But so far, the invisible line was holding, separating the potential from its realization. Strange, that invisible lines could be so powerful, thought Maneck – strong as brick walls.
You cannot draw lines and compartments and refuse to budge beyond them. Sometimes you have to use your failures as stepping stones to success. You have to maintain a fine balance between hope and despair.
The return of solitude was not quite as Dina expected it to be. These many years I made a virtue of inescapable reality, she thought, calling it peace and quiet.
Hell has ways of permeating heaven’s membrane.
The whole quilt is much more important than any single square.
After all, our lives are but a sequence of accidents – a clanking chain of chance events. A string of choices, casual or deliberate, which add up to that one big calamity we call life.
In the end, it’s all a question of balance.
Money can buy the necessary police order. Justice is sold to the highest bidder.
So we tell the same story, over and over. Just the details are different.
Zoroastrianism is about the opposition of good and evil. For the triumph of good, we have to make a choice. We can enlist on the side of good by prospering, making money and using our wealth to help others.
Time had changed the magical to mundane.
The worst part of great poverty is that you become blind to it.
I think a lot about the past, it’s true. But at my age, the past is more present than the here and now. and there is not much percentage in the future.
Distance was a dangerous thing, she knew. Distance changed people.
You see, you cannot draw lines and compartments, and refuse to budge beyond them, sometimes you have to use your failures as stepping stones to success.
Black money is so much a part of our white economy, a tumour in the centre of the brain – try to remove it and you kill the patient.
All fiction relies on the real world in the sense that we all take in the world through our five senses and we accumulate details, consciously or subconsciously. This accumulation of detail can be drawn on when you write fiction.
Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.
Where humans are concerned, the only emotion that made sense was wonder, at their ability to endure...
If there was an abundance of misery in the world, there was also sufficient joy, yes – as long as one knew where to look for it.