The Unabridged Journals of Karissa Gupta

When someone asks me what my favourite genre is, I get lost within the intermingled thoughts weaving knots in my mind, pondering over the formation of an articulate term to convey the type of literary works that gnaw at my very soul. The only connecting thread is that all literary works centre around hyper-intellectual, eccentric characters, embarking upon quests fuelled by their idiosyncrasies, which are inexplicable and unfathomable for the common folk. The archetype for this literary niche is none other than the ‘Underground Man’, whose narrative voice Fyodor Dostoevsky writes from in ‘Notes from Underground’.  ‘Notes from Underground’, is a limited omniscient novella written by Fyodor Dostoevsky, centring around the narrative perspective of an anti-hero, with the moniker, the ‘Underground Man’, his true identity being anonymous. While the narrator never explicitly reveals his name, the lack of a proper name emphasizes his disconnect from personal identity and his self-imposed ...

Emotions. When this word used to pop into my mind, I typically rendered it to be black and white. I believed that feelings were simple, one was either overjoyed or heartbroken. One was either jealous or proud. One was either ecstatic or petrified. However, my mind has now strung together the complexities associated with emotions, and their often imbricating manifestations and juxtapositional natures. While many perceive emotions to be individual feelings that coarse through one, in actuality, they often amalgamate with one another, causing one to feel crashes of emotional waves thrashing all at once, the emotions rippling over each other, confuddling one’s mind. The quote below perfectly encapsulates my newfound epiphany regarding the true nature of emotions and how they cascade over each other, fringing upon foreign atmospheres. And of course, it's a quote from the book that’s changed a million things in my life in addition to my outlook on my emotions, the one and only masterpiec...

  Death and regret seem to be two dependent words, don’t they? Whenever an ominous gray cloud envelops my mind, and rakes my thoughts onto the tingling notion of death and what lies beyond it, I'm left with involuntary shudders that rattle every nerve of my body. As thoughts of death overpower all feelings of rationality, I can’t help but wonder, what is it that I will regret when I have no time left to rectify my wrongs? When my clock will run out, what is it for which I will wish I had just a few more seconds? When the chapter of my life closes, what parts will I wish to whiten out? These questions often sweep through my overwhelmed mind, rendering me anxious as I grapple with the acceptance of the fact that the sands of time keep trickling through the crevices between my fingertips.  These notions of mine were swiftly overturned when I read the masterpiece that is better known as, He Never Expected Much. Written by Thomas Hardy, this poem is an antithesis of the traditional...

  As I sat on my desk with my legs lazily sprawled over my chair and random locks of hair loosely falling all over my face, I ritualistically wrote clusters of words onto a document and then promptly deleted them all with just a single click- every single time. This cycle drove me to the verge of insanity, resulting in my head throbbing with pain and my Hail Mary being a strip of crocin. I slapped my cheeks countless times, stared at my screen with a murderous intent and even wrote an entire piece only to realise that though the words were mine, the emotions weren’t. And I thought to myself, what good is a piece if it doesn’t reflect a part of my soul which had been previously hidden away, tucked beneath the surface, only to be glimpsed on occasion when the mask I wore slipped away momentarily . While I cascaded into a session of self critique and intense contemplation over my sudden inability to express through words, it hit me. I realised that the complexity of the theme ‘family...

  As I cerebrated upon the theme for this edition of the Network, my forehead morphed into wrinkled lines as my eyebrows furrowed up, due to the lack of evocation in my mind. I strained my tightening constraints, coercing my subconscious to lurch into its depths and unearth a glimmering thread lit up by my memories. However, my efforts were in vain as the only recollection of bedtime stories I could uncover was when my parents read stories to me. One vivid memory sparked my mind, but that’s it. All I could envision were blurry figures of my mom and I sleeping on her bed in our old home, as she read The Magic Faraway Tree to me, and I pleaded, “one more chapter please!”, engrossed within the fictional realm of moon-face and silky the fairy. Falling asleep in my mother’s arms as she patiently narrated the enchanting tales of the magic faraway tree, is what I thought my childhood’s bedtime stories were limited to. I falsely fell prey to the misconception spurred within the chambers of...

  “ We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering- these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love- these are what we stay alive for.”  - The Dead Poets Society, 1989  If the phrase ‘art for art’s entire essence had to be succinctly encapsulated, this quote above would be the only way to do so. Literature, music, paintings, fashion and films are all forms of art. And the intricate strands of threads that weave together seamlessly to create the beauty of the art forms we marvel at- lyrics, words, streaks of paint and clips that freeze moments in time- have a simple yet confounding purpose. And what is that? It is to allow us human beings to pour our quintessential fibres out, transforming  our essence, our cores from amalgamations of the cells that make us up, into tangible ...

  I must admit, I was fleetingly tempted to conceal the truth with layers of pretentious fabrications. However, it is not only against the inherent trademarks of a writer, but also physically impossible for me to illustrate a setting that is even remotely disparate with reality for secretly, my soul flutters with glee at the absurdity that peppers my life. After all, what is a writer if not mad? As Bukowski said, “ I'm not like an ordinary world. I have my madness, I live in another dimension and I do not have time for things that have no soul .”  And what is my madness? My madness is limitless, seamlessly enrapturing my senses wholly. Yet, it is ironically perfectly encapsulated within this quote.  “Does such a thing as 'the fatal flaw,' that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside of literature? I used to think it didn't. Now I think it does. And I think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs.” As I frantically p...