Right away, death is word-eating.
Ageing is not easy, Sennhora Castro. It’s a terrible, incurable pathology. And great love is another pathology. It starts well. It’s a most desirable disease. One wouldn’t want to do without it. It’s like yeast that corrupts the juice of grapes. One loves, one loves, one persists in loving-the incubation period can be very long- and then, with death, comes the heart break. Love must always meet its unwanted end.
The grand march of progress apparently includes the unfortunate necessity of chopping down every obstacle in its way.
There are many ways in which life’s little candle can be snuffed out. A cold wind pursues us all.
I thought I knew not only her habits but also her limits. This display of ferocity, of savage courage, made me realize that I was wrong. All my life I had known only a part of her.
My developing sense was that the foundation of a story is an emotional foundation. If a story does not work emotionally, it does not work at all.
My fingers, which a second before had been taste buds savouring the food a little ahead of my mouth, became dirty under his gaze. They froze like criminals caught in the act. I didn’t dare lick them. I wiped them guiltily on my napkin. He had no idea how deeply those words wounded me. They were like nails being driven into my flesh. I picked up the knife and fork. I had hardly ever used such instruments. My hands trembled. My sambar lost its taste.
Of the river of time, he worries neither about its spring nor its delta.
What is the purpose of reason, Richard Parker? Is it no more than to shine at practicalities – the getting of food, clothing and shelter? Why can’t reason give greater answers? Why can we throw a question further than we can pull in an answer? Why such a vast net of there’s so little fish to catch?
This was all a bit much for me. The tone was right – loving and brave – but the details seemed bleak. I said nothing. It wasn’t for fear of angering Mr. Kumar. I was more afraid that in a few words thrown out he might destroy something that I loved. What if his words had the effect of polio on me? What a terrible disease that must be if it could kill God in a man.
The indifference of the many, combined with the active hatred of the few, has sealed the fate of animals.
I noticed how those who know the truth are always treated with suspicion and disdain. That was the case with Jesus, of course. But look at old Miss Marple. Always she knows, and everyone is surprised that she does. And the same with Hercule Poirot. How can that ridiculous little man know anything? But he does, he does. It is the triumph of the meek, in Agatha Christie as in the Gospels.
English was jazz music, German was classical music, French was ecclesiastical music, and Spanish was the music from the streets.
With the very first rays of light it came alive in me: hope. As things emerged in outline and filled with colour, hope increased until it was like a song in my heart. Oh, what it was to bask in it!
Doesn’t the telling of something always become a story?
That is Christianity at heart: a single miracle surrounded and sustained by stories, like an island surrounded by the sea.
Bapu Ghandi said, “All religions are true.” I just want to love God,” I blurted out, and looked down, red in the face.
He became a champion napper.
To her, writing is making stock and reading is sipping broth, but only the spoken word is the full roasted chicken.
I began to wait. My thoughts swung wildly. I was either fixed on practical details of immediate survival or transfixed by pain, weeping silently, my mouth open and my hands on my head.