Rhythms of Dionysus E-Book

Anand Bose

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

This novel belongs to the genre of Philosophical Fiction. Philosophical Fiction is the pastiche of the Baroque, the Cubism of Picasso and the rhythms of jazz. Aesthetics, Philosophy and autobiography all weave into a tapestry of idiosyncratic catharsis. As a novel, this work is an oeuvre of art. This novel bridges passion and reason into an eclectic fusion of art. 

Leseprobe

Anand Bose

Rhythms of Dionysus

BookRix GmbH & Co. KG80331 Munich

Rhythms of Dionysus

Let me introduce myself—myself, I hail from Kerala, God’s Own Country, a land of mythic temples, tranquil backwaters, aromatic gardens of tea and spices. Legend has it that when I was born, I pissed on to the cassock of the priest. My tryst with iconoclasm began than. I am interested in transforming the novel into a work of art which I call in my own words as a new avant-gardist genre: Philosophical Fiction. The fiction resembles the Cubist Paintings of Picasso, incorporates the rhythms of Jazz and is a hotchpotch of the Baroque fused into the narrative of the Pastiche. There is no storytelling and no plot structure.

Bard on wings, floating gaily in the air, you are mystic of poetry. There now, you perch on a leaf. Your wings are yellow and swell with cathartic beauty. Existentialism swallows you in words. You have become an art of being. You float in poetic verses. You are an incarnation of the soul, a beatitude of love. There now you waltz in the air, like a classical symphony. You are the art of passion, a musical whisper, a song of love. I am charmed, enthralled by your mystic beauty. Time slows down into a poem. You evoke an inner beauty of love.

What am I? I am a philosophical being, an ontological entity in processual ontology. What is consciousness? Le subjectivity reign supreme. Karma and reincarnation: blah blah blah. Love is poetic passion. Her lips were the wine of poetry. She passioned like the flame of the forest. Nihilism I admire you. Being lives is affirmation, negation, celebration, possession and orgasm. I licked her lips and transformed her into a flower of being. She became a Goddess of love for me.

Pulp fiction, you are a dirty metaphor. Living is passion, a metaphoric beauty. I love the time found in a flower. Blues and Etta Baker, you are soul of rhythm. Your melody pierces the veins like a rainbow. Time the shadow of an eclipse. Veins of orange light seep into my bedroom. Time becomes a poetic metaphor. Beauty and love flow through my soul. God I have sinned much. You have to forgive me. I need to go to Bali and meet my loved one and I long to make sweet poetry to her. Consciousness is a hyperbolic metaphor.

Sweet are the temptations of lust, adultery and fornication. A passionate body is the soul of poetry. Yes, I have gone through the abyss like the suffering of Job. God parted the Red Sea for me to escape. I owe my father a lot for him introducing me to art, philosophy and culture. I have benefited by the huge collection of books.

What is the writing of a novel? A novel is a work of art. The pen leaves the self. My soul is a fictional poem. Words are a beatitude of metaphors. Time becomes an eclectic fusion in streams of consciousness.

The petals of the flame of the forest lie like a red carpet on the ground. It reminds me of an impressionistic canvas. Time is a tranquil poem of sight. I enjoy a visual phantasmagoria. My feelings awaken like poetry. My mind is in the poetry of catharsis. Love awakens my soul. My soul is a beatitude of becoming.

Dawn started moving with the lovers communing. Colors nuzzling fawns, surging tourbillion, glowing passion. Eternity flies as Sadhus in white. Brook of beauty running through, gurgling Moksha all the way through. Swaying pebbles glistening karmic odes, Samsara meanders pilgrimage blues. Beyond mundane life Heraclitus is moving from flux to feeling.

What have I done to myself? I have to be kind to my soul. Why should I deny my feelings? I am an exiled epic. Derrida said: to write is to have the passion of origin. Speech is the garden and writing the desert. All my life I have spent in the Orient. Writing is Jazz, writing is the soul of the baroque, writing is streams of consciousness, and writing is art beatified.

I am writing in new figure of speech called Muse(a)phor. A mus(a)phor has two related metaphors. Passion is an agile cat. The black cat is a book of superstition. Metaphors are painting the sky. The sky is a halo of God. Religion is a Jihad of poison. Her words were poisonous. Her libidinal poetry rejuvenated my body. Poetry is the soul of existence. Life is a passionate stream of poetry. Poetry is a metaphor of art. Music is time of becoming. Becoming is an ontological metaphor. Colonialism is an ugly fang. Her fang-words bit into my mind. Haiku is the food of art. Art is the body deified. Clove cigarettes are a delicious smoke. Her pubis is a delicacy. My words are ornamental prose and decorative poetry. Ornamentation is the soul of art. Shitting is a pleasurable metaphor. Her cunt is a nymphomaniac-metaphor. Weeds are growing out of my brains. My brain is a choked metaphor. Word sculpts the novel into a poetry of prose. Rodin’s sculpture is an art of poetic prose. Lust is a chain of my body. Chain is a fetish of narcissism. Night’s twinkling eye is a frozen dream. My twinkling dreams will become a reality. Dance is the rhythm of music. The art of writing is a music of the novel. I made her into a moaning melody. The melody of a dream haunted me. I am a voyeur of lesbian poetry. Poetry is a witch holding the moon. A crystal ball is a metaphor of gazing fortune. Fortune is Mammon smiling at me. Oh Music make love to me. Music transports me to the heaven of love. Epicureanism is the way of life. Epicurus, you are the poetry of ecstasy. Freud is a dream. A dream is passion come true. The fruit of ecstasy is love. Ecstasy is dove for the body. Time is an echo of music. Music is poetry of the soul. Love is the seed which Jesus sowed. The seed of the word is a Biblical allegory.