'Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold'
I picked the quote above because it seemed the banner heading for my life at that point in time. And because Yeats said it better.
But while this poem, written in the shadow of war and political unrest invokes cataclysmic upheaval and the approach of a monstrous future, it applies equally to the smaller falling aparts. And whether your particular trials consist of the ills of modern society (hi grandma) or the fact that peanut butter has spawned a number of ill-conceived cousins, the fact is, that the world can be an often uncertain, definitely confusing (seriously, the almond butter) and sometimes terrifying place. Literature and science are two ways of examining our world, of making sense of the noise. And this blog is hopefully step one in having the two work together.
If you want a sampling of my work then head on over to Brain Talk where I'm talking about mirror neurons and their possible role in the production of empathy. Alternatively, those of you who've been following the recent trend for Dystopian movies and fiction can read my take on Aldous Huxley's funny and terrifying tale about science gone wrong in the BoxMove Publication.
Navigate through Nimra's Blog Posts:
O Brave New World!
Speaking of Marfan's...
Rambling Through Protein Structure
Look at this NOW NOW NOW!
Every song I sing, I sing for you
Day One (of the rest of our lives)
William Butler Yeats
THE SECOND COMING
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?