He turns his back to the far shore and rows toward it. He can in this way travel away from, yet still see, his house....he feels he is riding a floating skeleton...Some birds in the almost-dark are flying as close to their reflections as possible.

Why are you not smarter? It's only the rich who can't afford to be smart. They're compromised. They got locked years ago into privilege. They have to protect their belongings. No one is meaner than the rich. Trust me. But they have to follow the rules of their shitty civilised world. They declare war, they have honour, and they can't leave. But you two. We three. We're free.

You don't want to write your own opinion, you don't want to just represent yourself, but represent yourself through someone else.

Politically I don't believe anymore that we can only have one voice to a story, it's like having one radio station to represent a country.

He will hear the rain before he feels it, a clicking on the dry grass, on the olive leaves.

If she were a writer she would collect her pencils and notebooks and favourite cat and write in bed. Strangers and lovers would never get past the locked door.

I'm a Canadian citizen. But I always want to feel at home in Sri Lanka. I'm a member of both countries.