And when we look in through the windows, all we see are shadows. And when we try and listen, all we hear is a whispering. And we cannot understand the whispering, because our minds have been invaded by a war. A war that we have both won and lost. The very worst sort of war. A war that captures dreams and re-dreams them. A war that has made us adore our conquerors and despise ourselves.

People always loved best what they identified most with.

To call someone 'anti-American', indeed, to be anti-American, is not just racist, it's a failure of the imagination.

To stay quiet is as political an act as speaking out.

Nationalism of one kind or another was the cause of most of the genocide of the twentieth century.

The way her body existed only where he touched her. The rest of her was smoke.

Anyway, what is a country? When people say, "Tell me about India," I say, "Which India?.... The land of poetry and mad rebellion? The one that produces haunting music and exquisite textiles? The one that invented the caste system and celebrates the genocide of Muslims and Sikhs and the lynching of Dalits? The country of dollar billionaires? Or the one in which 800 million live on less than half-a-dollar a day? Which India?"