Dibyendu's WallScript

The play is not over! Do not leave the stage! The temple burns— watch the tyrant’s fall!   Their fairy tales, their mirages, all torn apart by the rising sun!   Storm is coming— the sky is black! From mud and blood rebellion blooms! No curtain-call! No silence now! We write the ending— with fire, with fists, with voices unchained! The final act is ours! The people’s thunder— revolt! revolt! revolt!

My provocation, my mercenary. It was I who placed the gun in his hand.   And when the bodies fell, my voice too rose in protest. Even morality, justice, and ethics marched in my parade— not family, not kin, only the lie that truth always wins.   I raised the banner of victory over a mountain of corpses, my words of peace etched into history, immovable, unchallenged.   I built the martyr’s altar— and there, I swore oaths for punishment of the killers. Yet the killers— were mine.   I drafted the war’s archive, through the eyes of a vulture. I caged betrayal and sold it as faith.   Before the camera, I stood in front of the grieving families. The world looked upon me— open-mouthed, terrified, awed by my triumph.   I am the artist I draw the beauty of death— eternal, inevitable. I carve it to be felt, to be sold, to be crowned with fame. I am the laureate. I know the truth of life: that even art must drink from veins. And still, I need human blood to ke...

In truth, human history was constructed upon three primitive impulses. One type of man was addicted to spitting on the road as he walked along. Another kind instinctively pulled out a handkerchief whenever touched by another human being—or kept himself at a safe distance. And yet another, those with less water in their bodies, did not sweat at all; they roamed through summer and winter in the same clothes, untouched by climate.   Although Plato, Voltaire, Hegel, and Nietzsche each offered their own interpretations of these dispositions, nothing certain was ever agreed upon. Every age produced its wise men, and each explained these instincts in a different way, but none of those explanations ever became universal.   I once knew a learned man. Once upon a time, he was a fearsome lawyer, famous across the city. Now he lives under the patronage of an industrialist, looking after the deeds of 170 properties, registering offices, houses, and shops for rent, keeping track of endless...