Pragya
Stories intended to awaken the “Pragya” or “Wisdom”. Please feel free to read, follow, share and comment on the posts in this blog. May the wisdom awaken inside all of us. Happy Reading!
Saturday, 14 November 2026
The Kama Sutra of Vatsyayana: A Critical Book Review
Tuesday, 3 February 2026
Monday, 22 December 2025
The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck by Mark Manson: A Book Review
Page Count: 212
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
First Published Year: 2016
The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck is written by Mark Manson, a superstar blogger known for his bold opinions and unconventional style. Unlike traditional motivational books that promote constant positivity, this book takes a more honest and realistic approach to life.
One of the most striking features of the book is its use of profane, unfiltered language mixed with humour. Mark Manson deliberately avoids polished or sugar-coated words. Instead, he uses raw language to connect with readers and to challenge commonly accepted ideas about happiness, success, and self-improvement.
Despite its shocking title, the book does not encourage people to be careless or irresponsible. Rather, it teaches readers to be selective about what they care about. According to Manson, we all have a limited amount of time, energy, and emotional capacity. Therefore, instead of trying to care about everything, we should “narrow down the things on which to give a fuck” and focus only on what truly matters in our lives.
The book also highlights how most people today live in constant “highs.” These highs may come in harmless-looking forms such as scrolling through mobile phones, reading, chatting online, or seeking constant entertainment. While these activities provide temporary pleasure, Manson argues that giving too many fucks to such distractions pulls us away from meaningful goals and values. He suggests that we should stop chasing every high and instead invest our attention in things that genuinely add value to our lives.
Overall, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck is a thought-provoking book that encourages readers to rethink their priorities. It teaches that a meaningful life is not about avoiding problems, but about choosing the right problems to care about.
Tuesday, 20 May 2025
The 50-Buck Illusion: Our Choice of Appearance Over Reality
- For 20 bucks: A photo of you as you truly are.
- For 30 bucks: A photo of you as you think you are
- For 50 bucks: A photo of you as you want others to see you.
Tuesday, 1 April 2025
Fool's Gold
Watch him as he tries to play;
No, he does n't know the way.
He began to learn too late.
She's a grim old hag, is Fate,
For she let him have his pile,
Smiling to herself the while,
Knowing what the cost would be,
When he'd found the Golden Key.
Had the money hunger bad,
Mad for money, piggish mad.
Did n't let a joy divert him,
Did n't let a sorrow hurt him,
Let his friends and kin desert him,
While he planned and plugged and worried.
Nothing stopped him as he scurried,
On his quest for gold and power.
Every single wakeful hour,
With a money thought he'd dower.
All the while as he grew older,
And grew bolder, he grew colder.
And he thought that some day
He would take time to play,
But say—
He was wrong.
Life's a song.
In the spring
Youth can sing and can fling,
But joys wing,
When we're older,
Like birds when it's colder.
The roses were red as he went rushing by,
And cloud-woven tapestries hung in the sky,
And the clover was waving
'Neath honey bees slaving.
A bird over there
Rondelayed a soft air.
But the man could n't spare
Time for gathering flowers,
Or resting in bowers,
Or gazing at skies
That gladdened the eyes.
So he kept on and swept on
Through mean, sordid years.
Now he's up to his ears
In the choicest of stocks.
He owns endless blocks
Of houses and shops,
And the stream never stops
Pouring into his banks.
I suppose that he ranks
Pretty near to the top;
What I have won't sop
His ambition one tittle,
And yet with my little
I'm sure I'd not trade
With the bargain he made.
Just watch him to-day,
See him trying to play.
He's come back for spring skies,
But they're in a new guise.
Winter's here, all is gray.
The birds are away,
The meadows are brown,
The leaves lie aground,
And the gay brook that wound
With a swirling and whirling
Of waters is furling
Its bosom in ice.
And he has n't the price,
With all of his gold,
To buy what he sold;
He knows now the cost
Of the Springtime he lost,
Of the flowers he tossed
From his way,
And say
He'd pay
Any price if the day
Could be made not so gray—
He can't play.
By Herbert Kaufman




