Every object strives for its proper place. A book seeks to be near its truest admirer. Just as this helpless moth seeks to be near the candle that infatuates him.

What is the difference between my life and my love? One gets me low, the other lets me go.

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

I tend to follow a scattershot approach to reading a lot of very diverse subjects interest me, and I'm quite happy to read stuff on any of them.

Why do writers, say, give up a job in economics and decide to write poetry? Or, why do they give up a job in a bank and decide to paint, like Krishan Khanna? They want to convey something.

I'm not sure anyone can understand a whole life, even their own.

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