Quotes from Arundhati Roy

They had always fitted together like pieces of an unsolved (and perhaps unsolvable) puzzle—the smoke of her into the solidness of him, the solitariness of her into the gathering of him, the strangeness of her into the straightforwardness of him, the insouciance of her into the restraint of him. The quietness of her into the quietness of him.

It hadn't changed, the June Rain. Heaven opened and the water hammered down, reviving the reluctant old well, greenmossing the pigless pigsty, carpet bombing still, tea-coloured puddles the way memory bombs still, tea-coloured minds. The grass looked wetgreen and pleased. Happy earthworms frolicked purple in the slush. Green nettles nodded. Trees bent.

If you are happy in a dream, Ammu, does that count? Estha asked. Does what count? The happiness does it count?

choosing between her husband's name and her father's name didn't give a woman much of a choice.

Not many noticed the passing of the friendly old birds. There was so much else to look forward to.

We have free speech. Maybe. But do we have Really Free Speech? If what we have to say doesn't "sell," will we still say it? Can we? Or is everybody looking for Things That Sell to say?

If anything, she possessed him in death in a way that she never had while he was alive. At least her memory of him was hers. Wholly hers. Savagely, fiercely, hers.

The hollow, knobbled calf was pink, like proper calves should be. (When you re-create the image of man, why repeat God's mistakes?)

The silence sat between grandniece and baby grandaunt like a third person. A stranger. Swollen. Noxious.

Never again will a single story be told as though it's the only one.

No matter how elaborate its charade, she recognised loneliness when she saw it.

Because it had to do with more than all that. It was the haughtiness (despite the question mark over her 'stock', as his mother had not hesitated to put it). It had to do with the way she lived, in the country of her own skin. A country that issued no visas and seemed to have no consulates.

Kashmir was one of the few places in the world where a fair-skinned people had been ruled by a darker-skinned one.

Edges, Borders, Boundaries, Brinks and Limits have appeared like a team of trolls on their separate horizons.

written effort … quite brilliant. Savvy, beautiful, and with the sort of overall rhythm that artists of all media should dream of managing

Someone else said she was a rapevictim (which was a word in every language).

Though the rain washed Mammachi's spit off his face, it didn't stop the feeling that someone had lifted off his head and vomited into his body. Lumpy vomit dribbling down his insides. Over his heart. His lungs. The slow thick drip into the pit of his stomach. All his organs awash in vomit. There was nothing the rain could do about that.

magically written effort … quite brilliant. Savvy, beautiful, and with the sort of overall rhythm that artists of all media should dream of managing … One can only strongly recommend this extremely funny and enchanting and pretty much genius piece of debut fiction.

More rice, for the price of a river.

I would like to write one of those sophisticated stories in which even though nothing much happens there's lots to write about. That can't be done in Kashmir. It's not sophisticated, what happens here. There's too much blood for good literature. Q1: Why is it not sophisticated? Q2: What is the acceptable amount of blood for good literature?

History's fiends returned to claim them. To re-wrap them in its old, scarred pelt and drag them back to where they really lived. Where the Love Laws lay down who should be loved. And how. And how much.

Estha thought you were dying." "You looked so sad," Estha said. "I was happy," Ammu said, and realized that she had been.

be free to die irresponsibly, without notice and for no reason.

It was a kiss that demanded no kiss-back. Not a cloudy kiss full of questions that wanted answers. Like the kisses of cheerful one-armed men in dreams.