The Present Changes The Past. Looking Back

When He Died, I Went About Like A Ragged Crow Telling Strangers, "my Father Died, My Father Died." My Indiscretion Embarrassed Me, But I Could Not Help It. Without My Father On His Delhi Rooftop, Why Was I Here? Without Him There, Why Should I Go Back? Without That Ache Between Us, What Was I Made Of?

When I Was Growing Up The Publishing World Seemed So Far Away. When My Mother Wrote A Book, She Would Look Up The Address Of Publishers On The Backs Of The Books She Owned And Send Off Her Manuscript.

The Publishing World Is Very Timid. Readers Are Much Braver.

Slowly, Painstakingly, Like Ants, Men Would Make Their Paths And Civilization And Their Wars Once Again, Only To Have It Wash Away Again.

Could Fulfillment Ever Be Felt As Deeply As Loss? Romantically She Decided That Love Must Surely Reside In The Gap Between Desire And Fulfillment, In The Lack, Not The Contentment. Love Was The Ache, The Anticipation, The Retreat, Everything Around It But The Emotion Itself.