I Think The Novel Form Chose Me.

Crime Is Stupid, Lazy And Weak. You Can Only Exploit It And Make Money Out Of It.

While The Foods Were Being Prepared, I Watched As Men Dragged A Foot-operated Grinding Wheel Into An Open Space, And The Groom Devoted A Tense Hour To Putting A Razor's Edge To A Large, Ornate Dagger. The Bride's Father Watched That Effort With A Critical Eye. After Satisfying Himself That The Weapon Was Suitably Lethal, He Gravely Accepted It As A Gift From The Younger Man. The Groom Has Just Sharpened The Knife That The Bride's Father Will Use On Him, If He Ever Mistreats The Girl.

Nothing Grieves More Deeply Or Pathetically Than One Half Of A Great Love That Isn’t Meant To Be.

I Think The Novel Form Chose Me. I Was A Writer Before I Became A Criminal... My First Instinct Was To Write.

Let Me Explain Something To You. Look Around Here. How Many People Do You Count? Sixty, Eighty, Eighty People? Greeks, Germans, Italians, French, Americans. Tourists From Everywhere. Eating, Drinking, Talking, Laughing. And From Bombay - Indians And Iranians And Afghans And Arabs And Africans. But How Many Of These People Have Real Power, Real Destiny, Real Dynamic For Their Place, And Their Time, And The Lives Of Thousand Of People? I Will Tell You - Four. Four People In This Room With Power, And The Rest Are Like The Rest Of The People Everywhere: Powerless, Sleepers In The Dream.