You know, I can imagine not writing a novel and writing poetry only.

Quietly they moved down the calm and sacred river that had come down to earth so that its waters might flow over the ashes of those long dead, and that would continue to flow long after the human race had, through hatred and knowledge, burned itself out.

In spite of all temptations of belonging to many nations, I've remained an Indian.

I don't pick and choose subjects or settings; they pick and choose me.

I simply seem to drift. But I sort of allow the drift, because it has a kind of check - it forces me to work harder at what I'm interested in.

My eyes close. I am here and not here. A waking nap? A flight to the end of the galaxy and perhaps a couple of billion light-years beyond?

Boredom provides a stronger inclination to write than anything.