Where humans are concerned, the only emotion that made sense was wonder, at their ability to endure.

In the broad sense, as a processing of everything one hears or witnesses, all fiction is autobiographical - imagination ground through the mill of memory. It's impossible to separate the two ingredients.

Black money is so much a part of our white economy, a tumour in the centre of the brain - try to remove it and you kill the patient.

There didn't seem to her any harm in it, and the make-believe was so comforting.

Money can buy the necessary police order. Justice is sold to the highest bidder

Flirting with madness was one thing; when madness started flirting back, it was time to call the whole thing off.

Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.