Continueing with Tagore's selected letters, the sensitive young poet describe to his niece about an artist's frustration and craving for recognition.
Cuttack,Feb.1892
Cuttack,Feb.1892
I maintain that until we can achieve something we should live incognito.So long as we are fit only for condescension from others, how can we make a show of our true selves in front of them ? When we have established some position in the world, and had a share in shaping its course , then we can meet it with a frank face. Till then let us keep in the background, remain
silent, and do our own work.
Our countrymen hold the opposite view: Whatever work is backstage or private they deem insignificant. The more transient and vainglorious the task in hand, the better they like it. Ours is truly a God-forsaken land. To hold on to the strength of will to do is so difficult here. One gets no real assistance. There is no one for miles and miles around whose conversation might inject one with vitality. No one is thinking, feeling or working. Of genuine striving no one has experience; not a single mature human being is to be found. Everyone moves about like ghosts. They eat and drink, do their office work, sleep and smoke, and chatter nonsensically.When they touch upon emotion they grow sentimental, when they reason they are childish. One yearns for the company of a full-blooded, sturdy, and capable personality, instead of these insubstantial
creatures that flit about, unattached to the world.
And so the hours pass. Now it is late afternoon. It is not yet cold, and as I look out the sun pours
down.
silent, and do our own work.
Our countrymen hold the opposite view: Whatever work is backstage or private they deem insignificant. The more transient and vainglorious the task in hand, the better they like it. Ours is truly a God-forsaken land. To hold on to the strength of will to do is so difficult here. One gets no real assistance. There is no one for miles and miles around whose conversation might inject one with vitality. No one is thinking, feeling or working. Of genuine striving no one has experience; not a single mature human being is to be found. Everyone moves about like ghosts. They eat and drink, do their office work, sleep and smoke, and chatter nonsensically.When they touch upon emotion they grow sentimental, when they reason they are childish. One yearns for the company of a full-blooded, sturdy, and capable personality, instead of these insubstantial
creatures that flit about, unattached to the world.
And so the hours pass. Now it is late afternoon. It is not yet cold, and as I look out the sun pours
down.
from book: Selected Letters of Tagore
edited & translated by: Krishna Dutta/Andrew Robinson
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