Quotes from Rohinton Mistry

The photographs had made him aware how much the street and the buildings meant to him. Like an extended family that he'd taken for granted and ignored, assuming it would always be there. But buildings and roads and spaces were as fragile as human beings, you had to cherish them while you had them.

Now he felt the despair his father had felt as the familiar world slipped from around him, the valleys gashed and ugly, the woods disappearing. Daddy was right, he thought, the hills were dying, and I was so stupid to believe the hills were eternal, that a father could stay forever young. If only I had talked to him. If only he had let me get close to him.

At the best of times, democracy is a seesaw between complete chaos and tolerable confusion. You see, to make a democratic omelette you have to break a few democratic eggs. To fight fascism and other evil forces threatening our country, there is nothing wrong in taking strong measures.

There must be a lot of duplication in our country's laws, said Dukhi. Every time there are elections, they talk of passing the same ones passed twenty years ago. Someone should remind them they need to apply the laws. For politicians, passing laws is like passing water, said Narayan. It all ends down the drain.

Who would want to enter the soiled Temple of Justice, wherein lies the corpse of justice, slain by her very guardians? And now her killers make mock of the sacred process, selling replicas of her blind virtue to the highest bidder.

You cannot draw lines and compartments and refuse to budge beyond them. Sometimes you have to use your failures as stepping stones to success. You have to maintain a fine balance between hope and despair

That's the secret - to distract the senses. Have I told you my theory about them? I think that our sight, smell, taste, touch, hearing are all calibrated for the enjoyment of a perfect world. But since the world is imperfect, we must put blinders on the senses.

He who spits paan at the ceiling only blinds himself.

Holding this book in your hand, sinking back in your soft armchair, you will say to yourself: perhaps it will amuse me. And after you have read this story of great misfortunes, you will no doubt dine well, blaming the author for your own insensitivity, accusing him of wild exaggeration and flights of fancy. But rest assured: this tragedy is not a fiction. All is true.

Time is the twine to tie our lives into parcels of years and months. Or a rubber band stretched to suit our fancy. Time can be the pretty ribbon in a little girl's hair. Or the lines in your face, stealing your youthful colour and your hair.' He sighed and smiled sadly. 'But in the end, time is a noose around the neck, strangling slowly.

Walk, first, through the fire, then philosophize...

He spent long hours meditating on the wisdom of loving living things which invariably ended up dead.

Everyone underestimates their own life. Funny thing is, in the end, all our stories - your life, my life, old Husain's life, they're the same. In fact, no matter where you go in the world, there is only one important story: of youth, and loss, and yearning for redemption. So we tell the same story, over and over. Just the details are different.

He winced at her efforts to mollify him. Why didn't she say she was disgusted with his behaviour, with his long absence, his infrequent superficial letters? And if she did say it - would he defend himself? Would he give reasons, try to explain how meaningless every endeavour seemed to him? No. For then she would start crying again, he would tell her to stop being silly, she would ask for details, and he would tell her to mind her own business.

In twenty-four years of proofreading, flocks of words flew into my head through the windows of my soul. Some of them stayed on and built nests in there. Why should I not speak like a poet, with a commonwealth of language at my disposal, constantly invigorated by new arrivals?

He pivoted on one buttock and broke wind. Dukhi leaned back to allow it free passage, wondering what penalty might adhere to the offence of interfering with the waft of brahminical flatus.

In those days, continued Ishvar, it seemed to me that that was all one could expect in life. A harsh road strewn with sharp stones and, if you were lucky, a little grain. And later? Later I discovered there were different types of roads. And a different way of walking on each.

Deeply moved, she poured the tea while they were finishing up. They came into the kitchen to replace the cleaning things, and she handed two cups to Om. Noticing the red rose borders, he started to point out her error, The pink one's for us, then stopped. Her face told him she was aware of it. What? she asked, taking the pink cup for herself, Is something wrong? Nothing, his voice caught . He turned away, hoping she did not see the film of water glaze his eyes.

Narayan explained how they had spent the morning, and Dukhi laughed to hear it. the entire episode made Radha furious. Why must you torment the boy? There is no need to make my Om do such dirty work....How will he appreciate what he has if he does not learn what his forefathers did? Once a week he will come with me! Whether he likes it or not!

The bhel-puri stall was a sculptured landscape with its golden pyramid of sev, the little snow mountains of mumra, hillocks of puris, and, in among their valleys, in aluminium containers, pools of green and brown and red chutneys.

The secret of survival is to embrace change and to adapt. Sometimes you have to use your failures as stepping stones to success. You have to maintain a fine balance between hope and despair.

Hell has ways of permeating heaven's membrane.

Time, the ultimate grandmaster that could never be checkmated. There was no way out of its distended belly.

When a culture vansihes, humanity is the loser.