Whose poetry alone survived…

Standard

Yesterday, in Maria’s blog, I read a post in which she had written about John Keats. Intrigued, I googled a bit about his life and came back to write a post on him myself. I was inspired to write about him because life had nothing but hurdles to offer him, yet, he had accomplished a lot within the short span of his stay on earth, unlike many of us.

John Keats was born in the eighteenth century, and was the eldest of the four children his parents birthed. His father died when Keats was very young, leaving the family devastated. His mother, however, doesn’t seem like a woman who stuck to the moral etiquette, and didn’t stay around her children for long, either. She ran away from her family, leaving her children to be tended by her mother.

But when she later came back, she couldn’t stay with her children for long, because The Mass Killer of the olden times, tuberculosis, had got to her. This might have come to Keats as a heavy blow, but he continued studying. It must have been very hard for him, dealing with an unforgiving life… his parents dead, his siblings in need of care, himself all alone… but still, he wrote poems! He had a deep interest in the arts and architecture, and even after he left school to study surgery, his mind always kept coming back to poetry.

And he did write many poems.

He even managed to fall in love with a woman – Isbella Jones – and began writing sensual poems thinking of her, young as he was. And later, he fell in love with another woman – Frances Brawne – who would’ve become his wife, had he not died. When John and Frances were getting intimate, and were slowly but surely falling in love, life decided that John had lived long enough without any mishaps and there had to be something to interrupt his smooth going. And so, his brother, Tom Keats, fell sick… and life had succeeded in preventing Keats from enjoying life further, preventing him from being carefree.

Yet, his love towards Brawne had never once changed. He wrote her letters telling her how much she meant to him, but Tom Keats’ death had brought even more gloom into his life. Imagine having nursed a tuberculosis patient in vain. But she continued to be his distant dream, and he hers. As his health went down, Keats was advised by his doctor to go south and live in better climatic conditions, and so he went, leaving poor Brawne alone, but Rome did nothing to prevent his downfall. He lay in bed for many months, sick.

This site says: Keats’ agony was so severe that at one point he pressed his doctor and asked him, “How long is this posthumous existence of mine to go on?”

One fine day, he finally extricated himself from the mortal flesh that bound his poetic soul and floated towards the gates of heaven. And that marks the end of the 25-year old poetic celebrity. He had written about three volumes of text before he died. Could I be able to do that? Doubtful. But none of his work was popular back then. His books had starting being published only four years before his death… and he had sold only 200 books until he died. But a few decades later, people dug out his work and began appreciating them. Thus, his works were able to survive, though he was not.

Looking at biographies like these make me feel that I’m a freaking parasite living off my parents’ hard work, and more than that, it makes me guilty because I haven’t achieved anything yet in life. Even though Keats died at the tender age of 25, he had written so much that he could finally die in peace. His poems would one day find their way to the world packed with awed fanatics. But if I die tomorrow, I will die as a plain old ordinary South Indian who whiled off her time in the net. Not that I even have the eligibility to be compared with this genius, but I’m just trying to face the facts here.

Sources : Wikipedia and Biography.com.

Advertisements

Circuit connections?

Standard

The Daily Post had been asking the bloggers: Open your nearest book to page 82. Take the third full sentence on the page, and work it into a post somehow.

Forgive me, I linked this post to a wrong place and the ping-back thing had not appeared at all yesterday in wordpress… But now that I’ve noticed, I’ve changed the link…

The last time the Daily Post had asked me to look at a random sentence in a book, I had been lazy and took out an ebook, and wrote from that. I didn’t even have a book nearby. But today, however, I had a book at arm’s length. A very dangerous book, though — Linear Integrated Circuits, because I don’t even know what to write about it. Anyway, I hoped that I’d get some text about a transistor or something, and I’d write a little bit about it and somehow escape.

But do you know what I found on page number 82?

Circuits and equations

Page No. 82 of Linear Integrated Circuits, Second Edition, written by D. Roy Choudhry and Shail B. Jain

That’s right, I found this. I never expected something of this sort to pop up, given that I haven’t touched this book in years (then you must be asking why exactly this book was on my table? I really don’t know why I took it out… I kind of missed it a teeny weeny bit, maybe… but I never once opened it… and it lay there for weeks like that).

Now, let’s zoom in a bit before we start our story. I have a mobile that doesn’t have a camera (for now), and my mother’s phone has a basic camera, and I never once in my life enjoyed the high-definition-photography experience, so you might not be able to look at the above picture without hurting your eyes. I’ll take another picture of the thing I want you to see in the page — in a close-up view. With the same ol’ Nokia phone of my mother’s of course…

The circuit we're going to talk about.

The circuit we’re going to talk about.

So, here… I see three transistors in the circuit. Do you see them? They’re the little things that look like vessels that can hold water temporarily, to be simply put. You do see one transistor at the left, and the zig-zag line beside it, don’t you? Meet Res, the sweet li’l resistor and his step-mum. Two others are on the right side, and labelled Q2 (the lower one) and Q3 (the upper one). You might have a bit of difficulty spotting the letters in this photograph, because Nokia’s excellent in its own way, providing me security and privacy from the cyber-strangers that are my blog readers. After all, you cannot let strangers look at your photos… It’s smart, in its own way, but no one ever acknowledges it as a ‘smartphone’, my mother’s yellowy Nokia, while the other phones that disclose their master’s/mistress’ top secret photos clearly, giving no room for imagination, the poor unimaginative, traitors of the cellphone owners are often celebrated as the smart ones.

People keep on misunderstanding the non-touchscreen, less-than-2-mega-pixel-camera phones. After all, as they say, it’s not where’re you’re born. It’s about where you die, about how much you’ve accomplished on earth. And my phone is not dead yet, (third hand and working better than it’s touch-screen counterpart) and has lived on this earth for many years without diagnosis or treatment, unlike one of its young, touch-screen counterparts, which is right now in its coffin.

They say it’s of 2 MP — MP is for Mega Pressure, and is a measure of how much pressure the cellphone’s owner is likely to face. Other touch-screen devices cause much more Pressure to their masters and mistresses, for upto 8 MP, but at the end of the day, those stupid phones are the most celebrated ones. Strange are the ways of the world… Shutterstock photos don’t come with a watermark for nothing! Shutterstock knows how to protect its stuff… and so does my mother’s phone. Conceal is the new cool 😀

Anyway, I think I have lost my cute little transistor triplets while trying to defend my mother’s camera, because dear Q2 here is running towards Q1 (the one clever transistor in the left that did not disclose its name to you earlier).

“How could you do this to me, Q1? It was I who had given the brilliant idea of adopting the homeless little resistor, but how could you keep him all by yourself?”

“Do you want me to tear him down to two so that I can give you a half, now, Q2? Oh, come on! Grow up, don’t you!”

“I will never send you the divorce papers unless you promise me to give the poor li’l resistor back to me… after all, I wanted to have him first.”

“It’s not a matter of being first in doing something, Q2, it’s all about who Res needs right now. Even if you appeal to the court, I know that I’ll win the case. All judges are known for placing the child under their mother’s custody.”

“But you’re not his mother, Q1! We still have –“

“Stop bothering about me and get lost, Q2. Never ever stand in front of me again. Didn’t I tell you this already?”

“But–“

“No Buts. You marry your darling Q3 as you had planned and have as many Resistors as you can with that stupid excuse of a transistor. Now leave.”

“But, I wasn’t –“

“Oh yes, you were.”

“I didn’t even mean –“

“Oh yes you did, Q2! There’s no point in defending yourself after you’ve come this far.”

“Mama!” cried the silent Resistor from beside.

“Oh, Resistor honey, I forgot to feed you! Wait a minute, I’ll switch on myself and allow the current to your side.”

“Honey…”

“Oh, shut up, you traitor. Get away! Run to that deceitful Lady Q3 of yours.”

“Ma! Isn’t that supposed to be… um… Papa?”

“What’re you talking about, hon? There’s no such thing as that in this world. Who keeps teaching you nonsense?”

“There’s no such thing as Papa?”

“No.”

“Then why does that transistor-man often visit this house? You aren’t having any illicit relationship with him, are you?”

“Air-headed Ungrateful Resistors be damned…”

“What did you say, Mama?”

“You look absolutely handsome in your new tri-color rings, honey!”

“That I am.”