Friday, October 26, 2012

lone fighter

Hello everybody, do you want to have this world packed with full of junk books or try to stop the world from slippering into total pop culture? I am still fighting trying to make a bit exciting world where we can meet soulful people. I am still promoting people to read good books which have no market value but literary value. I am still telling people that getting into a bookstore is a hundred times more dangerous than a blind man getting into a jewelry shop to look for a diamond. It makes sense that if any blind man getting into a beautiful bookshop to get tons of toilet papers out of it. How can we blame all the big publishing houses since the whole world covered with dark clouds of commercialism? Well, we all know that junks make money. Before I die, I want to meet one person who could say that "I have no time to eat, I must dig this (book/food) out." I feel sorry to the sea of young people; many of them are already poisoned by junk books, pop culture. Selecting a good book is selecting a good friend. I never wrote a book with ink but with my boiling blood. I will be honored if you support my artistic works. Tell to your friends about a lone fighter. Hideo

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

bird

I sing well on a rainy day. I like good bird not beautiful bird. I like bad bird not weak bird. copyright (c) hideo asano 2012

Monday, June 25, 2012

classic books

Classic books are like good old wine Junk books are like coca cola Good bvooks make you feel honoured Bad books make you feel stupid Good books you need a shovel to dig Junk books make you feel you are a great reader Junk books make publishers richer Too many books spoil broth copyright (c) hideo asano 2012

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Thunder of the Mountain

A personal experience with a small group of Mujaheddin during the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. Documents a week during the conflict between the rebels and soldiers. The author felt the intimacy of companionship of men facing danger and uncertainty of life.

The book contains 120 pages with many rare photographs taken by the author.

Download a sample at mediafire.

To purchase the full version in PDF format, click the "Buy Now" button below and include your email address (or send a mail with the address).



Silent Rebel

This book is about a man’s struggle to survive during the intimate political upheaval of a country ravaged by war between soldiers and rebels in 1978, just a year before the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. Qasim, the dedicated surgeon, husband, and father is the man.

My blood boils at the sight or the tale of any injustice, whoever may be the sufferer and wherever it may have taken place, in just the same way as if I were myself its victim.
-Jean-Jacques Rousseau

1

Two young men were carrying a loaded braided-rope cot on their shoulders down on a narrow dirt road. It was covered by a cotton stuffed bed-cloth of colorful flowers. The man in front had a dark mustache and thick beard, and wore an apple-pie-shaped brown polyester woollen hat, tightly rolled up at the brim, pulled down close to his eyebrows. He looked extremely tired, but the fire of determination burned strong in his eyes. He was silhouetted by the harsh early morning glare of the October sun. Two other men were walking behind them, hiding in the shadows created by the high mud and stone fence walls and trees that had only a few leaves left clinging to their barren limbs; one wore a dark unbuttoned vest; another wrapped his upper body tightly with a cream-colored blanket, called a chador, like a shawl over his garment. The four men had carefully slipped through the streets of the outskirts of Kama, in Nangarhar Province in southeastern Afghanistan. They all wore traditional garments of baggy pants and loose knee-length shirts patched with scraps of cloth, apple-pie-hats, and rugged rubber shoes, partly deteriorated by the mud and many years of harsh Afghan heat and frigid winters.
They came to the wooden gate in the middle of the high mud-blocked fence of a house. On the thick concrete header were a pair of the elk-horn antlers. The V-shaped twisted-up elk-horn, like a wood screw, was pointing up to the early morning sky. It was painted red along its edges.
The man in the dark vest rang the bell, pulling the rope by the entrance.
A few minutes later, a voice, still gruff from sleep, came from behind the gate: "Who is it?"
"Dr. Qasim, it's me, Sayyed," whispered the man in the dark vest.
A middle-aged man, wearing an unbuttoned white shirt, slightly opened the left half of the gate. He had an overnight growth of stubble and his hair was in disarray.
"I don't want any trouble," he stated, nervously, after seeing the braided-rope cot held upon the shoulders of the two men.
"Doctor, we came all the way from Konarha. We walked all night," pleaded Sayyed. "He is badly wounded." He pointed to the braided-rope cot.
In a voice torn between feelings of anger and compassion, he hurriedly swung open the gate, saying, "All right. Quickly!" He motioned.
They carried the braided-rope cot into the dirt yard of the house, as Qasim immediately closed the gate, after looking with big worried greenish brown eyes up and down the empty road.
"I told you never to fetch any one to my house. I'll be in deep trouble," Qasim whispered to Sayyed, as he led them into the dark kitchen.
"I also told them. But we didn't have any choice."
In the kitchen, Qasim lit the lamp on the high mud oven, which had once been whitewashed, but now the coloring had flaked off, leaving a pattern looking incredibly like the huge formation of a world map.
Sayyed walked over to the corner of the kitchen. He bent down, put his forearm into a clay pot, and brought out a small wrapped bundle in his hand. He unwrapped it on the lower table and the medical tools shone in the light of the lantern held in the hand of a Mujahideen (Afghan insurgent) standing near the wounded man.
The doctor now removed the bed-cloth from the braided-rope cot. Three Kalashnikov rifles (AK-47) and one old-fashioned rifle laybeside the wounded man, two on each side, on the braided-rope cot. The strap of the old 1920's style rifle was wrapped with greenflowered cloth and the stock wrapped with firm green vinyl.
Qasim opened the wounded man's eye and then felt for a pulse. Then said, in a low voice, as he raised his body up: "He is dead."
The four men stood silently.
"What're we going to do?" the man with the dark mustache asked, breaking the silence, wiping the sweat on his forehead withthe back of his hand.
"We'll take him to my friend's house. We can keep him there until nightfall and then we'll carry him back," said Sayyed, after looking at his SEIKO watch. A jagged piece of the broken crystal was missing and the original watchband had been replaced with the same green flowered cloth that wrapped the strap of the rifle.
In desperation, after re-covering the body with the bed cloth, they picked up the braided-rope cot; quickly carrying it out of the kitchen, while Qasim stood rewrapping his medical tools.


2

While Qasim was treating one of the out-patients in the Public Health Department in Kama on a cloudy morning in mid-November in 1978, an orderly, who had been cleaning the hallway, pushed his head into the examination room, holding the mop in his hand and said: "Doctor, there is a call for you."
"Thanks."
Qasim, hung the stethoscope on his neck, went out of the room, crossing the hallway, where several patients were sitting and leaning against the walls, and went into the other examination room.
In the room, Qasim saw his colleague, Dr. Makata Latif, whose large body was deeply sunk into the sagging sofa. Leaning back, he stared at the ceiling aimlessly, resting his head on the back of the sofa. He appeared to be thinking very deeply. He seemed not to notice Qasim when he entered. There must have been a tough conversation between Dr. Makata Latif and Captain Ahmadali, Qasim thought. Ahmadali was the acting Colonel and commander of the 5th regiment, as well as the military governor of the sub-provence in Nangarhar Province.
"Excuse me," said Makata Latif, as he quickly sat up from the sofa. He noticed Qasim walk toward the telephone, with its receiver laying next to it, on the tea table in front of him. "It's the commander for you," he indicated with a tilt of his head toward the telephone.
Qasim cautiously picked up the receiver. "Hello, Dr. Qasim speaking." Makata Latif was looking up intensely at Qasim. "Isn't Dr. Mazdak working in the military hospital?" asked Qasim quizzically. "I see. But I'm very busy myself and I couldn't leave Dr. Makata Latif here alone to handle all of the cases."
Qasim wanted to argue with the Captain, but listened reluctantly as his face grew dark, making many fine wrinkles on his nose and deep wrinkles between his eyebrows. "Yes. I'll come immediately," angrily hanging up the phone.
"What was it?" Makata Latif asked Qasim, worriedly.
"The commander's son is awfully sick so he wants me to come right away to see him."
"That's all?" said Makata Latif in disbelief. "What about Dr. Mazdak?"
"He's involved with another project. What really eats away at my heart is that I have to take care of the commander's son while my own boy suffers at home," Qasim said feebly.
Earlier that morning, the sky was still dark when he walked into his little son's room. He put the back of his hand against his son's forehead. The boy's skin was very hot. He bent over and whispered to his son: "I'll be back early this evening to take you to children's hospital in Jalalabad." He hugged his son tenderly, hoping the child would survive the day. If Qasim could have, he would have left yesterday, but since the Communist government takeover, no one, not even doctors, could move freely without permission. As he walked back to his room, he looked at his wife sleeping peacefully. He hardly ever saw her when she was awake.
Dr. Makata Latif stood up and put his arm around Qasim. "Don't worry. I'll take care of things while you're gone. And when you come back, I'll stay so you can take your son to Jalalabad."
"You're a true friend."
Qasim walked out of the room and saw an orderly and a nurse walk abruptly away from their posture of standing-silently in the door way of the room in the hallway. Dr.Qasim sensed that something definitely was wrong, but he wasn't sure what.
He went into his room, quickly took off his gown, put on his dark single-breasted blazer over his long sleeved shirt, threw the medical examination instruments into his bag, and walked out of the clinic holding the bag in his hand.
"Let's go!" Qasim said to the young driver who stood beside the hospital jeep. He wore a faded pin striped vest over his traditional garment. He was tall and thin. Another young man,
in chador, apple-pie-hat, and sandals, was characteristically sitting in a fetal position on the ground, holding his old Papashuh rifle with its large drum magazine across his legs. The strap of the rifle dropped down in between his legs. He was facing the clinic with his back toward the gate. He had a long chin and a frightfully long, thick mustache to show his allegiance to the People (Khalki)'s Democratic Party of Afghanistan, the Communist party.
The Khalki-mustached man got into the jeep and sat in the back seat. Qasim got into the jeep and sat in the front seat.
As they were driving out of the hospital grounds, Qasim could feel the nervous tension emanating from the stares of the several nurses and orderlies, standing quietly and motionlessly on the steps of the hospital watching them leave. Since the Communists took over the government, many civilians lived in fear that their neighbors and members of their family had been taken away or would be taken away at any moment.
"Hurry up! Time is a luxury we can't waste!" Qasim said vexedly to the driver.
The driver increased the speed.

Purchase the entire book in paper by clicking the "Buy Now" button below.




Thursday, September 9, 2010

Combat Over Tragedy

Copyright © by Hideo Asano 2010


This book is a pure fiction and ’I’ is a fictional character in this book. Readers, I warn you. This book is not for leisure but for passion to read. You may need an extinguisher while reading. Your hands might be burnt unless you have sacred hands to hold this book.
-- Hideo Asano



The discipline of suffering, of great suffering…it is this discipline alone that has created every elevation of mankind hitherto… In man, creature and creator are united: in man there is matter, fragment, excess, clay, mud, madness, chaos; but in man there is also creator, sculptor, the hardness of the hammer…do you understand this antithesis? And that your pity is for the “creature in man,” for that which has to be formed, broken, forged, torn, burned, annealed, refined—that which has to suffer and should suffer?

It will come, one day, that hour that will envelope you in a golden cloud where there is no pain: where the soul has the enjoyment of its own weariness and, happy in a patient game with its own patience, is like the waves of a lake which, reflecting the colors of an evening sky on a quiet summer’s day, lap and lap against the bank and then are still again—without end, without aim, without satiation, without desire.
-- F. Nietzsche


1

I am a depraved man. I am a spiteful man. I am not worthy to live. I am unpleasantly residing in underground as a dejected being. Once in a while, I instinctively tried to cheer myself but in vain. I gave up for doing it for a long time and let myself gloomier to harm my stomach, which I didn’t care.
For a sure thing is that I don’t desire anything on earth. I don’t put any value on worldly things but in antitheses. I am taking punishment of delightful solitude rebelliously but I have forty untouchable brains which only my treasures on earth. They are like old dry wine and bitter tea. They are the true enemies of wisdom demolishers. Tasteless food is real food for those who care. Sweet tea could ruin my day. Too many brains spoil broth. I take flights more or less eternally to the same brains, which faithfully guard my soul. Untouchable brains and tunes could change the color of my blood. Can you live without food? I eat to live, not live to eat, but to live well. I know how to choose my food. Oh, before to go further, I have to mention this that I have never been fight for happiness. I rather live tragically. I scare to sleep in a feather bed and well fed up to serve someone else that is unthinkable. I rather sleep on straw to feel the freedom to laugh alone unable to make successful jokes with other people. You have to have joyful belly laughter unable to survive without it and therefore alone for it in the world of heterodoxy.
I am eating well to keep up my strength. I am enjoying sophisticated cuisine. I am eating and drinking melodically while enjoying the air of symphonic atmosphere, which orchestrated from deep down earth. I am very choosy eater. I carefully choose food what I like to eat. If I don’t have food what I like to eat I am willing to go for hunger even beyond forty days. With empty stomach you have to act as if you have just enjoyed a New York steak since you know that people wouldn’t believe that you have gone through hunger, which is worth to live with. The glorious thing on earth is we must go hunger all the time.
Hunger can’t kill you. Poverty can’t kill you. Poverty of wits makes you melancholic. But boredom is silent killer. Monstrous tediousness can silently kill you. In poverty, man still can live with dignity for the sake of his dazzling soul.
You might want to know the situation of the underground where I am occupying. Of course, the room is small and always pitch-dark and melancholy so you had to turn the light on even during the day but economical. Actually my room is very bright. Forty lights shine my room constantly. In fact, I rather like a murky place to focus on things to think about or to read than a bright place. The room was sheer empty. There was no table and no chair. I consider such a room is a spiritually dead room, which is opposite of van Gogh’s room, which was even decorated with his own paintings. But recently I had picked them up, one at a time from a garbage heap, at night. All what I needed was a small table and a chair to sit down and to burn the night oil after everybody sold out---food, gold and soul---in the market.
Underground is where you could at least find tranquility. I even hardly found serenity in a park usually packed with party people where I used take a philosophical walk. The air of the park was usually dominated by the excessively loud music during the weekend. I used to lodging in the open air of the park for many nights in winter in my sleeping bag as peacefully as on a bed of roses. I had many delightful bright winter mornings in this park when I heard cheerful musical screams of artless preschool kids playing about me. The bright smiles of innocent kids were allowed me to feel hope of our future. The astonishing moment was when I opened my eyes the white world with snow was waited for me before my eyes and the world was deadly calm with no souls about but only birds on the canopy of a pine tree greeted me with its songs. But normally as the sun rose high, the air of the park invaded again with unpleasant loud music. Where could you find a serene place if there was not a tranquil spot in a park where you suppose to sit to think or to read or to have a philosophical walk? Fly to underground. Untouchable coconut water that makes the sun powerless blocks all sorts of impurity. When you go down deeper you would feel more profitable. Laughable miserable one must hide in underground to live well and hide well all for his independent mind--his stubborn willpower--running against all the glorious and superior things such as prosperity, honor, fame, health…and so on and so forth. Praise monotonous tediousness! People are not talking, but mimicking. I raise my glass mixed with a drop of my tear for their welfare for all the gorgeous and superior. How can anyone attack me? I am speaking in a civilized manner as a bad citizen.
I am defending for my own benefit. I am willing to pay any high price or wherever it might lead me to defend my sovereignty what I only want to maintain. There is no higher price to pay for than that. Hide so well so neither one can smell of me nor bombs can reach me. I am not saying that underground is the most pleasant place to be residing but not bad at all for a particular person who is…

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Thursday, June 17, 2010

NOTICE:

Dear Readers,
Please do not purchase the titles of my books, An American Breakfast, Timber Carriers of Afghanistan and Albatross and the Sea, which printed by Authorhouse (print and demand). Authorhouse failed for the payment of royalties of my books. This notice remains until the publisher, Authorhouse, respectfully proofs that they are not illegally selling my books.
Thank you for your cooperation.
Hideo Asano, writer