In the book the relationship with Katharine and Almasy is sort of only in the patient’s mind.
Githa Hariharan’s fiction is wonderful-full of subtleties and humor and tenderness.
As a writer, one is busy with archaeology.
I thought I was being loved because I was being altered.
I tend not to know what the plot is or the story is or even the theme. Those things come later, for me.
It’s a responsibility of the writer to get the reader out of the story somehow.
We keep wanting to save those who are forlorn in this world. It’s a male habit.
It’s an odd state to be in, blowing the whistle on your home country.
Some events take a lifetime to reveal their damage and influence.
I want to die on your chest but not yet she wrote sometime in the 13th century of our love.
I’m a Canadian citizen. But I always want to feel at home in Sri Lanka. I’m a member of both countries.
So many nurses had turned into emotionally disturbed handmaidens of the war, in their yellow-and-crimson uniforms with bone buttons.
Sleep is a prison for a boy who has friends to meet.
This was the time in her life that she fell upon books as the only door out of her cell. They became half her world.
This last night we tear into each other, as if to wound, as if to find the key to everything before morning.
Come. We must go deeper with no justice and no jokes.
What is interesting and important happens mostly in secret, in places where there is no power.
He will hear the rain before he feels it, a clicking on the dry grass, on the olive leaves.
She lights a match in the dark hall and moves it onto the wick of the candle. Light lifts itself onto her shoulders. She is on her knees. She puts her hands on her thighs and breathes in the smell of the sulphur. She imagines she slap breathes in light.
I’ll be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you.