My summer break is about to come to an end, since I leave on the first for Atlanta. Summer internships look attractive on resumes, they tell me, though in all honesty I don't know for what purpose exactly I might want my resume to look attractive. I have latterly expressed some significant distaste for the idea of being a corporate whore, though it isn't clear whether working at a company would ineluctably make me one. Maybe working at a smaller company would be less dehumanizing. I can't say. The faked smiles, the things one has to do to keep the HR department happy - these things don't appeal to me at all, so I would make a terrible manager, at least if feelings are valued above efficiency. Most of humanity is stupid. I don't say this with the exasperated sigh of one who is so far above the rest of the world that all that is visible beneath are clouds; I say it with the incredulity of one who has often been injoined to bow before the superior wisdom of the mob, and after all that hears the sort of nonsense that it is bound to throw up. I hate mobs. They are the symbol of the short-lived triumph of brute force over reason. I refuse to love all of humanity as I would love someone close to me. I don't believe it is possible to do so, not least because I am less capable than most of feeling any emotion that I can possibly comprehend, and I don't believe it is right to do so. It is true that different circumstances could have produced different outcomes; but that doesn't mean that the here-and-now, the way things turned out, is not special.
Of course, life leaves much to be desired; and I imagine others feel it, too - even those whom we regard as being fortunate enough to experience our notion of the ideal, or the approximately ideal. Even if they regard themselves as generally content and happy, I'm sure that they would disagree with our appraisal of them. How silly it would all seem, if it turned out that humanity was trapped in a giant circle wherein everyone envied the one in front of him. But that kind of perfect imperfection is unlikely to occur in real life, so that vindicates feeling this sort of envy, in my opinion. What preceded this is unlikely to make any sense to the reader (if any); it hardly made sense to me. The reason why I wrote it was to demonstrate to myself the hollowness of the admonition that one must be content with what one has. That kind of stagnation is meet only to one who has everything - but everyone knows that to have everything is to have nothing.
Arnab Goswami is a fucking moron, to use the technical term. I don't know much about the spot-fixing scandal, but I have always hated Indian reporters. They are like swarms of flies hovering over your food, returning even though you repeatedly wave them off. (If you had a good flyswatter, of course, you would be fine...) I'm sure Srinivasan is no angel, but we don't know that he has done anything wrong in this connection, from what I've gathered. What follows is written with the assumption that he hasn't. To hold debates over whether or not he should resign on "moral" grounds is the height of stupidity. And we all know that the media would not be doing this, if it were not for the ratings. To pester, to bully someone to resign on moral grounds is very similar to the way in which corrupt officials ask for bribes in this country: "Khushi se dena". I didn't catch the exact verbiage of the shameless policeman who asked me for moneys at the airport after I had passed through immigrations, but the word "khushi" was definitely in it. (I gave him some change that was in my pocket, but that's a story for a different occasion, or none at all.) Ah, I think I have found the perfect analogy for this situation, which is in effect forcing someone to do something in a manner that makes it seem as if it were a choice. Remember the playground bully who hits you on the face with your own hand, and says, "Stop hitting yourself"? This is exactly like that. Arnab Goswami, world's biggest asshole-douche-illiterate-fucktard that he is, should crawl back into his own asshole, where he was born.
I have managed to finish a book during this break, in spite of the paralyzing lethargy. Gore Vidal's The Golden Age. He was a wonderful, though not a perfect, writer, in an age when it is considered sacrilegious or pretentious to know more than a couple thousand everyday words. If such is the opinion of people, there is nothing I can do. I do not, however, respect this opinion. Right. There's no point in dragging this on any longer. I shall stop here.
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