I am not in love with him, I am in love with ghosts. So is he, he's in love with ghosts.

Nowadays he doesn't think of his wife, though he knows he can turn around and evoke every move of her, describe any aspect of her, the weigh of her wrist on his heart during the night.

When I read biographies, I skip the first thirty pages about the childhood because it doesn't seem interesting to me.

Githa Hariharan's fiction is wonderful-full of subtleties and humor and tenderness.

In the desert the most loved waters, like a lover's name, are carried blue in your hands, enter your throat. One swallows absence.

In Sri Lanka a well-told lie is worth a thousand facts.

And it would be a spare life he would be certain to lead as a schoolteacher in some urban location. But he had a serenity that came with the choice of the life he wanted to live. And this serenity and certainty I have seen only among those who have the armour of books close by.