I naturally prefer the form of the book. We’ve loved it for centuries, and no wonder: Look at it; its always-opening-to-something, its two wings, its two sides making one form, its act of opening us as we open it — you can’t “open” a screen like you can literally open a book. And a book always holds the reminder of the organic world, the trees that went to make it — and the word “spine” was originally used for the spine of the book because of the spine of the creatures whose skins were once used to bind books, the place where the skin folded over the creature’s own spine. That’s how close to the process of life, death, time, growth and oxygen the form of the book is.
Ali Smith, in an interview with The New York Times
On Sunday, Harkirat Singh, 25, was driving a woman and three men in their early 20s from near Madison Square Garden to the Bronx, when the drunk passengers began to physically assault him and rip off his turban.
The incident began when Singh took them to their requested destination, but was then told it was the wrong location.
The passengers then started shouting racial slurs and banging on the plastic window separating them from Singh.
“They’re using bad words, also. They said, ‘Ali Baba, f–k you,’” Singh told the New York Daily News.
Singh then pulled the cab over and told the belligerent passengers to pay their fare — $41.76 — and find another cab to take them to their final destination.
At first they refused, but after threatening to call the police, the female passenger paid for the cab.
Then one of the male passengers got back inside the cab, according to Singh, and tried to smash the meter and then punched Singh in the arm.
The passenger also tried to rip off Singh’s turban — a sign of disrespect for Sikhs — and steal his phone. Read more (4/18/18 12 PM)
“You know what is in my heart, and You are aware of what I need. You know my mind and are not unaware of my future and of my present; of what I want to begin my speech with, of the request I would utter, and of the hopes I have in regard to my ultimate lot.
My Lord, whatever You have destined for me up to the end of my life, whether concerning the open aspect of my life or the hidden aspect of it, is bound to come. What is to my advantage and what is to my disadvantage; all my losses and gains are in Your hand, not in the hand of anybody else.
My Lord, if You deprive me, who else will provide me; and if You let me down, who else will help me?”
But art and love are a matter of mouths open in cinnabar, of blackness and redness turned to velvet by assiduous grinding, of understanding the colours that benefit from being rubbed softly one into the other: the least that the practice will make you is skilful: beyond which there’s originality itself, which is what practice is really about in the end.