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… — Kiran Desai Copy Share Image
“How could anything be the same? The red of blood lay over the market road in slick pools mingled with a yellow spread of dal someone must have brought in anticipation of a picnic after the parade, and there were flies on it, left behind odd slippers, and a sad pair of broken spectacles, even a tooth. It was rather… — Kiran Desai Copy Share
When I was growing up the publishing world seemed so far away. When my mother wrote a book, she would look up the address… — Kiran Desai Copy Share Image
“Year by year, his life wasn't amounting to anything at all...And yet, another part of him had expanded: his self-consciousness, his self-pity -- oh, the tediousness of it...Shouldn't he return to a life where he might slice his own importance, to where he might relinquish this overrated control over his own destiny and perhaps be subtracted from its determination altogether?… — Kiran Desai Copy Share
Why couldn't she be part of that family? rent a room in someone else's life. — Kiran Desai Copy Share Image
In India, if you are from the elite, dogs are extremely important. The breed of the dog indicates your wealth, that you are westernized.… — Kiran Desai Copy Share Image
I don't think you can write according to a set of rules and laws; every writer is so different. — Kiran Desai Copy Share Image
A man wasn't equal to an animal, not one particle of him. Human life was stinking corrupt, and meanwhile there were beautiful creatures who… — Kiran Desai Copy Share Image
“But the child shouldn't be blamed for the father's crime, she tried to reason with herself, then. But should the child therefore also enjoy… — Kiran Desai Copy Share Image
“Biju stepped out of the airport into the Calcutta night, warm, mammalian. His feet sank into dust winnowed to softness at his feet, ad he felt an unbearable feeling, sad and tender, old and sweet like the memory of falling asleep, a baby on his mother's lap. Thousands of people were out though it was almost eleven. He saw a… — Kiran Desai Copy Share
Writing, for me, means humility. It’s a process that involves fear and doubt, especially if you’re writing honestly. — Kiran Desai Copy Share Image
“That very afternoon the police arrived at Cho Oyu in a line of toad-colored jeeps that appeared through the moving static of a small anxious sleet. They left their opened umbrellas in a row on the veranda, but the wind undid them and they began to wheel about - mostly black ones that leaked a black dye, but also a… — Kiran Desai Copy Share
