A Bad Author Can Take The Most

Imagine You Are Walking Down A Leafy Path...the Sun Is Receding, And You Are Walking Alone, Caressed By The Breezy Light Of The Late Afternoon. Then Suddenly, You Feel A Large Drop On Your Right Arm. Is It Raining? You Look Up. The Sky Is Still Deceptively Sunny...seconds Later Another Drop. Then, With The Sun Still Perched In The Sky, You Are Drenched In A Shower Of Rain. This Is How Memories Invade Me, Abruptly And Unexpectedly.

The Novels Were An Escape From Reality In The Sense That We Could Marvel At Their Beauty And Perfection. Curiously, The Novels We Escaped Into Led Us Finally To Question And Prod Our Own Realities, About Which We Felt So Helplessly Speechless.

I Think Islam Is In A Sense, In Crisis. It Needs To Question And Re-question Itself.

Every Great Work Of Art ... Is A Celebration, An Act Of Insubordination Against The Betrayals, Horrors And Infidelities Of Life.

When I Walked Down The Streets, I Asked Myself, Are These My People?, Is This My Hometown, Am I Who I Am?