It was a grand old house, the Ayemenem House, but aloof-looking. As though it had little to do with the people who lived in it. Like an old man with rheumy eyes watching children play, seeing only transience in their shrill elation and their whole-hearted commitment to life.

In a country like India, the British were only able to rule the country because it had completely co-opted the elite of the country, who did their work for them.

May in Ayemenem is a hot, brooding month. The days are long and humid. The river shrinks and black crows gorge on bright mangoes in still, dustgreen trees. Red bananas ripen. Jackfruits burst. Dissolute bluebottles hum vacuously in the fruity air. Then they stun themselves against clear windowpanes and die, fatly baffled in the sun.

America is like some crazed, bewildered, rich giant bumbling around in a poor area with his pockets stuffed with money, and lots of weapons - just throwing stuff around.

I could weep for a river-valley, and I have. But for a country? Oh man, I don't know.

Literature is the opposite of a nuclear bomb.

One of the reasons some people get so angry with me is because I have the space now that a lot of others who think like me don't.