Bookmarks Life Quotes

Marginalia Sometimes the notes are ferocious, skirmishes against the author raging along the borders of every page in tiny black script. If I could just get my hands on you, Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien, they seem to say, I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head. Other comments are more offhand, dismissive - Nonsense." "Please!" "HA!!" - that kind of thing. I remember once looking up from my reading, my thumb as a bookmark, trying to imagine what the person must look like who wrote "Don't be a ninny" alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson. Students are more modest needing to leave only their splayed footprints along the shore of the page. One scrawls "Metaphor" next to a stanza of Eliot's. Another notes the presence of "Irony" fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal. Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers, Hands cupped around their mouths. Absolutely," they shout to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin. Yes." "Bull's-eye." "My man!" Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points rain down along the sidelines. And if you have managed to graduate from college without ever having written "Man vs. Nature" in a margin, perhaps now is the time to take one step forward. We have all seized the white perimeter as our own and reached for a pen if only to show we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages; we pressed a thought into the wayside, planted an impression along the verge. Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria jotted along the borders of the Gospels brief asides about the pains of copying, a bird singing near their window, or the sunlight that illuminated their page- anonymous men catching a ride into the future on a vessel more lasting than themselves. And you have not read Joshua Reynolds, they say, until you have read him enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling. Yet the one I think of most often, the one that dangles from me like a locket, was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye I borrowed from the local library one slow, hot summer. I was just beginning high school then, reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room, and I cannot tell you how vastly my loneliness was deepened, how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed, when I found on one page A few greasy looking smears and next to them, written in soft pencil- by a beautiful girl, I could tell, whom I would never meet- Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love.

We note our place with bookmarkers That measure what we've lost.

She said once that time is nothing to me but a series of bookmarks that I use to jump back and forth through the text of my life, returning again and again to the events that mark me in the eyes of my more astute colleagues, as bearing all the characteristics of the classic melancholic.

There are only two days with fewer than twenty-four hours in each lifetime, sitting like bookmarks astride our lives; one is celebrated every year, yet it is the other that makes us see living as precious.

I love bookshelves, and stacks of books, spines, typography, and the feel of pages between my fingertips. I love bookmarks, and old bindings, and stars in margins next to beautiful passages. I love exuberant underlinings that recall to me a swoon of language-love from a long-ago reading, something I hoped to remember. I love book plates, and inscriptions in gifts from loved ones, I love author signatures, and I love books sitting around reminding me of them, being present in my life, being. I love books. Not just for what they contain. I love them as objects too, as ever-present reminders of what they contain, and because they are beautiful. They are one of my favorite things in life, really at the tiptop of the list, easily my favorite inanimate things in existence, and ... I am just not cottoning on to this idea of making them ... not exist anymore. Making them cease to take up space in the world, in my life? No, please do not take away the physical reality of my books.

If you had to pack your whole life into a suitcase--not just the practical things, like clothing, but the memories of the people you had lost and the girl you had once been--what would you take? The last photograph you had of your mother? A birthday gift from your best friend--a bookmark embroidered by her? A ticket stub from the traveling circus that had come through town two years ago, where you and your father held your breath as jeweled ladies flew through the air, and a brave man stuck his head in the mouth of a lion? Would you take them to make wherever you were going feel like home, or because you needed to remember where you had come from?

I was already at one remove before the Internet came along. I need another remove? Now I have to spend the time that I'm not doing the thing they're doing reading about them doing it? Streaming the clips of them doing it, commenting on how lucky they are to be doing all those things, liking and digging and bookmarking and posting and tweeting all those things, and feeling more disconnected than ever? Where does this idea of greater connection come from? I've never in my life felt more disconnected. It's like how the rich get richer. The connected get more connected while the disconnected get more disconnected. No thanks man, I can't do it. The world was a sufficient trial, Betsy, before Facebook.

When Samuel was a child reading a Choose Your Own Adventure novel, he’d keep a bookmark at the spot of a very hard decision, so that if the story turned out poorly, he could go back and try again. More than anything he wants life to behave this way.

He stared, a line forming between his brows. Then with a shake of his head, he murmured, “You must have been a general in your past life. A most irritatingly stubborn one.

He didn’t miss them. He didn’t miss any of his life, really, especially the last year. Time had simply been a bookmark. Something that held his place while he waited to finish the story.

time is nothing to me but a series of book-marks that I use to jump back and forth through the text of my life, returning again and again to the events that mark me,

The true work of love resides in sticking with the process, especially in those moments, and eras, when desire is forced to coexist with doubt.

your heart is a library filled with novels about the people you love and even if they’re no longer in your life the love you once felt can be found within these pages available for you to reread on a rainy afternoon when you need their warm embrace part of loving someone is letting them go while letting them know they forever have a space in your heart’s library bookmarked for their return

When we talk about bookmarks in our life, we talk about People who really deserve our attention, our respect, and to be always remembered, even if .............................. ,but they have left a print A useful one

If you don’t want your life ruined, I had better not see you lurking around a crime scene again.” A frown drifted across my brows. I wasn’t sure what he meant. “Of course,” I whispered back. “I highly doubt our paths will ever cross again.

If you had to pack your whole life into a suitcase—not just the practical things, like clothing, but the memories of the people you had lost and the girl you had once been—what would you take? The last photograph you had of your mother? A birthday gift from your best friend—a bookmark embroidered by her? A ticket stub from the traveling circus that had come through town two years ago, where you and your father held your breath as jeweled ladies flew through the air, and a brave man stuck his head in the mouth of a lion? Would you take them to make wherever you were going feel like home, or because you needed to remember where you had come from?

Bookmark your dreams, go back and continue where you left them.

Good morning, magazines! Good morning, bookmarks! Good morning, books! Good morning, store!

I read too much as a child; I believe now that I can bookmark unrealized events in my life to return to them later.

This moment is now a bookmark in my life. There is a before and an after. I’ll never get to go back to the before. But I don’t want to live in the after. Not without Jules.

First, that troubled people tend to be the most powerful figures in a family, the most effective at exporting their internal discord into the world around them.

Good morning, magazines! Good morning, bookmarks! Good morning, books!

confesses to utilizing questionable bookmark strategies, and self-identifies as a compulsive proofreader.

We may with a certain melancholic pride remove the job search engine from our bookmarks and cancel our subscription to a dating site in due recognition of the fact that – whatever we do – parts of our potential will have to go undeveloped and have to die without ever having had the chance to come to full maturity – for the sake of the benefits of focus and specialization.

Over the years more than one friend or acquaintance had asked Tricia why she was so enamored of the mystery genre. How could she actually enjoy stories that celebrated violent death? They had it all wrong. The books didn't celebrate death, but triumph for justice. Too often real-life villains got away with murder, but in fiction, justice was usually assured. Sometimes she wished life better imitated art.

I,” I start, and she turns to look at my lips moving, rehearsing for some grand proposal. “I think it’d be good idea if you brought a few books over and left them on my shelf.” I’m a writer, and this is as good as it gets. She didn’t need a ring, just the ability to borrow a bookmark whenever she needed, or unwritten or unspoken permission to take my copy of Cecil Brown’s The Life and Loves of Mr. Jiveass Nigger with the original cover.

Second hand books had so much life in them. They'd lived, sometimes in many homes, or maybe just one. They'd been on airplanes, traveled to sunny beaches, or crowded into a backpack and taken high up a mountain where the air thinned. "Some had been held aloft tepid rose-scented baths, and thickened and warped with moisture. Others had child-like scrawls on the acknowledgement page, little fingers looking for a blank space to leave their mark. Then there were the pristine novels, ones that had been read carefully, bookmarks used, almost like their owner barely pried the pages open so loathe were they to damage their treasure. I loved them all. And I found it hard to part with them. Though years of book selling had steeled me. I had to let them go, and each time made a fervent wish they'd be read well, and often. Missy, my best friend, said I was completely cuckoo, and that I spent too much time alone in my shadowy shop, because I believed my books communicated with me. A soft sigh here, as they stretched their bindings when dawn broke, or a hum, as they anticipated a customer hovering close who might run a hand along their cover, tempting them to flutter their pages hello. Books were fussy when it came to their owners, and gave off a type of sound, an almost imperceptible whirr, when the right person was near. Most people weren't aware that books chose us, at the time when we needed them.

I was already at one remove before the Internet came along. I need another remove? Now I have to spend the time that I’m not doing the thing they’re doing reading about them doing it? Streaming all the clips of them doing it, commenting on how lucky they are to be doing all those things, liking and digging and bookmarking and posting and tweeting all those things, and feeling more disconnected than ever? Where does this idea of greater connection come from? I’ve never in my life felt more disconnected.

There are readers who live, breath, inhale stories and, while immersed in a book, live a divided life. Part of them is always waiting in that fictional world for the story to continue, suspended at the moment the page was last bookmarked. That's who I write for,

You have to force yourself to stop each day and look around. Give yourself a chance to enjoy the reality of the moment because there are no real endings, no bookmarks for your life to guide you. It just keeps going until it’s over, and it’s up to you to pick a point in time to stop and consider where you are.

Most of the books I have are indicators of my insecurity. I really wanted to be an intellectual. I really wanted to understand Sartre. I thought that was what made people smart. I have tried to read Being and Nothingness no fewer than twenty times in my life. I really thought that every answer had to be in that book. Maybe it is. The truth is, I can’t read anything with any distance. Every book is a self-help book to me. Just having them makes me feel better. I underline profusely but I don’t retain much. Reading is like a drug. When I am reading from these books it feels like I am thinking what is being read, and that gives me a rush. That is enough. I glean what I can. I finish some of the unfinished thoughts lingering around in my head by adding the thoughts of geniuses and I build from there. There are bookmarks in most of the denser tomes at around page 20 to 40 because that was where I said, “I get it.” Then I put them back on the shelf.

Simply repeating one day after the next is the enemy of a fulfilling life. It’s the reason why months go by too quickly, or years, even, and it’s like there’s almost no memory of it—an overload of routine that the brain registers as unimportant. But a new experience is something special. A bookmark. A highlighted section in the pages of your life. It’s the reason why you can remember the exact way your shoes felt on your first day of first grade or the exact light of the room

He couldn’t bear to live, but he couldn’t bear to die. He couldn’t bear the thought of her making love to someone else, but neither could he bear the absence of the thought. And as for the note, he couldn’t bear to keep it, but he couldn’t bear to destroy it either. So he tried to lose it. He left it by the wax-weeping candle holders, placed it between matzos every Passover, dropped it without regard among rumpled papers on his cluttered desk, hoping it wouldn’t be there when he returned. But it was always there. He tried to massage it out of his pocket while sitting on the bench in front of the fountain of the prostrate mermaid, but when he inserted his hand for his hanky, it was there. He hid it like a bookmark in one of the novels he most hated, but the note would appear several days later between the pages of one of the Western books that he alone in the shtetl read, one of the books that the note had now spoiled for him forever. But like his life, he couldn’t for the life of him lose the note. It kept returning to him. It stayed with him, like a part of him, like a birthmark, like a limb, it was on him, in him, him, his hymn: I had to do it for myself.

If you had to pack your whole life into a suitcase—not just the practical things, like clothing, but the memories of the people you had lost and the girl you had once been—what would you take? The last photograph you had of your mother? A birthday gift from your best friend—a bookmark embroidered by her? A ticket stub from the traveling circus that had come through town two years ago, where you and your father held your breath as jeweled ladies flew through the air, and a brave man stuck his head in the mouth of a lion? Would you take them to make wherever you were going feel like home, or because you needed to remember where you had come from? In

In the early years of the Civil War, she continued to lecture and make other celebrity appearances. She visited the Old Ladies Home in New York City, where she bought a needlepoint bookmark in the shape of a Latin cross. She shopped in Boston. She visited the Abbotts in 1863. And in 1864, she learned that the Mohave leader who had orchestrated her adoption into the tribe was coming east. After a chain of events on the Colorado that Olive could never have imagined during her life as a Mohave, Irataba, now a Mohave diplomat and leader revered by whites, was in the city after a visit with President Lincoln in Washington. She bought herself a ticket to see him.

Books? Yes, I read a lot, I’ve always read a lot. No, I’m not sure we do understand each other. I like to read best on the floor, or in bed, almost everything lying down, no, it has less to do with the books, above all it has to do with the reading, with black on white, with the letters, syllables, lines, the signs, the setting down, this inhuman fixing, this insanity, which flows from people and is frozen into expression. Believe me, expression is insanity, it arises out of our insanity. It also has to do with turning pages, with hunting from one page to the other, with flight, with complicity in an absurd, solidified effusion, with a vile overflow of verse, with insuring life in a single sentence, and, in turn, with the sentences seeking insurance in life. Reading is a vice which can replace all other vices or temporarily take their place in more intensely helping people live, it is a debauchery, a consuming addiction. No, I don’t take any drugs, I take books, of course I have certain preferences, many books don’t suit me at all, some I take only in the morning, others at night, there are books I don’t ever let go, I drag them around with me in the apartment, carrying them from the living room into the kitchen, I read them in the hall standing up, I don’t use bookmarks, I don’t move my lips while reading, early on I learned to read very well, I don’t remember the method, but you ought to look into it, they must have used an excellent method in our provincial elementary schools, at least back then when I learned to read. Yes I also realized, but not until later, that there are countries where people don’t know how to read, at least not quickly, but speed is important, not only concentration, can you please tell me who can keep chewing on a simple or even a complex sentence without feeling disgust, either with the eyes or the mouth, just keep on grinding away, over and over, a sentence which only consists of subject and predicate must be consumed rapidly, a sentence with many appositions must for that very reason be taken at tremendous speed, with the eyeballs performing an imperceptible slalom, since a sentence doesn’t convey anything to itself, it has to “convey” something to the reader. I couldn’t “work my way through” a book, that would almost be an occupation. There are people, I tell you, you come across the strangest surprises in this field of reading . . . I do profess a certain weakness for illiterates, I even know someone here who doesn’t read and doesn’t want to, a person who has succumbed to the vice of reading more easily understands such a state of innocence, really unless people are truly capable of reading they ought not to read at all.

All I can offer is this (without a single remembrance or image, or even incoherent wisp of correspondence), even so I knew, in those eradicated moments, and I know still: That there, there outside the gates of any physical state or world we may inhabit, something is—which, being so unlike, so beautiful and radiant and eternal—can never be transported into living life, not even by a word. Brighter than fires, more soft than fur, better than the best—nameless, non-communicable, absolute. And, without a bookmark in our hearts or brains to enable us to find it while here, yet there—there it nevertheless is, and will be ever. There is nothing to fear or to regret. There is no end. Only always a Beginning—that not even the most lucid scripture, or most transcendent art (even that of the Scarlet Lily, Cremisia Ranaldi) can recreate. We touch upon it, yes, I believe we do, in our greatest poets (which is why, if only as a ghost, she could undo the door). In the best of love or joy, that too—but all of this is a shadow. The shadow of the Nothing which is Everything.

Assign a file or paper tray to collect single-side printed paper for reuse. Boycott paper sourced from virgin forests and reams sold in plastic. Cancel magazine and newspaper subscriptions; view them online instead. Digitize important receipts and documents for safekeeping. Digital files are valid proofs for tax purposes. Download CutePDF Writer to save online files without having to print them. Email invitations or greeting cards instead of printing them (see “Holidays and Gifts” chapter). Forage the recycling can when paper scraps are needed, such as for bookmarks or pictures (for school collages, for example). Give extra paper to the local preschool. Hack the page margins of documents to maximize printing. Imagine a paperless world. Join the growing paperless community. Kill the fax machine; encourage electronic faxing through a service such as HelloFax. Limit yourself to print only on paper that has already been printed on one side. Make online billing and banking a common practice. Nag the kids’ teachers to send home only important papers. Opt out of paper newsletters. Print on both sides when using a new sheet of paper (duplex printing). Question the need for printing; print only when absolutely necessary. In most cases, it is not. Repurpose junk mail envelopes—make sure to cross out any barcode. Sign electronically using the Adobe Acrobat signing feature or SignNow.com. Turn down business cards; enter relevant info directly into a smartphone. Use shredded paper as a packing material, single-printed paper fastened with a metal clip for a quick notepad (grocery lists, errands lists), and double-printed paper to wrap presents or pick up your dog’s feces. Visit the local library to read business magazines and books. Write on paper using a pencil, which you can then erase to reuse paper, or better yet, use your computer, cell phone, or erasable board instead of paper. XYZ: eXamine Your Zipper; i.e., your leaks: attack any incoming source of paper.

Each day when we awaken from the bookmark of yesterday’s turmoil, we make choices of how to conduct our personal affairs. Each day we must decide if we will act humanely, ethically, and accord dignity to everyone whom we encounter. Each day of living, I fill out a personal diary. I must never be too afraid to wield the pen giving authorship to my own being. Each day is a test and with each day, we fill the pages of the novel that says who we are. Our acts and omissions mark our progress. Every action is a new sentence in our self-profile. Every failure to act is a blank page. We rightfully scorn the shallow author if he or she takes shortcuts and never attempts to gather a grain of personal enlightenment, if they brazenly fail to exhibit any sense dignity, or if they ignorantly lack any tincture of kindliness for other people. We all respond to someone whom loves other people, worships nature, and demonstrates that they know how to share their benevolence with other people.

keep your senses open there are many reminders and bookmarks only if one might believe life is not always what it might seem believing that promises may be available for those who seeks ahead

Set a timer for 25 minutes right now and concentrate on what you’re reading in this book for that amount of time. When your alarm goes off, bookmark this book and close it. Then write down what you learned within that 25-minute period.

Secondhand books had so much life in them. They’d lived, sometimes in many homes, or maybe just one. They’d been on airplanes, traveled to sunny beaches, or crowded into a backpack and taken high up a mountain where the air thinned. Some had been held aloft tepid rose-scented baths, and thickened and warped with moisture. Others had childlike scrawls on the acknowledgment page, little fingers looking for a blank space to leave their mark. Then there were the pristine novels, ones that had been read carefully, bookmarks used, almost like their owner barely pried the pages open so loath were they to damage their treasure. I loved them all.

I’d better make a list of all the things that make me feel good. Lists save lives. They keep our memories alive, as Umberto Eco says in The Infinity of Lists. Here goes: Laura’s voice message letting me know she’s at an LGBT+ rights demo like she’d tell me she was popping down to the shops, and warning me not to pick up if her boyfriend calls; he’s looking for her, and fretting because he can’t find her, and anyway he ‘doesn’t even know the difference between gay and straight’ Raffaella’s voice messages and her joy when she receives our books Maicol tearing through the cobbled streets of Lucignana, drunk on life My great-niece Rebecca joining the bookshop family and the certainty her cynicism will blossom into something completely unexpected My father’s existence The coffee I’m about to have with Tessa, who’s on her way to us on her motorbike with a box full of bookmarks, our official bookmarks she’s been gifting us since that day after the fire, with a quote from her mother Lynn Emanuele Trevi and Giovanni Giovannetti absconding from the literary conference in Lucca, later found smoking weed in a car in Piazza San Michele by a security guard, who happened to be the writer Vincenzo Pardini, so he let them go Ernesto and Mum cuddling on the sofa Daniele’s Barbara and Maurizio’s Barbara Ricchi e Poveri Donatella being sure Romano fancies her My mother trying to escape her hospital bed as soon as I look the other way Tina’s mother Mike quickly wrapping a towel around his waist as I walk into his garden and Mike leaving Brighton with two large boxes of tea stashed in his boot, concocting a story for the customs officers The anglers reading Louise Glück and Lawrence Ferlinghetti on the Segone The words I only ever hear in Lucignana: lollers and slackies and ‘bumming down’ to pee My own continued, miraculous existence.

Does never having a "Life Coach" signify I have missed the bus? Or Just that I am waiting at the wrong bus stop? /bookmark

In “The Decay of Lying” Oscar Wilde asserts that life imitates art far more than art imitates life.

I shall never forget how the red ball of the sun hung on the horizon and raced along with the train for a short space,” she later wrote, “and then plunged below the belly-band of the earth. There have been other suns that set in significance for me, but that sun! It was a book-mark in the pages of a life.” While

Tessa gave us a bookmark, which is now our official bookmark. It reads: ‘It was my mother, Jean Martin, who taught me to look after other people. My father Grenville, too, would always pick up strays along the road and give them a chance in life. He’d learnt this from his own father, despite growing up in abject poverty.’ It was signed by Tessa’s mother, Lynn Holden Wiechmann. Yes, her name was Holden.

But a new experience is something special. A bookmark. A highlighted section in the pages of your life. It’s the reason why you can remember the exact way your shoes felt on your first day of first grade or the exact light of the room when you had your first kiss but can’t remember what you did last Tuesday.

The most common options include: Ebook apps, which often allow you to export your highlights or annotations all at once. Read later apps that allow you to bookmark content you find online for later reading (or in the case of podcasts or videos, listening or watching). Basic notes apps that often come preinstalled on mobile devices and are designed for easily capturing short snippets of text. Social media apps, which usually allow you to “favorite” content and export it to a notes app. Web clippers, which allow you to save parts of web pages (often included as a built-in feature of notes apps). Audio/voice transcription apps that create text transcripts from spoken words. Other third-party services, integrations, and plug-ins that automate the process of exporting content from one app to another.

When you've got your devices down to the ideal number, use these tips to minimize them and prevent distractions: - Remove as many icons from your desktop as possible. - Uninstall software you don't need. - Delete unneeded files from your Documents folder. (If you don't want to delete them completely, at least move them to an archive folder so they don't clutter your most-used folder anymore.) - Develop a simple but logical folder structure so that you can find documents you want easily. - Unsubscribe to blogs, email newsletters, and advertisements that no longer serve your interests. - Delete internet bookmarks, cookies, and temporary internet files you no longer need. - Delete apps you don't need, remembering that if you need them later, you can always download them again. Put only your most crucial apps (such as your calendar and your phone) on your home screen. Put the rest in folders on your second screen. - Turn off notifications, including social media push notifications and email audio alerts. - Make sure your spam filters are working. - Delete photos that are of poor quality or that you don't need. - Delete unused music and movies. - Subscribe to a password manager so that you don't have to keep track of a bunch of passwords.

That was my life’s goal, to never err. My life had been a mistake—born a girl, and on the wrong side of wedlock. I had no room to make more errors.

There were ornaments she had loved and paintings she had chosen. Books she’d read, or would never finish, photographs which had smashed from their frames as they’d hit against the metal. Photographs she had dusted and cared for, of people who were clearly no longer here to claim themselves from the debris. It was so quickly disposed of, so easily dismantled. A small existence, disappeared. There was nothing left to say she’d even been there. Everything was exactly as it was before. As if someone had put a bookmark in her life and slammed it shut.

keep your senses open there are many reminders and bookmarks only if one might believe life is not always what it might seem believing that promises may be available for those who seek ahead-levipaultaylor

we hear that the good things she does “were not widely visible.” But she continues to affect those around her in a way that is “incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.

There is no general doctrine which is not capable of eating out our morality if unchecked by the deep-seated habit of direct fellow-feeling with individual fellow-men.

Bookmarks and favorites: Links to interesting content you find on the web or favorited social media posts. Voice memos: Clips recorded on your mobile device as “notes to self.” Meeting notes: Notes you take about what was discussed during meetings or phone calls. Images: Photos or other images that you find inspiring or interesting. Takeaways: Lessons from courses, conferences, or presentations you’ve attended.

Sometimes we bookmark our pain so later we may come back to it.

আমি এক সৌন্দর্য রাক্ষস প্রজাপতির চিত্রল ডানা দেখে বিরহ থেকে বিবাহের দিকে চলে যায় মানবসম্প্রদায় — আমি এক সৌন্দর্য রাক্ষস ভেঙে দিয়েছি প্রজাপতির গন্ধসন্ধানী শুঁড় আমার নিজের কোনো বিশ্বাস নেই কাউর ওপর অলস বদ্মাস আমি মাঝে মাঝে বেশ্যার নাঙ হয়ে জীবন যাপনের কথা ভাবি যখন মদের নেশা কেটে আসে আর বন্ধুদের উল্লাস ইআর্কির ভেতর বসে টের পাই ব্যর্থ প্রেম চেয়ে দেখি পূর্ণিমা চাঁদের ভেতর জ্বলন্ত চিতা এখন আমি মর্গের ড্রয়ারে শুয়ে আছি এক মৃতদেহ আমার জ্যান্ত শরীর নিয়ে চলে গেছে তার শাঁখাভাঙা বিধবার ঋতুরক্ত ন্যাকড়ার কাছে মর্গের ড্রয়ারে শুয়ে আছি — চিতাকাঠ শুয়ে আছে বৃক্ষের ভেতর প্রেম নেই প্রসূতিসদনে নেই আসন্নপ্রসবা স্ত্রী মর্গের ড্রয়ারে শুয়ে আছি এ-ভাবেই রয়ে গেছি কেটে যায় দিন রাত বজ্রপাত অনাবৃষ্টি কত বালিকার মসৃণ বুকে গজিয়ে উঠল মাংসঢিবি কত কুমারীর গর্ভসঞ্চার গর্ভপাত — সত্যজিতের দেশ থেকে লাভ ইন টোকিও চলে গ্যালো পূর্ব আফরিকায় — মার্কাস স্কোয়ারে বঙ্গসংস্কৃতি ভারতসার্কাস রবীন্দ্রসদনে কবিসন্মিলন আর বৈজয়ন্তীমালার নাচ হল — আমার ত হল না কিছু কোনো উত্তরণ অবনতি কোনো গণিকার বাথরুম থেকে প্রেমিকার বিছানার দিকে আমার অনায়াস গতায়াত শেষ হয় নাই — আকাশগর্ভ থেকে তাই ঝরে পড়ে নক্ষত্রের ছাই পৃথিবীর বুকের ওপর তবু মর্গের ড্রয়ারে শুয়ে আছি এবং মৃতদেহ আমার জ্যান্ত শরীর নিয়ে চলে গ্যাছে তার শাঁখাভাঙা বিধবার ঋতুরক্ত ন্যাকড়ার কাছে প্রজাপতির চিত্রল ডানা দেখে বিরহ থেকে বিবাহের দিকে চলে যায় মানুষেরা আমি এক সৌন্দর্য রাক্ষস ভেঙে দিয়েছি প্রজাপতির গন্ধসন্ধানী শুঁড় রেটিং করুন Share this: TwitterFacebook Related মানুষের সঙ্গে কোনো বিরোধ নেইIn "কবিতা" প্যারিসের চিঠিIn "কবিতা" তোমাকেই চাইIn "কবিতা" This entry was posted in কবিতা and tagged ফালগুনী রায়, হাংরি আন্দোলন. Bookmark the permalink. পোস্টের নেভিগেশন « মানুষের সঙ্গে কোনো বিরোধ নেই নাচ মুখপুড়ি » মন্তব্য করুন কবি এবং কাব্যগ্রন্থঃ আখলাকের ফিরে যাওয়া (2) আনিসুল হক (4) আবুল হাসান (1) আব্দুল মান্নান সৈয়দ (11) আল মাহমুদ (58) ইমদাদুল হক মিলন (2) উপন্যাস (70) কবিতা (1,396) কেরানি ও দৌড়ে ছিল (22) গল্প (45) গ্রন্থ (4) জিহান আল হামাদী (2) তসলিমা নাসরিন (30) তারাপদ রায় (1) তাহমিদুর রহমান (1) নজরুল গীতি (37) নবারুন ভট্টাচার্য (1) নির্মলেন্দু গুণ (53) পাবলো নেরুদা (1) পূর্ণেন্দু পত্রী (4) বকুল ফুলের ভোরবেলাটি (1) বিকেলের বেহাগ (14) বেলাল চৌধুরি (14) ভুকন্যা (1) মনিভুষন ভট্টাচার্য্য (2) মহাদেব সাহা (43) মুহম্মদ নূরুল হুদা (1) যে জলে আগুন জ্বলে (3) রফিক আজাদ (1) রবীন্দ্র নাথ ঠাকুর (7) রবীন্দ্র সঙ্গীত (97) রুদ্র মুহান্মদ শহীদুল্লাহ (5) লিরিক (53) লেখক পরিচিতি (18) শহীদ কাদরী (7) শামসুর রাহমান (21) শেষের কবিতা (17) সবিনয় নিবেদন (3) সুকান্ত ভট্টাচার্য (1) সুকুমার রায় (1) সেলিনা হোসেন (1) সৈয়দ শামসুল হক (14) স্মৃতি চারন (41) হুমায়ুন আজাদ (26) হুমায়ুন আহমেদ (1) হেলাল হাফিজ (4) Uncategorized (85) যন্ত্রপাতিঃ রেজিষ্টার লগ ইন আর,এস,এস, মন্তব্য RSS WordPress.com এখানে খুজুন খোঁজ করুন ভোট দিন আমাদের সংকলন কেমন লেগেছে ? ভাল মোটামোটি খারাপ Vote View Results Crowdsignal.com সাম্প্রতিক পোস্ট সমূহ তাঁর দরকার ‘লিভ টুগেদার’! দেখিবার অপেক্ষায় আছোঁ অভিজ্ঞতা ছাড়া মহৎ সাহিত্য তৈরি হবে না তারে কই বড় বাজিকর বোধোদয় হলেই মঙ্গল বাংলা সংবাদপত্র Email Subscription Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email. Join 693 other followers আমাদের লিঙ্ক অল্পকথা ডট কম সেতুবন্ধন ডট কম Blog at WordPress.com. Privacy & Cookies: This site uses cookies. By continuing to use this website, you agree to their use.

Set a timer for 25 minutes right now and concentrate on what you’re reading in this book for that amount of time. When your alarm goes off, bookmark this book and close it. Then write down what you learned within that 25-minute period. USE