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Quote by Wayne Gerard Trotman

“If you’ve ever done anything extraordinary in your life, always remember, no amount of ridicule can ever rob you of your achievements.”

Quote by Wayne Gerard Trotman

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Wayne Gerard Trotman
Wayne Gerard Trotman

Wayne Gerard Trotman, born on May 16, 1964, is a renowned filmmaker known for his profound social significance and unique artistic style. His works have had a wide impact in the film industry. more

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“He asked you not to like me, So why did you, Neera? Even now, I perform breaststrokes in caterpillar-stuffed north eastern clouds He didn’t ask me for any poems for 50 years, So why are you asking now, Neera? Even now, standing in 10-foot-deep water, I wield icy rods He wrote an editorial on my sub-judice case, Turning an editor, why are you asking for my writing, Neera? Even now, I love flatbreads stuffed with smoked penguin fat He did not confess to being my anthology’s publisher Why did you confess, Neera? Even now, I have family-pack yawns in the face of families, He didn’t like pronouncing my name So why are you telling it to youths, Neera? Even now, in bloody waters, I join the Bollywood chorus of tiger sharks He had said I have nothing of a true writer So why do you think I do, Neera? At Imlitala, I knew rat roasts don’t taste too good without charcoal smoke He said I have nothing creative in me So why do you think I do, Neera? Having burnt bank notes worth Rs 5,000 crore, I smelt death He said I’ll never write poetry So why do you think I have, Neera? On the banks of Amsterdam’s canals I have heard doddering old men sing limericks He transcended from sorrow to anger and anger to hate Why are you so generous Neera? Please don’t tell my grandmother.”

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“What was the name of that editor of Janata? 1961: On the front page, he wrote: “Won’t last, won’t last!” Him? Maybe he is called Mogambo. Then 1962, 1963, 1964, 1965, 1966 Who was that short man, wrote in the daily literary supplement “That? How long will that last? Won’t last.” What was his name? That man, at the Esplanade book stall Can’t remember? Where did he go, that man? In a famous little magazine he wrote— Him? Maybe he is called Dr Dang Then 1967, 1968, 1969, 1970, 1971, 1972 Can’t recall? Thick glasses, a swift stride— Him? Maybe he is called Gabbar Singh Why can’t you remember the names their fathers gave them? Forgotten in just 50 years? Where did they go? And that fellow who wore loose trousers and a bush shirt And wrote so many times: “Won’t last, won’t last.” Then 1973, 1974, 1975, 1976, 1977, 1978, 1979, 1980, 1981, 1982, 1983, 1984, 1985, 1986, 1987, 1988, 1989, 1990, 1991, 1992, 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 1997, 1998, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014 What? Can’t remember yet? What a strange fellow you are! So many writers, editors, poets repeatedly Wrote: “Won’t last, won’t last, won’t last too long People will forget soon.” And yet you struggle To recall their names? Then let it be! Let Mogambo, Dr Dang and Gabbar Singh Be their names in the history of Bengalis.”

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“On jealousy: You may also need to deal with jealousy. When someone is jealous, they may try to “take it, break it, or denigrate it.” Criticism can originate from jealousy’s ‘denigrate’ motivation. Criticism can also start from someone trying to take your voice, or spirit, and break it. [p. 96]”

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“To Her Steady Lover - Poem by Jibanananda Das There is no meaning in living—I don't say this. There is meaning for some, may be for all—may be a perfect meaning. Yet I hear the white sound of wind-driven birds In the water of the distant seas beneath the burning summer sun. The candle burns slowly, very slowly, on my table; The books of intellect are more still—unwavering— lost in meditation; Yet when you go out on to the streets or even while sitting by the window side Will you sense the frenzied dance of violent waters; Right beside that a book of your cheeks; no more like a lantern, Perhaps like a conch-shell lying on the beach as if ocean's father It is also a music by his own merit—like Nature: caustic—lovable—finally like the most favourite entity. So I get the taste of expansive wind in the airing of maddening grievances; Otherwise in the mind's forest the python coils up around the doe: I feel the pitiable hint of a life like that in the Sceptre of protest. Some glacier-cold still flock of Cormorants will realize my words; When the electric-compass of life will cease They will eat up snow-grey sleep like polar seas in endless grasp.”

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