C.R.A.P
Cold . . . Rolled . . . Annealed . . . Pickled
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Now that you hold this book in your hand, let me talk to you for a while, not that you are a dimwit, but I am sure you would have figured this out by now. This book does not have any purpose or meaning. There's already a lot of crap flying around in the publishing world, so I just thought of adding some more, really. This book does not come from somebody highly accomplished or acclaimed; in fact, this book does not intend to cause that earth-shattering shift too toward any acclamation. ----- There is no foreword, middles, or epilogue to this book. There are no endorsements from highly acclaime...
Now that you hold this book in your hand, let me talk to you for a while, not that you are a dimwit, but I am sure you would have figured this out by now. This book does not have any purpose or meaning. There's already a lot of crap flying around in the publishing world, so I just thought of adding some more, really. This book does not come from somebody highly accomplished or acclaimed; in fact, this book does not intend to cause that earth-shattering shift too toward any acclamation. ----- There is no foreword, middles, or epilogue to this book. There are no endorsements from highly acclaimed litterateurs. This book does not claim to be a bestseller and will never get to be one. This book does not address a social cause; it does not solve the carbon catastrophe that you see around you. This is not a self-help book, so no philosophy, no quantum physics, no next-generation robotics in here. And this book is definitely not from the wannabe stables of a Booker or a Pulitzer. ----- This book, at its worst, can go down the bookshelves as the "World According to Me," with anecdotal references to growing up in middle-class urban India in the '70s and the '80s and carving out a life, meaningful in most ways, in the '90s and beyond as meaningful as the fast-changing environment that I saw in India and the world around me.
