Is it not love that knows how to make smooth things rough and rough things smooth?
You can talk good ideas out of existence.
There are plenty of good Indian writers in English, and none of us feel we are carrying the burden of being a poster boy.
I'm not sure anyone can understand a whole life, even their own.
What is the difference between my life and my love? One gets me low, the other lets me go.
I recall drinking sherry in California and dreaming of England, where I ate dalmoth and dreamed of Delhi. What is the purpose, I wonder, of all this restlessness? I sometimes seem to myself to wander around the world merely accumulating material for future nostalgias.