• Pragya Tripathi

Edition V | July 2020 | Literary Impulse


These are strange times to be alive in, like every other time. Solitude is a precarious privilege. To live with the question, as Rilke advised, is not so easy when you keep reminding yourself like Natalie Diaz, "I am doing my best to not become a museum of myself. "

On some of these days, I wish to be a Vinci notebook scribbled with human anatomy, eagles, cryptecs, mathematical functions, and flying machines, on yet another evening I sigh to be the envelope carrying Vita's letter to Woolf, or Jung's notes on his patients. However, the longing to be a posthumously appreciated art doesn't last long and I return to sipping my coffee and to a fistful of pride for the creeper that has wound its tender arms around a metallic rod as if in an embrace. The creeper seeks company in its solitude, much like us.

Unlike the creeper we cannot reach out for an embrace, no nook in the shoulder awaits us today, the gaps in between the fingers sometimes feel permanent in this temporary world, yet we have art and literature to reach out to. Company awaits us in senses other than touch, the petrichor, the new sauce you learned, the half-painted violet sky on the canvas, the words to be read, or to be written, the new playlist an old lover sent. To be an art, and to be appreciated without context is to be immortal, to be a line from a political poem written in a romantic letter, to be a love song sung at a protest, to be a writer and to be a poem, is life beyond our numbered days.

Art is often considered a by-product of pain, I digress. Art is the primary product of solitude, as is evident by the last months of our existence, brushes and spatulas, pens and pianos, guitars and guilds, all are whispering to each other, a constant murmur is heard beyond the notifications, a murmur of art happening, of ‘solitude’ speaking.

Some pieces of these murmurs have fortunately found their way to us here at literary impulse, in this edition, we whisper about poetry and about poets, of mates and of souls, of scores, of Schrodinger and Marquez, and of disasters and death.


This month we celebrate solitude, thoughts, and like always, literary impulses of our writers. The editorial comments are mere first reactions to these impulses, and they do not proclaim to contain the multitude of thoughts triggered by such impulses.


- Pragya (Edition Editor, Edition V)

Congratulations to all the writers whose writings got selected this time.

  1. "The Paratactical Nature of Time: Chronicle of a Death Foretold" by Ria Gupta

  2. "The Man Who Remembered" by Elisabeth Khan

  3. "The closet" by Anindya Chandra

  4. "Dark night of the soul" by Jessica Lee McMillan

  5. "Poetry is My Wing" by Prashant Pundir

  6. "Schrödinger's Fault" by Eréndira Corona

  7. "Paper Mage" by Eli Snow

  8. "Score" by Peyush Karel

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Pragya Tripathi

I love writing about how on a December morning a stray dog's breath adds to the mist, or how the snail on the creeper in my balcony is a metaphor I have to put in formaldehyde to be used for another 1

 

New Delhi

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