Quotes from Jhumpa Lahiri

Se fosse possibile colmare la distanza tra me e l'italiano, smetterei di scrivere in questa lingua.

There were black mountains on which nothing, no grass or trees, seemed to grow. Thin lines that twisted unpredictably, with tributaries arriving nowhere. Not rivers, but roads.

Ci sono tantissime cose che continuano a confondermi in italiano. Le preposizioni, per esempio.

Though they are home they are disconcerted by the space, by the uncompromising silence that surrounds them. They still feel somehow in transit, still disconnected from their lives, bound up in an alternate schedule, an intimacy only the four of them share.

So che non è possibile conoscere una lingua straniera alla perfezione. Non a caso, ciò che mi confonde di più in italiano è l'uso dell'imperfetto rispetto al passato prossimo.

A group of plants she cultivated in pots on her patio. Jasmine that opened up in the evenings, flame-colored hibiscus, creamy gardenia with glossy leaves.

Her body exuded an enviable harmony with her surroundings. Her head was turned to one side, her eyes were closed, and the red strip of her bikini top was untied. I lacked her serenity, but her presence afforded me some relief, and feeling slightly guilty, I dozed off in her shadow.

When I woke up the lounge chair was empty, the woman was gone. But the gray light that pervaded the sky after sunset made me melancholy. That diffuse shade, exclusive to no one, defeated me, it provided no relief. Come to think of it, there's always some savage element at the beach, either to tolerate or to overcome: an element we crave and cower from at the same time. I've

She returned to Boston in April, during the break after the Lent term, a diamond ring from Roger concealed on a chain beneath her sweater, and this made her feel dipped in a protective coating from her family.

Direi una chiarezza sbalorditiva, una consapevolezza piú profonda di me stessa. L'imperfezione dà lo spunto all'invenzione, all'immaginazione, alla creatività. Stimola. Più mi sento imperfetta, più mi sento viva.

Always at the end of a queue, in the shadow of others, she believed she was not significant enough to cast a shadow of her own.

Suddenly he imagines the house where Bridget's husband lives alone, longing for her, with his unfaithful wife's name on the mailbox, her lipstick beside his shaving things. Only then does he feel guilty.

He remembered himself sitting naked on one side of the mattress, in a room he was suddenly aware he was never again to see. He had not argued; in the wake of his shame, he became strangely efficient and agreeable, with her, with everyone.

Un libro, così come una persona, rimane qualcosa di imperfetto, di incompiuto, durante tutta la sua creazione. Alla fine della gestazione la persona nasce, poi cresce. Ma ritengo che un libro sia vivo solo mentre viene scritto. Dopo, al meno per me, muore.

As he watched the couple the room went dark, and he spun around. Shoba had turned the lights off. She came back to the table and sat down, and after a moment Shukumar joined her. They wept together, for the things they now knew.

Things were different now, of course; those solitary hours he'd once savored had become a prison for him, a commonplace.

Gogol and Sonia] call up their American friends, who are happy enough to see them but ask them nothing about where they've been. And so the eight months are put behind them, quickly shed, quickly forgotten, like clothes worn for a special occasion, or for a season that has passed, suddenly cumbersome, irrelevant to their lives.

After I look at her I look at myself in the mirror, and yet again I resign myself to the fact that my face has always disappointed me. Every look in the mirror dismays me, that's the reason I tend to avoid them.

But it was another to be authoritative; Bengali had never been a language in which she felt like an adult.

How is it possible to feel exiled from a language that isn't mine? That I don't know? Maybe because I'm a writer who doesn't belong completely to any language.

Only when things are reread, reexamined, revisited, are they understood: letters, photos, words in dictionaries.

At restaurants and bars, they sometimes slip Bengali phrases into their conversation in order to comment with impunity on another diner's unfortunate hair or shoes.

To translate a book is to enter into a relationship with it, to approach and accompany it, to know it intimately, word by word, and to enjoy the comfort of its company in return.

But his father is not the type to admit such things, to speak openly of his desires, his moods, his needs.