Jhumpa Lahiri Quotes
Top 100 wise famous quotes and sayings by Jhumpa Lahiri
Jhumpa Lahiri Famous Quotes & Sayings
Discover top inspirational quotes from Jhumpa Lahiri on Wise Famous Quotes.
People are starving, and this is their solution, he eventually said. They turn victims into criminals. They aim guns at people who can't shoot back.
I see the people who have lived here forever. They walk quickly, indifferent to the buildings. They cross the squares without stopping. I
I don't tackle major global events. I don't like to read about something - an event, a cataclysm - in fiction for the sake of reading it.
I dream of writing a book like LOVERS some day. It is so spare but so rich. It is history made intimate, and a masterpiece of compression.
I think it's the small things, the smaller episodes and details that I linger on and try to draw meaning from, just personally.
Avoiding puddles, stepping over mats of hyacinth leaves that remained in place. Breathing the dank air.
So that she began to see herself more clearly, as a thin film of dust was wiped from a sheet of glass.
Why do I write? To investigate the mystery of existence. To tolerate myself. To get closer to everything that is outside of me.
She is stunned that in this town there are no sidewalks to speak of, no streetlights, no public transportation, no stores for miles at at a time.
There had been nothing worse than waiting for it to come; the void that followed was easier to bear than the solid weight of those days.
I feel as though I've gotten to a point where I don't really want to set a book in any real place ever again.
There was the anxiety that one day would not follow the next, combined with the certainty that it would.
The cosmetics that had seemed superfluous were necessary now, not to improve her but to define her somehow.
My parents' relationship with Kolkata is so strong. Growing up, the absence of Kolkata was always present in our lives.
Books seem so much more - much more sacred to me, and more important and essential, than they were when I was young.
That in spite of living in a mansion an American is not above wearing a pair of secondhand pants, bought for fifty cents.
She learned that an act intended to express love could have nothing to do with it. That her heart and her body were different things.
I hope you don't mind my asking," Douglas said, "but I noticed the statue outside, and are you guys Christian? I thought you were Indian.
Things were different now, of course; those solitary hours he'd once savored had become a prison for him, a commonplace.
She was unprepared for the landscape to be so altered. For there to be no trace of that evening, forty autumns ago.
Pet names are a persistent remnant of childhood, a reminder that life is not always so serious, so formal, so complicated.
It's hard to think of myself as an American, and yet I am not from India, a place where I was not born and where I have never lived.
It interests me to imagine characters shifting from one situation and one location to another for whatever the circumstances may be.
I owed the greater apology, but at the same time I knew that was done was done, that no matter what I said now I would never be able to make it right.
As strange as it seemed, I knew in my heart that one day her death would affect me, and stranger still, that mine would affect her.
In so many ways, his family's life feels like a string of accidents, unforeseen, unintended, one incident begetting another.
Whenever I can, in my study, on the subway, in bed before going to sleep, I immerse myself in Italian. I enter another land, unexplored, murky. A
Part of my whole project from the beginning was to make an absent world present for my parents, which was India.
She wished the days and months ahead of her would end. But the rest of her life continued to present itself, time ceaselessly proliferating.
Everything in Bela's life has been a reaction. I am who I am, she would say, I live as I do because of you.
I write about characters that interest me. And I don't think of my books as being forms of entertainment.
Every language belongs to a specific place. It can migrate, it can spread. But usually it's tied to a geographical territory, a country. Italian
Glowing screens, increasingly foldable, portable, companionable, anticipating any possible question the human brain might generate.
And she refused to go to that miserable place he had dragged her to so many times, to hope for a thing that was unchangeable.
When I am experiencing a complex story or novel, the broader planes, and also details, tend to fall away.
I've always had this feeling wherever I go. Of not feeling fully part of things, not fully accepted, not fully inside of something.
They are still the pictures of myself I like best, for they convey that confidence of youth I no longer possess, especially in front of a camera. I
I'm bound to fail when I write in Italian, but unlike my sense of failure in the past, this doesn't torment or grieve me.
The urge to convert experience into a group of words that are in a grammatical relation to one another is the most basic, ongoing impulse of my life.
Sometimes, so much of the difficulty is the question of 'What am I going to write about?' because the world is so vast.
I'm the least-experimental writer. The idea of trying things just for the sake of pushing the envelope, that's never really interested me.
The highlight of my undergraduate years was a year-long Shakespeare course I took with Edward Tayler.
In Italy, where I live now, I have put some distance between myself and the world that has formed me.
I love reading poetry, and yet, at this point, the thought of writing a poem, to me, is tantamount to figuring out a trigonometry question.
The imperfection became a mark of distinction about their home. Something visitors noticed, the first family anecdote that was told.
The notice informed them that it was a temporary matter: for five days their electricity would be cut off for one hour, beginning at eight P.M.
He longed for sleep, but it would not immerse him; that night the waters he sought for his repose were deep enough to wade in, but not to swim.