This blog is not about anything.
The endeavour commenced by Flaubert with his adulterous novel Madam Bovary to create literature about nothing eventually led to end the slumber of Endymion and lo and behold! Arose the masters like Joyce, Woolf, Pound, Beckett and so many more. With their Promethean effort, the world of words took a tumble like no other and fell into the abyss from where there was no return. Our voice emanates from that same dark pit, the voice of solitude and multitude, the voice that is subdued and ephemeral, the voice that is the epitome of permanence. This is the voice that remains at the end of post-post modern world; the voice that is localist and yet universal; the voice that integrates every contradiction there is and in the end, ends its journey, with the effort of not losing its integrity.