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Swarna Rangarajan
Oct 31, 2012, 6:39:10 AM10/31/12
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Dear All,
Ravi Kumar Bisoi and Karan Singh are scheduled for presentations tomorrow.
On 10/26/12, Swarna Rangarajan <swarn...@gmail.com> wrote:
> Dear All,
> Complex emotions like love are best articulated when the
> language employed has a stark simplicity about it.
> Sending across one of the most famous love poems in literature by
> Elizabeth Browning, wife of the acclaimed Robert Browning.
> Best,
> ----------------------------------
> XLIII. "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..."
> by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)
>
> How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
> I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
> My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
> For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
> I love thee to the level of everyday's
> Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
> I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
> I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
> I love thee with a passion put to use
> In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
> I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
> With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
> Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
> I shall but love thee better after death.
>
>
>
> On 10/26/12, Swarna Rangarajan <swarn...@gmail.com> wrote:
>> Dear Students,
>> The presentation today inspired me to post this classic love story
>> by O Henry. It is a great read for those of you who have not yet
>> stumbled on this piece.
>> Best
>>
>>
>> THE GIFT OF THE MAGI
>>
>> by O. Henry
>>
>> One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it
>> was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the
>> grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned
>> with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing
>> implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven
>> cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
>> There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little
>> couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection
>> that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles
>> predominating.
>>
>> While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first
>> stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8
>> per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had
>> that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.
>>
>> In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go,
>> and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring.
>> Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James
>> Dillingham Young."
>>
>> The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period
>> of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now,
>> when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking
>> seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever
>> Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was
>> called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young,
>> already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
>>
>> Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag.
>> She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a
>> gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and
>> she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been
>> saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty
>> dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had
>> calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her
>> Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for
>> him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit
>> near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
>>
>> There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you
>> have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile
>> person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of
>> longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks.
>> Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
>>
>> Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her
>> eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within
>> twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to
>> its full length.
>>
>> Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in
>> which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had
>> been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair.
>> Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della
>> would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to
>> depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the
>> janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would
>> have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck
>> at his beard from envy.
>>
>> So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like
>> a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself
>> almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and
>> quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear
>> or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
>>
>> On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl
>> of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she
>> fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
>>
>> Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All
>> Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting.
>> Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."
>>
>> "Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
>>
>> "I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at
>> the looks of it."
>>
>> Down rippled the brown cascade.
>>
>> "Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.
>>
>> "Give it to me quick," said Della.
>>
>> Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed
>> metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.
>>
>> She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else.
>> There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned
>> all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste
>> in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not
>> by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was
>> even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must
>> be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description
>> applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she
>> hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might
>> be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch
>> was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old
>> leather strap that he used in place of a chain.
>>
>> When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence
>> and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went
>> to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which
>> is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.
>>
>> Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls
>> that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at
>> her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
>>
>> "If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a
>> second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl.
>> But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty-
>> seven cents?"
>>
>> At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of
>> the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.
>>
>> Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on
>> the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she
>> heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she
>> turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little
>> silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she
>> whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."
>>
>> The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and
>> very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened
>> with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
>>
>> Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of
>> quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in
>> them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger,
>> nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments
>> that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with
>> that peculiar expression on his face.
>>
>> Della wriggled off the table and went for him.
>>
>> "Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair
>> cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas
>> without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind,
>> will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry
>> Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what
>> a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."
>>
>> "You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not
>> arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.
>>
>> "Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well,
>> anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"
>>
>> Jim looked about the room curiously.
>>
>> "You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.
>>
>> "You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold
>> and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for
>> you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with
>> sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for
>> you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"
>>
>> Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della.
>> For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some
>> inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or
>> a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit
>> would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but
>> that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later
>> on.
>>
>> Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
>>
>> "Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think
>> there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that
>> could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package
>> you may see why you had me going a while at first."
>>
>> White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an
>> ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to
>> hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of
>> all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.
>>
>> For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della
>> had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure
>> tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the
>> beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her
>> heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope
>> of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should
>> have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.
>>
>> But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look
>> up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"
>>
>> And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"
>>
>> Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him
>> eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash
>> with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
>>
>> "Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have
>> to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I
>> want to see how it looks on it."
>>
>> Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands
>> under the back of his head and smiled.
>>
>> "Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a
>> while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to
>> get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops
>> on."
>>
>> The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who
>> brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of
>> giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise
>> ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of
>> duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful
>> chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely
>> sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But
>> in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all
>> who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive
>> gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are
>> the magi.
>>
>>
>>
>> On Fri, Oct 26, 2012 at 1:36 PM, Vamshi <surabhiv...@gmail.com>
>> wrote:
>>> Mam, I've a class from 2 to 4:30 (R/T Slot). The 2'o clock slot is not
>>> free
>>> for 4th year CS students. So, all of us (CS students) can't attend
>>> today's
>>> class. Sorry mam, I would've mentioned this at the end of last class but
>>> I
>>> had to leave in a hurry as there was a quiz.
>>>
>>>
>>> Thank you mam,
>>> Vamshi.
>>>
>>>
>>> On Thu, Oct 25, 2012 at 5:25 PM, Swarna Rangarajan
>>> <swarn...@gmail.com>
>>> wrote:
>>>>
>>>> Dear students,
>>>> If you liked that symborska poem in the course work, you would
>>>> surely like this too.
>>>> Best, swarna
>>>>
>>>>
>>>> NO TITLE REQUIRED BY WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA
>>>>
>>>> It has come to this: I'm sitting under a tree
>>>> beside a river
>>>> on a sunny morning.
>>>> It's an insignificant event
>>>> and won't go down in history.
>>>> It's not battles and pacts,
>>>> where motives are scrutinized,
>>>> or noteworthy tyrannicides.
>>>> And yet I'm sitting by this river, that's a fact.
>>>> And since I'm here
>>>> I must have come from somewhere,
>>>> and before that
>>>> I must have turned up in many other places,
>>>> exactly like the conquerors of nations
>>>> before setting sail.
>>>> Even a passing moment has its fertile past,
>>>> its Friday before Saturday,
>>>> its May before June.
>>>> Its horizons are no less real
>>>> than those that a marshal's field glasses might scan.
>>>> This tree is a poplar that's been rooted here for years.
>>>> The river is the Raba; it didn't spring up yesterday.
>>>> The path leading through the bushes
>>>> wasn't beaten last week.
>>>> The wind had to blow the clouds here
>>>> before it could blow them away.
>>>> And though nothing much is going on nearby,
>>>> the world is no poorer in details for that.
>>>> It's just as grounded, just as definite
>>>> as when migrating races held it captive.
>>>> Conspiracies aren't the only things shrouded in silence.
>>>> Retinues of reasons don't trail coronations alone.
>>>> Anniversaries of revolutions may roll around,
>>>> but so do oval pebbles encircling the bay.
>>>> The tapestry of circumstance is intricate and dense.
>>>> Ants stitching in the grass.
>>>> The grass sewn into the ground.
>>>> The pattern of a wave being needled by a twig.
>>>> So it happens that I am and look.
>>>> Above me a white butterfly is fluttering through the air
>>>> on wings that are its alone,
>>>> and a shadow skims through my hands
>>>> that is none other than itself, no one else's but its own.
>>>> When I see such things, I'm no longer sure
>>>> that what's important
>>>> is more important than what's not.
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>> On Thu, Oct 18, 2012 at 8:44 PM, Swarna Rangarajan
>>>> <swarn...@gmail.com>
>>>> wrote:
>>>> > Dear Students,
>>>> > I am sending along a really beautiful narrative- The Little
>>>> > Prince.
>>>> > The author,
>>>> > Antoine de Saint-Exupery (June 29, 1900 – presumably July 31, 1944)
>>>> > was a French writer and aviator. One of his most famous works is Le
>>>> > Petit Prince (The Little Prince). He disappeared on the night of July
>>>> > 31, 1944 while flying on a mission to collect data on German troop
>>>> > movements.
>>>> > The work speaks to us at many levels!
>>>> > Best, swarna
>>>> >
>>>> > On 10/18/12, Vaishali V <vaish...@gmail.com> wrote:
>>>> >> Hello :)
>>>> >>
>>>> >> The essay I presented in class today was this :
>>>> >> http://www.salon.com/2000/03/18/why/
>>>> >>
>>>> >> Another interesting essay by Pico Iyer is this - "The Joy of
>>>> >>
>>>> >> Quiet<http://www.nytimes.com/2012/01/01/opinion/sunday/the-joy-of-quiet.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0>
>>>> >> "
>>>> >>
>>>> >> Regards,
>>>> >> Vaishali
>>>> >>
>>>> >> --
>>>> >> Vaishali V
>>>> >> III Year Integrated M.A. in Economics
>>>> >> Indian Institute of Technology, Madras
>>>> >> +91 97910 11442 <http://start.fedoraproject.org/>
>>>> >>
>>>> >> --
>>>> >> You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google
>>>> >> Groups
>>>> >> "Literature and Values Odd Sem" group.
>>>> >> To unsubscribe from this group, send email to
>>>> >> literature-and-value...@googlegroups.com.
>>>> >> For more options, visit https://groups.google.com/groups/opt_out.
>>>> >>
>>>> >>
>>>> >>
>>>>
>>>> --
>>>> You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google
>>>> Groups
>>>> "Literature and Values Odd Sem" group.
>>>> To unsubscribe from this group, send email to
>>>> literature-and-value...@googlegroups.com.
>>>> For more options, visit https://groups.google.com/groups/opt_out.
>>>>
>>>>
>>>
>>>
>>>
>>> --
>>> Vamshidhar Rao Surabhi
>>> 4th Year CSE
>>> IITM
>>>
>>>
>>> --
>>> You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google
>>> Groups
>>> "Literature and Values Odd Sem" group.
>>> To unsubscribe from this group, send email to
>>> literature-and-value...@googlegroups.com.
>>> For more options, visit https://groups.google.com/groups/opt_out.
>>>
>>>
>>
>
Ravi Kumar Bisoi and Karan Singh are scheduled for presentations tomorrow.
On 10/26/12, Swarna Rangarajan <swarn...@gmail.com> wrote:
> Dear All,
> Complex emotions like love are best articulated when the
> language employed has a stark simplicity about it.
> Sending across one of the most famous love poems in literature by
> Elizabeth Browning, wife of the acclaimed Robert Browning.
> Best,
> ----------------------------------
> XLIII. "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..."
> by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)
>
> How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
> I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
> My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
> For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
> I love thee to the level of everyday's
> Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
> I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
> I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
> I love thee with a passion put to use
> In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
> I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
> With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
> Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
> I shall but love thee better after death.
>
>
>
> On 10/26/12, Swarna Rangarajan <swarn...@gmail.com> wrote:
>> Dear Students,
>> The presentation today inspired me to post this classic love story
>> by O Henry. It is a great read for those of you who have not yet
>> stumbled on this piece.
>> Best
>>
>>
>> THE GIFT OF THE MAGI
>>
>> by O. Henry
>>
>> One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it
>> was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the
>> grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned
>> with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing
>> implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven
>> cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
>> There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little
>> couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection
>> that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles
>> predominating.
>>
>> While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first
>> stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8
>> per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had
>> that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.
>>
>> In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go,
>> and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring.
>> Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James
>> Dillingham Young."
>>
>> The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period
>> of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now,
>> when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking
>> seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever
>> Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was
>> called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young,
>> already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
>>
>> Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag.
>> She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a
>> gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and
>> she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been
>> saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty
>> dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had
>> calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her
>> Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for
>> him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit
>> near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
>>
>> There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you
>> have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile
>> person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of
>> longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks.
>> Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
>>
>> Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her
>> eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within
>> twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to
>> its full length.
>>
>> Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in
>> which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had
>> been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair.
>> Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della
>> would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to
>> depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the
>> janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would
>> have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck
>> at his beard from envy.
>>
>> So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like
>> a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself
>> almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and
>> quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear
>> or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
>>
>> On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl
>> of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she
>> fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
>>
>> Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All
>> Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting.
>> Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."
>>
>> "Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
>>
>> "I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at
>> the looks of it."
>>
>> Down rippled the brown cascade.
>>
>> "Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.
>>
>> "Give it to me quick," said Della.
>>
>> Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed
>> metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.
>>
>> She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else.
>> There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned
>> all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste
>> in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not
>> by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was
>> even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must
>> be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description
>> applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she
>> hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might
>> be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch
>> was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old
>> leather strap that he used in place of a chain.
>>
>> When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence
>> and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went
>> to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which
>> is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.
>>
>> Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls
>> that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at
>> her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
>>
>> "If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a
>> second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl.
>> But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty-
>> seven cents?"
>>
>> At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of
>> the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.
>>
>> Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on
>> the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she
>> heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she
>> turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little
>> silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she
>> whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."
>>
>> The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and
>> very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened
>> with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
>>
>> Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of
>> quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in
>> them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger,
>> nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments
>> that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with
>> that peculiar expression on his face.
>>
>> Della wriggled off the table and went for him.
>>
>> "Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair
>> cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas
>> without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind,
>> will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry
>> Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what
>> a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."
>>
>> "You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not
>> arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.
>>
>> "Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well,
>> anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"
>>
>> Jim looked about the room curiously.
>>
>> "You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.
>>
>> "You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold
>> and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for
>> you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with
>> sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for
>> you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"
>>
>> Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della.
>> For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some
>> inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or
>> a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit
>> would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but
>> that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later
>> on.
>>
>> Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
>>
>> "Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think
>> there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that
>> could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package
>> you may see why you had me going a while at first."
>>
>> White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an
>> ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to
>> hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of
>> all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.
>>
>> For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della
>> had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure
>> tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the
>> beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her
>> heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope
>> of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should
>> have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.
>>
>> But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look
>> up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"
>>
>> And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"
>>
>> Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him
>> eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash
>> with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
>>
>> "Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have
>> to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I
>> want to see how it looks on it."
>>
>> Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands
>> under the back of his head and smiled.
>>
>> "Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a
>> while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to
>> get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops
>> on."
>>
>> The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who
>> brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of
>> giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise
>> ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of
>> duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful
>> chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely
>> sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But
>> in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all
>> who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive
>> gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are
>> the magi.
>>
>>
>>
>> On Fri, Oct 26, 2012 at 1:36 PM, Vamshi <surabhiv...@gmail.com>
>> wrote:
>>> Mam, I've a class from 2 to 4:30 (R/T Slot). The 2'o clock slot is not
>>> free
>>> for 4th year CS students. So, all of us (CS students) can't attend
>>> today's
>>> class. Sorry mam, I would've mentioned this at the end of last class but
>>> I
>>> had to leave in a hurry as there was a quiz.
>>>
>>>
>>> Thank you mam,
>>> Vamshi.
>>>
>>>
>>> On Thu, Oct 25, 2012 at 5:25 PM, Swarna Rangarajan
>>> <swarn...@gmail.com>
>>> wrote:
>>>>
>>>> Dear students,
>>>> If you liked that symborska poem in the course work, you would
>>>> surely like this too.
>>>> Best, swarna
>>>>
>>>>
>>>> NO TITLE REQUIRED BY WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA
>>>>
>>>> It has come to this: I'm sitting under a tree
>>>> beside a river
>>>> on a sunny morning.
>>>> It's an insignificant event
>>>> and won't go down in history.
>>>> It's not battles and pacts,
>>>> where motives are scrutinized,
>>>> or noteworthy tyrannicides.
>>>> And yet I'm sitting by this river, that's a fact.
>>>> And since I'm here
>>>> I must have come from somewhere,
>>>> and before that
>>>> I must have turned up in many other places,
>>>> exactly like the conquerors of nations
>>>> before setting sail.
>>>> Even a passing moment has its fertile past,
>>>> its Friday before Saturday,
>>>> its May before June.
>>>> Its horizons are no less real
>>>> than those that a marshal's field glasses might scan.
>>>> This tree is a poplar that's been rooted here for years.
>>>> The river is the Raba; it didn't spring up yesterday.
>>>> The path leading through the bushes
>>>> wasn't beaten last week.
>>>> The wind had to blow the clouds here
>>>> before it could blow them away.
>>>> And though nothing much is going on nearby,
>>>> the world is no poorer in details for that.
>>>> It's just as grounded, just as definite
>>>> as when migrating races held it captive.
>>>> Conspiracies aren't the only things shrouded in silence.
>>>> Retinues of reasons don't trail coronations alone.
>>>> Anniversaries of revolutions may roll around,
>>>> but so do oval pebbles encircling the bay.
>>>> The tapestry of circumstance is intricate and dense.
>>>> Ants stitching in the grass.
>>>> The grass sewn into the ground.
>>>> The pattern of a wave being needled by a twig.
>>>> So it happens that I am and look.
>>>> Above me a white butterfly is fluttering through the air
>>>> on wings that are its alone,
>>>> and a shadow skims through my hands
>>>> that is none other than itself, no one else's but its own.
>>>> When I see such things, I'm no longer sure
>>>> that what's important
>>>> is more important than what's not.
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>> On Thu, Oct 18, 2012 at 8:44 PM, Swarna Rangarajan
>>>> <swarn...@gmail.com>
>>>> wrote:
>>>> > Dear Students,
>>>> > I am sending along a really beautiful narrative- The Little
>>>> > Prince.
>>>> > The author,
>>>> > Antoine de Saint-Exupery (June 29, 1900 – presumably July 31, 1944)
>>>> > was a French writer and aviator. One of his most famous works is Le
>>>> > Petit Prince (The Little Prince). He disappeared on the night of July
>>>> > 31, 1944 while flying on a mission to collect data on German troop
>>>> > movements.
>>>> > The work speaks to us at many levels!
>>>> > Best, swarna
>>>> >
>>>> > On 10/18/12, Vaishali V <vaish...@gmail.com> wrote:
>>>> >> Hello :)
>>>> >>
>>>> >> The essay I presented in class today was this :
>>>> >> http://www.salon.com/2000/03/18/why/
>>>> >>
>>>> >> Another interesting essay by Pico Iyer is this - "The Joy of
>>>> >>
>>>> >> Quiet<http://www.nytimes.com/2012/01/01/opinion/sunday/the-joy-of-quiet.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0>
>>>> >> "
>>>> >>
>>>> >> Regards,
>>>> >> Vaishali
>>>> >>
>>>> >> --
>>>> >> Vaishali V
>>>> >> III Year Integrated M.A. in Economics
>>>> >> Indian Institute of Technology, Madras
>>>> >> +91 97910 11442 <http://start.fedoraproject.org/>
>>>> >>
>>>> >> --
>>>> >> You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google
>>>> >> Groups
>>>> >> "Literature and Values Odd Sem" group.
>>>> >> To unsubscribe from this group, send email to
>>>> >> literature-and-value...@googlegroups.com.
>>>> >> For more options, visit https://groups.google.com/groups/opt_out.
>>>> >>
>>>> >>
>>>> >>
>>>>
>>>> --
>>>> You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google
>>>> Groups
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>>>> To unsubscribe from this group, send email to
>>>> literature-and-value...@googlegroups.com.
>>>> For more options, visit https://groups.google.com/groups/opt_out.
>>>>
>>>>
>>>
>>>
>>>
>>> --
>>> Vamshidhar Rao Surabhi
>>> 4th Year CSE
>>> IITM
>>>
>>>
>>> --
>>> You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google
>>> Groups
>>> "Literature and Values Odd Sem" group.
>>> To unsubscribe from this group, send email to
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>>>
>>>
>>
>
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