring 2008, by Bai Bing at Jieli
Publishing House (world).
Mystery/Crime
Colin Cotterill's sixth and seventh "Dr. Siri" novels, featuring the
septuagenarian Laotian state coroner introduced in The Coroner's Lunch,
to Laura Hruska at Soho Crime, by Richard Curtis of Richard Curtis
Associates (NA).
rcurtis@curtisagency.com
Foreign rights to the series to Albin Michel in France, Quercus in the
UK; Text Publishing in Australia; Fanucci Editore in Italy; Sony
Magazines in Japan; and Goldmann in Germany, by Danny Baror of Baror
International.
barorint@aol.com
Thriller
NYT bestselling author Steve Berry's three additional international
thrillers, again to Mark Tavani at Ballantine, for publication running
through 2011, by Pam Ahearn of Ahearn Agency (world).
Rights: ctisne@randomhouse.com
Women's/Romance
Daddy's Girls author Tasmina Perry's Gold Diggers, about four beautiful
and powerful women who will stop at nothing in their quest for the heart
of the world's most eligible bachelor, a handsome, sexy American real
estate tycoon, to Trish Todd at Touchstone Fireside, in a very nice
deal, for publication in summer 2008, by Sheila Crowley at AP Watt (US).
General/Other
Wife in the Fast Lane author Karen Quinn's Holly Would Dream, about the
madcap adventures of a calamity-prone young woman named Holly, whose
obsession with Audrey Hepburn could be either her blessing or her curse,
to Trish Todd at Touchstone Fireside, in a nice deal, for publication in
summer 2008, by Robin Straus at Robin Straus Agency (NA).
Phillip Lopate's Two Marriages, a pairing of novellas portraying two
less than perfect unions, to Rosemary Ahern at Other Press, in a nice
deal, for publication in Fall 2008, by Wendy Weil at the Wendy Weil
Agency (World).
clazare@otherpress.com
John Vernon's Lucky Billy, a postmodern take on Billy the Kid, to Anton
Mueller at Houghton Mifflin, for publication in February 2009, by Susan
Wyler at King Hill Productions (NA).
Dreams of Speaking and Sixty Lights author Gail Jones's Sorry, about a
lonely child raised in the remote outback of Western Australia during
World War II, and her friendship with a deaf mute boy and a forsaken
Aboriginal girl -- and the terrible event lays waste to their lives, to
Kent Carroll at Europa Editions, for publication in spring 2008, by
Melanie Jackson (NA).
Young-ha Kim's Empire Of Light, Manhae Prize-winning novel about a day
in the life of a North Korean spy who is recalled from the South and
must decide to either give up his family there or return to an uncertain
fate in the North, to Jenna Johnson at Harcourt, by Barbara Zitwer
Agency (NA).
Dale Peck's Body Surfing, a dark literary thriller about a race of
demons who possess their prey, moving from body to body via sexual
release, and the female hunter bent on destroying them, to Peter Borland
at Atria, by Richard Abate at Endeavor (NA).
Foreign rights: roliver@endeavorla.com
Children's: Young Adult
Sarah Rees Brennan's debut urban fantasy trilogy starting with The
Demon's Lexicon, about two brothers hunted throughout England by a
powerful magician's circle after their mother steals a charm and when
the eldest is marked by a demon, the younger uses swords and dark arts
in an effort to save him but unwittingly uncovers the darkest of
secrets, to Karen Wojtyla at Margaret K. McElderry Books, at auction, by
Kristin Nelson at Nelson Literary Agency (world English).
knelson@nelsonagency.com
Translation: wlee@fieldingagency.com
Film: EvashevskiK@unitedtalent.com
Barry Lyga's Hero-Type, in which a 16-year-old boy goes from hero to
zero in his small town after he is seen removing "Support the Troops"
magnets from his new car, to Margaret Raymo at Houghton Mifflin
Children's, for two books, for publication in Fall 2008, by Kathleen
Anderson at Anderson Literary Management (NA).
Children's: Middle grade
Eight books from Yang Hongying's children's series Naughty Ma Xiaotao,
said to have sold over 10 million copies in China, about a mischievous
boy and his eccentric, naughty father and the scrapes they get into at
home and school, to Gillie Russell at Harper UK and Stella Chou of
Harper China, for publication in spring 2008, by Bai Bing at Jieli
Publishing House (world).
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
JB D'Souza - The Old Order Changeth!
JB D'Souza, former municipal commissioner, bureaucrat, champion of causes, and flawless writer is no more. He died on September 2, 2007 at the age of 87. I got this from Zigzackly who was informed by JB's (Bain's) son Dilip D'Souza.
Here's what JB wrote on what some greedy newspaper owners who consider newspaper publishing as a business like any other, i.e., the business of reaching news to the masses. It's for disseminating news that newspapers enjoy certain freedoms of expression, special privileges vis-a-vis the executive machinery, newsprint at subsidized rates, postage at subsidized rates, special train bookings privileges, invitation to government function, and the list goes on endlessly.
Well, hm, if it is just like any other business (e.g. "selling of pig iron" for instance) then let them eschew their special privileges mentioned above, and act like the kirana shops that print advertisements, which is what they have become of late. Some of the newspapers have become money making enterprises with a high margin of profit while delivering sub-standard news.
Here's what JB D'Souza has to say on the subject, and from how he said it, he didn't mince words (Journalism: Profit over People).
"It is, of course, possible for publishers to argue that theirs is a business like any other; they are in the business to maximise profit and that profits come not from news of events and analysis of them, not from readers’ satisfaction, but from advertisements, and advertisers have to be kept happy. The fact is that the press is not a business like any other; it is much more. Its prime responsibility is to its readers, a responsibility to inform. It is for this reason that it enjoys the freedom protected by the Constitution. The lust for money must not be allowed to obscure this advantage. “As editors collude ever more willingly”, writes Neil Hickey in the Columbia Journalism Review, “with marketers, promotion ‘experts’ and advertisers, thus ceding a portion of their sacred editorial trust; as editors shrink from tough coverage of major advertisers lest they jeopardise ad revenue; as news holes grow smaller in column inches to cosmeticise the bottom line; as news executives cut muscle and sinew from budgets to satisfy their corporate overseers’ demands for higher profit margins each year...then the broadly felt consequence of those factors and many others, collectively, is a diminished and deracinated journalism... which, if it persists, will be a fatal erosion of the bond between journalists and the public."
UPDATE: Wonder why JB D'Souza's death didn't appear in the papers, and I read three of them and watch several news channels and I found nothing. It's galling to the think the press would ignore such an eminent man's death because of his views which, in my humble opinion, were frank and forthright. Case of the press gagging the public? I got the news from Zigzackly's blog and, he, it seems, was informed by Dilip, JB's son. It still leaves a bad taste in my mouth though it proves that citizens' journalism (such as blogging) works in times when the mainstream media (MSM) fails.
UPDATE: Dilip D'Souza writes: Thank you John. Actually, TOI and HT both reported it on Monday morning; HT carried a profile on Tue, DNA carried a news item on Tue.
UPDATE: My Comment: I read TOI, Daily Mirror and DNA, but didn't notice. Maybe it was published without a picture in some corner. I feel JB deserves more.
JB D’Souza | Dilip D’Souza
Here's what JB wrote on what some greedy newspaper owners who consider newspaper publishing as a business like any other, i.e., the business of reaching news to the masses. It's for disseminating news that newspapers enjoy certain freedoms of expression, special privileges vis-a-vis the executive machinery, newsprint at subsidized rates, postage at subsidized rates, special train bookings privileges, invitation to government function, and the list goes on endlessly.
Well, hm, if it is just like any other business (e.g. "selling of pig iron" for instance) then let them eschew their special privileges mentioned above, and act like the kirana shops that print advertisements, which is what they have become of late. Some of the newspapers have become money making enterprises with a high margin of profit while delivering sub-standard news.
Here's what JB D'Souza has to say on the subject, and from how he said it, he didn't mince words (Journalism: Profit over People).
"It is, of course, possible for publishers to argue that theirs is a business like any other; they are in the business to maximise profit and that profits come not from news of events and analysis of them, not from readers’ satisfaction, but from advertisements, and advertisers have to be kept happy. The fact is that the press is not a business like any other; it is much more. Its prime responsibility is to its readers, a responsibility to inform. It is for this reason that it enjoys the freedom protected by the Constitution. The lust for money must not be allowed to obscure this advantage. “As editors collude ever more willingly”, writes Neil Hickey in the Columbia Journalism Review, “with marketers, promotion ‘experts’ and advertisers, thus ceding a portion of their sacred editorial trust; as editors shrink from tough coverage of major advertisers lest they jeopardise ad revenue; as news holes grow smaller in column inches to cosmeticise the bottom line; as news executives cut muscle and sinew from budgets to satisfy their corporate overseers’ demands for higher profit margins each year...then the broadly felt consequence of those factors and many others, collectively, is a diminished and deracinated journalism... which, if it persists, will be a fatal erosion of the bond between journalists and the public."
UPDATE: Wonder why JB D'Souza's death didn't appear in the papers, and I read three of them and watch several news channels and I found nothing. It's galling to the think the press would ignore such an eminent man's death because of his views which, in my humble opinion, were frank and forthright. Case of the press gagging the public? I got the news from Zigzackly's blog and, he, it seems, was informed by Dilip, JB's son. It still leaves a bad taste in my mouth though it proves that citizens' journalism (such as blogging) works in times when the mainstream media (MSM) fails.
UPDATE: Dilip D'Souza writes: Thank you John. Actually, TOI and HT both reported it on Monday morning; HT carried a profile on Tue, DNA carried a news item on Tue.
UPDATE: My Comment: I read TOI, Daily Mirror and DNA, but didn't notice. Maybe it was published without a picture in some corner. I feel JB deserves more.
JB D’Souza | Dilip D’Souza
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Moving House
I am moving house. Last monsoon I vowed that I will never live in the house I am currently residing for another year, read: another monsoon. I wanted to spare my wife and son the indignities of a monsoon in Artist Village. True the area is the best I can ever get in the city of Bombay; it has more than hundred acres of green forests, a dam, and a walking trail. I wake up every morning to bird sounds and on my daily morning walk listen to the birds relating their agonies and angst of the previous day at the walking trail. However, the omissions and commission of the house I live in are many, and should, I think, be a case study in bureaucratic bungling. Like everything built in India, especially a construction done with government intervention, the life span of the structure is over. It has lasted me a reasonable twenty years and now that its life is over I have to think of doing some drastic repairs or break it down completely.
Problem is that though bad, I am very attached to this house to which I moved twenty years ago. My son grew up here and I have fond memories of him as a small child running around in the small courtyard. The thought of destroying so many memories is what is disturbing. I have also accumulated a bewildering range of furniture, computers, computer accessories (which includes computer books), and other paraphernalia that comes with having a computer, and believe me, this can be a variegated jungle of wires and cables. I know I have to move out but I can’t bring myself to do it, call it attachment, nostalgia, or, whatever.
The government housing corporation – CIDCO, from whom I purchased this house –constructed it in such hurry that it didn’t have time for niceties like matching door bolts and latches. The doors don’t close properly, the space is narrow and cramped, and because of the bad cement used there’s mold on the walls every monsoon. The flooring is coming out in powdery bits, the walls are peeling paint, and the doors don’t close properly. All this I have tried temporarily to remedy by repairing, putting false ceilings and doing all I can to keep life possible in this case of bureaucratic bungling. But I am at the end of the tether and have decided to break everything down and rebuild it as most of my neighbors are doing. The plot belongs to me and I will have the luxury of more space.
A lot of my money has been spent on making this house comfortable for the three of us. But now it will all go waste. But which building constructed with government funds has had a life of more than twenty years? Some of them in my locality are disintegrating. Now I have decided to move to a flat nearby till the rebuilding of my house can be completed. Meanwhile the old house, with Mangalore tiles and all is going to be demolished and a proper structure, with reinforced concrete, and mice-proof doors are going to be installed, with a loan from a government-owned bank.
Now, this piece is about how a house that is in its death throe can irritate. I have transferred half my belongings to the new flat and the house is full of cardboard boxes, and dismantled computers, and knick knacks. The last mentioned also include a large collection of books some of which I will have to throw out, which makes me go mushy and sentimental. I have put them on the floor and find that there isn’t space to navigate in the little house. At night there is an unwanted guest in the form of a little mouse that comes and moves in between the cartons and plays havoc with my wife’s sleep, she being a light sleeper. As for me I sleep like a dead man, even an earthquake couldn’t wake me once.
Having seen “Mouse Story” the movie about how a mouse can destroy a big mansion, I have no illusions about the destructive power of this smallish furry rodent. The problem is: it is so industrious in its foray for food that it will take every risk available. I have tried waiting with a broom handle to swat it down, but its movements are so furtive that I just can’t foresee where it will go next.
I have tried poisoning it and it seems it went and died inside my neighbor’s water tank and he became quite upset at the maggots falling from the bathroom ceiling. Soon it (the dead one) was replaced by another, furry creature, its offspring, I guess. So poisoning is out this time. Then I try mousetraps, and that too doesn’t work. The mouse soon got wise to my machinations and would just nibble at the chapatti without going in to eat. Intelligent creature this is.
Then I try catching it sneaking in and by thumping my legs on the floor and making all sorts of noise to only see it scurrying past me under the bed and disappearing, I don’t know where. I would take the torch and would bend low under the bed, and, broom-flying wizards! it’s disappeared. Suddenly it would materialize with its high pitched, super-sonic shriek and destroy my peace of my mind when I am watching a particularly engrossing movie on television. Gone would be the momentary enjoyment and I would start to fret about the mouse’s next move.
Now it’s having the worst case of diarrhea and there’s rat dropping all over the floor, making me clean up after it the whole morning. I am so fed up with this mouse’s antics that I have decided to write this blogpost and move out and go and live in the rented flat next Saturday. The loan has been approved by the bank and the architect is drawing the design of the house, and the sooner I am out of here the better.
My new house is going to be mouse-proof and I am personally going to ensure that there aren’t any cartons or big wooden beds around where my mouse friend can hide from my searching gaze and my broom handle.
Problem is that though bad, I am very attached to this house to which I moved twenty years ago. My son grew up here and I have fond memories of him as a small child running around in the small courtyard. The thought of destroying so many memories is what is disturbing. I have also accumulated a bewildering range of furniture, computers, computer accessories (which includes computer books), and other paraphernalia that comes with having a computer, and believe me, this can be a variegated jungle of wires and cables. I know I have to move out but I can’t bring myself to do it, call it attachment, nostalgia, or, whatever.
The government housing corporation – CIDCO, from whom I purchased this house –constructed it in such hurry that it didn’t have time for niceties like matching door bolts and latches. The doors don’t close properly, the space is narrow and cramped, and because of the bad cement used there’s mold on the walls every monsoon. The flooring is coming out in powdery bits, the walls are peeling paint, and the doors don’t close properly. All this I have tried temporarily to remedy by repairing, putting false ceilings and doing all I can to keep life possible in this case of bureaucratic bungling. But I am at the end of the tether and have decided to break everything down and rebuild it as most of my neighbors are doing. The plot belongs to me and I will have the luxury of more space.
A lot of my money has been spent on making this house comfortable for the three of us. But now it will all go waste. But which building constructed with government funds has had a life of more than twenty years? Some of them in my locality are disintegrating. Now I have decided to move to a flat nearby till the rebuilding of my house can be completed. Meanwhile the old house, with Mangalore tiles and all is going to be demolished and a proper structure, with reinforced concrete, and mice-proof doors are going to be installed, with a loan from a government-owned bank.
Now, this piece is about how a house that is in its death throe can irritate. I have transferred half my belongings to the new flat and the house is full of cardboard boxes, and dismantled computers, and knick knacks. The last mentioned also include a large collection of books some of which I will have to throw out, which makes me go mushy and sentimental. I have put them on the floor and find that there isn’t space to navigate in the little house. At night there is an unwanted guest in the form of a little mouse that comes and moves in between the cartons and plays havoc with my wife’s sleep, she being a light sleeper. As for me I sleep like a dead man, even an earthquake couldn’t wake me once.
Having seen “Mouse Story” the movie about how a mouse can destroy a big mansion, I have no illusions about the destructive power of this smallish furry rodent. The problem is: it is so industrious in its foray for food that it will take every risk available. I have tried waiting with a broom handle to swat it down, but its movements are so furtive that I just can’t foresee where it will go next.
I have tried poisoning it and it seems it went and died inside my neighbor’s water tank and he became quite upset at the maggots falling from the bathroom ceiling. Soon it (the dead one) was replaced by another, furry creature, its offspring, I guess. So poisoning is out this time. Then I try mousetraps, and that too doesn’t work. The mouse soon got wise to my machinations and would just nibble at the chapatti without going in to eat. Intelligent creature this is.
Then I try catching it sneaking in and by thumping my legs on the floor and making all sorts of noise to only see it scurrying past me under the bed and disappearing, I don’t know where. I would take the torch and would bend low under the bed, and, broom-flying wizards! it’s disappeared. Suddenly it would materialize with its high pitched, super-sonic shriek and destroy my peace of my mind when I am watching a particularly engrossing movie on television. Gone would be the momentary enjoyment and I would start to fret about the mouse’s next move.
Now it’s having the worst case of diarrhea and there’s rat dropping all over the floor, making me clean up after it the whole morning. I am so fed up with this mouse’s antics that I have decided to write this blogpost and move out and go and live in the rented flat next Saturday. The loan has been approved by the bank and the architect is drawing the design of the house, and the sooner I am out of here the better.
My new house is going to be mouse-proof and I am personally going to ensure that there aren’t any cartons or big wooden beds around where my mouse friend can hide from my searching gaze and my broom handle.
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