One hand, five homes. A lifetime in a fist.
In a world of diminishing mystery, the unknown persists.
I returned to my existence, the existence I had chosen instead of you.
The knowledge of death seemed present in both sisters—it was something about the way they carried themselves, something that had broken too soon and had not mended, marking them in spite of their ligh...
She felt the lurch of a head rush. The boy who had not paid attention to her; the man who’d embarked on an affair knowing she could never be his; at the last moment he was asking for more. A piece of...
Most people trusted in the future, assuming that their preferred version of it would unfold.
He had forgotten the possibility of so many human beings in one space. The concentrated stench of so much life. He welcomed the sun on his skin, the absence of bitter cold. But it was winter in Calcut...
That's what books are for, to travel without moving an inch.
Somehow, bad news, however ridden with static, however filled with echoes, always manages to be conveyed.
A foreign language can signify a total separation. It can represent, even today, the ferocity of our ignorance. To write in a new language, to penetrate its heart, no technology helps. You can’t accel...
If you look at my characters as a group, they all have a different relationship with the way that places can signify emotion in them - and the way those bonds can be shattered.
…avevo bisogno di una lingua differente: una lingua che fosse un luogo di affetto e di riflessione. —ANTONIO TABUCCHI
One could say that the mechanism of metamorphosis is the only element of life that never changes. The journey of every individual, every country, every historical epoch, of the entire universe and all...
Bilmezlik ve umut içinde gönüllü bir beklenti hali... İşte böyle yaşıyordu çoğu insan.
She had generated alternative versions of herself. She had insisted at brutal cost on these conversions. Layering her life, only to strip it bare. Only to be alone in the end. Her life had been paired...
Will you remember this day, Gogol? his father had asked, turning back to look at him, his hands pressed like earmuffs to either side of his head. How long do I have to remember it? Over the rise and f...
The more I feel imperfect, the more I feel alive.
Subhash was angry with himself for going along with it. For still needing to prove he could. He was sick of the fear that always rose up in him: that he would cease to exist, and that he and Udayan wo...
In American, when I was young, my parents always seemed to be in mourning for something. Now I understand: it must have been the language.
He looked at her, in her red plaid skirt and strawberry T-shirt, a woman not yet thirty, who loved neither her husband nor her children, who had already fallen out of love with life.