Derridean Text in Plato's View

 The sound of endless cries flows through me. Rock, rock, earthly people, tell me what to do, just cry and cry and what will happen if the rock pile called rock collapses is unknown to me, I will lick the rock, I have licked it many times I cry, Indians, cry, India, year after year, I beg you, let this revolutionary live, O Indians, accept this revolutionary, accelerate the Indian revolution,  in the afternoon, let the water fall, in the shadow of the cheetah, my agonizing pain may be reborn. My pen goes on and my lips bitten god apologize now apologize text i don't like text who i hate i have to write stories This is how my penis gets behind my hatred. I produced God with my own hands and gave the world the burden of killing him. I am saying that this writing will surpass Suhasini's pometome. In the conversations of the Brahmins, the noise of the khankis can be heard. O listener forgive me because I am famous as the son of a prostitute I am a lonely Baul I am writing a story I am producing God but a semi-perfect God because if I call God the son of a prostitute this writing will not be published My only character in this story I and my other Soum If the editor understands why I borrowed Soum from the revered Abinash Dom, I will be successful. How can I explain the same love or ashes? Listener, I have borrowed again. The writer is suffering from debt and the editor is blowing his whistle. This is the modern literature.

   My first acquaintance with my other soum was when I was walking around the forest with a gun in my hand. Soum came from the presidency and I was a Bengali highly educated Brahmin lieutenant commander. The actions seemed to me poetry. That is a long time ago. Soum stays with me now. I let him eat and read. He is a theoretical leader. Now just writes poetry. And my tabildar says I am the best writer of the suburbs. Parsanath: Soum was my tabildar while living in the forest. Having got such a Tabildar, I will give a thumb up. Saum and I went to visit Santiniketan. I did not eat anything except cannabis for three days. A Sufi fakir from Afghanistan: I have a lot of blankets and Saum is my money. The donor met with the father. Police: I bowed to Datababa before fleeing in fear. The dogs of Santiniketan migrated to Kopai with the sound of the Saum's flute. One had an anarchist view that never returned. Soum naked And a farmer came up from the other side of the field. Sickle in hand. Soum is getting naked. Soum is shaking hands and coming up. And the sun of blood on the eastern horizon. Who wants whom? Who keeps whom? And who kills whom? The afternoon rolled by to get good answers to these questions. Time to go back. Our path begins. On the way,will know the way on the way. We go out on an open road. We don't know where we're going. I met the farmer. Uncle Bhuban Danga on which side? Soum asked. The farmer points to the western horizon.

     Listener This farmer can't be a character but a suspension. This schizophrenic statement will have one or two suspension. Farmer is a sign only.soum another,marked the Farmer.

 listener You have to hold a torch In this plan to kill God you also have to carry a torch. Criticize God Kill all the metaphysics of this self-made God Kill me in this text: Cheetah: Don't let my body emptiness be reborn in this text Kill this God Kill the son of a bitch Text kill my language Pray that there will be no more print on earth If this schizophrenia is to live forever Schizophrenia lal Salam Schizophrenic Production is the Only Production Capital Against Schizophrenia This Schizophrenic Statement: The author will do half the work in this statement the character is schizophrenic writer is Schizophrenic all the characters are schizophrenic end up Lord end up end this statement end me up make me unconscious O Lord make me unconscious O dear Indians save me save me save me let me live with my schizophrenia

  Long live Inquilab.

   Let's go into another statement. This statement is from Soum. The author has no role here. There are two characters in this statement. Soum and Soum's Naxal Jethu. My other went to a Naxalite village with his Naxalite brother-in-law. In the far west. Soum: It seemed that the village was known to him before. As if in a dream a long time ago. The inhabitants of the village are Santal. This village is far from civilization. You have to cross a stream and go to the village. There is no electricity in this far away city. This is the other of urban civilization. Others live here. And with the other is the culture of Soum. It was here that Soum first picked up Kalashnikov. Jhora wants to drown soum and hand a dream. One of Swapan's eyes flew away while planting the bomb. Swapan tells him the organization is needed. You are a nihilist. You picked up a gun and shot yourself. But boss it will not be a revolution. Saum has declared war against the state. His first education was in that village in the far west. He has not forgotten the speech of comrade Baburam Mandi even today. Even if you don't know one letter of Santal language. And I have not forgotten the culture of Naxalism by jethu blowing the beard in the wind. On that side we dream of a new sun. A new India. And the red flag of revolution is flying. Soum did not forget that tea made with forest herbs. The best tea he has ever eaten. Molasses was used instead of sugar.

    It's time to dump her and move on. The setting sun was then on the western horizon. Swapan took jethu on the back of his bike. The caravan moved forward on the red dusty road. Fish boiled in turmeric water and curry made from forest papaya are growing in the stomach. Soum could not eat. And the brother-in-law said eat, this is the ultimate truth of India. This is the ultimate truth of India. The gypsy caravan moved forward on the dusty road. Dream of cutting hands: A cut gun in a bag. He could shoot with both hands before his hands flew. Hand-cut dreams are still alive today. Survives in that village in the far west. Survive a partisan. O reader, my hero does not have the ability to dream of cutting off this hand. Saum crossed the river Ajay and entered the heart of civilization. That Naxal village remained in the heart of Saum. Soum returned home after the party office. Back home he gets his closet. Two toiles in jethu's house. It's getting late. The closet is dark. What will Soum do? Jethu doesn't believe intoxication. He said he was not a Naxalite who went to a coffee house and flew Charminar. He hates Nisha. Jethu is sitting in a chair on the verandah. Hands on forehead.He runs twenty-five families. These are factory workers. Naxals, lost their jobs. Thoughts on Soum's forehead. he wants to go to the bathroom. Jethu did not understand the matter yet. Finally he shouted and said that he would go to the toilet. Jethu returned to him. He said take that lantern. Soum said there is no place to keep lanterns in the toilet. Jethu advised to keep the lantern out of the closet and keep the door open. Soum protested. Weird you Guys, keep the lantern out. That's the signal. There's someone inside. Soum says you teach all this to your comrades. He enters the dark closet. The door closed on Jethu's face. Probably a factor in the liberaed zone.

   My story ends here

  Statutory Warning: Not for children.

   PS: The editor asked me to write a story. I don't know if this statement of mine can be called a story. This is whether the story can be written standing in the modern world. Whether story novel poetry exists in these forms at all. Roman Jacobson and Mikhail Bakhtin can say. They are not ,so my statement is a quarantine. I bow to my  prosecuted mothers and say that God is the son of a prostitute. The main obstacle in the way of liberation is God. As long as there is god, there is no liberation of mankind. Therefore, O reader, kill God. Kill this text of mine. Run the knife to cut. Slander.Slap raw. l the text  is a son of a bitch. All the bitch of the world is my mother. I love my mother. Respect. I respect you with all my heart. And there is God! is self-evident. What can I say to him except the son of a bitch! And the text is that God. So take the Derridean torch in hand. Kill all the metaphysics. Click where you see God. Free this world. The comrades had a dispute with Derrida. Allegedly he is a nihilist. You have no dispute with me. Either a nihilist or a prostitute's son, I died. The reader is born. This schizophrenic statement is a weak bridge between my ghost and you. Criticize my soul. Criticize me.Free me from this excruciating pain of existence

I repeat, there is no form or content for this writing. This writing is self-explanatory. God Himself. I'm leaving God half-boiled in the market. It is the responsibility of the critical reader to complete it. And the wrist like Kamal Kumar! Didn't even go near the edge. My lifelong pursuit. Suhasini's pometome? Huh? You are a child. You have given birth to a zero.  In a world where titles have died, fathers have died, languages have died, history has died, what else can I do, O reader? So don't slander me. Slander Private Property .  The family. State . Language. Above all, the text. I could have been Kamal Kumar in a world where there was no such thing as semiotics. That is not possible in this modern world. Does the editor understand why I borrowed from Abinash Dom? Literature is no longer possible in this directionless world. Possible rewriting and re-reading. Fat chewing. Nihilist Sudhindranath Dutta was probably the first Bengali writer to realize this. And at least Rabindranath. At least towards the end. And Baudelaire pioneered modern literature. Baudelaire killed the romantic. Then the symbolists. Baudelaire's first child :Rimbaud. Sudhindranath Dutta said that  Mallarme is the guru. If Sudhin Dutt was not a Bengali, I would have said that he has surpassed Mallarme. The nihilistic son of the Vedic father. Sudhin Dutt is my favorite because I am a Bengalee. I also write zero . Lalon is my guru. I am a Baul. Shri Shri NIRJAN SEN BAUL.