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.

So many Indian novels, quite unfairly, do not get the prominence they should because they have been written in a language other than English.

Is it not love that knows how to make smooth things rough and rough things smooth?

Think of many things. Never place your happiness in one person's power. Be just to yourself.

Dear though the reader might be, I'd be silly to cater to what the reader wanted.

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

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?