Just as music is noise that makes sense, a painting is colour that makes sense, so a story is life that makes sense.
To lose your mother, well, that is like losing the sun above you.
What I had before me was a spectacle of wind and water, an earthquake of the senses, that even Hollywood couldn’t orchestrate.
The guttural eruptions and long flowing vowels rolled just beneath my comprehension like a beautiful brook. I gazed into this brook for long spells of time. It was not wide, just one man’s voice, but it was as deep as the universe.
On a day when I estimated it was my mothers birthday, I sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to her out loud.
How could the stars, sparkle as they might, help me find my way if they kept moving?
The stars shone with such fears, contained brilliance that it seemed absurd to call the night dark.
I am grateful. It’s the plain truth: without Richard Parker, I wouldn’t be alive today to tell you my story.
That’s what fiction is about, isn’t it, the selective transforming of reality?
Meanwhile, the lot of widows and homeless children is very hard, and it is to their defence, not God’s, that the self-righteous should rush.
These people walk by a widow deformed by leprosy begging for a few paise, walk by children dressed in rags living in the street, and they think, “Business as usual.” But if they perceive a slight against God, it is a different story. Their faces go red, their chests heave mightily, they sputter angry words. The degree of their indignation is astonishing. Their resolve is frightening.
Until it knows its rank for certain, the animal lives a life of unbearable anarchy.
If a man, boldest and most intelligent of creatures, won’t wander from place to place, a stranger to all, beholden to none, why would an animal, which is by temperament far more conservative?
When Mr. Kumar visited the zoo, it was to take the pulse of the universe, and his stethoscopic mind always confirmed to him that everything was in order, that everything was order.
She heard “Hairless Christians”, and that is what they were to her for many years. When I corrected her, I told her that in fact she was not so wrong; that Hindus, in their capacity for love, are indeed hairless Christians, just as Muslims, in the way they see God in everything, are bearded Hindus, and Christians, in their devotion to God, are hat-wearing Muslims.
The man told Henry that the only native talent needed to play music well was joy.
Colonialism is a terrible bane for a people upon whom it is imposed, but a blessing for a language.
His presence was overwhelming, yet equally evident was the lithesome grace of it.
I just want to love God.
There are no grounds for going beyond a scientific explanation of reality and no sound reason for believing anything but our sense experience. A clear intellect, close attention to detail and a little scientific knowledge will expose religion as superstitious bosh. God does not exist.
If Christ spent an anguished night in prayer, if He burst out from the Cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” then surely we are also permitted doubt.