Chekhov is this poet of melancholy and isolation and of wishing you were somewhere else than where you are.

The world is full of things that upset people. But most of us deal with it and move on and don't try and burn the planet down.

This may be the curse of human race . Not that we are different from one anther , but we are so alike .

I grew up falling in love with kind of story, amazing, wonder tale of the East, which if you're a child growing up in India is all around you.And I think one of the gifts it gave me as a writer was this early knowledge that stories are not true.

If I had simply wanted to trade on an insult to Islam, I could have done it in a sentence rather than writing a 250,000-word novel, a work of fiction.

Happy endings must come at the end of something,' the Walrus pointed out. 'If they happen in the middle of a story, or an adventure, or the like, all they do is cheer things up for awhile.

That's the trouble with you sad-city types: a place has to be miserable and dull as ditchwater before you believe it's real.