America is like some crazed, bewildered, rich giant bumbling around in a poor area with his pockets stuffed with money, and lots of weapons - just throwing stuff around.
Truly, there's no alternative to stupidity. Cretinism is the mother of fascism. I have no defence against it, really....
In India, whichever language you write in, the possibility of people not understanding irony or not understanding [remains there]. This as a writer is most terrifying!
And there it was again. Another religion turned against itself. Another edifice constructed by the human mind, decimated by human nature.
There is a war that makes us adore our conquerors and despise ourselves.
This was the trouble with families. Like invidious doctors, they knew just where it hurt.
That it really began in the days when the Love Laws were made. The laws that lay down who should be loved, and how. And how much.
The way her body existed only where he touched her. The rest of her was smoke.
the truth is that it's far easier to make a bomb than to educate four hundred million people.
I never do anything because I'm a celebrity, as a rule. I do what I do as a citizen.
If you want to control somebody, support them. Or marry them.
But can we, should we, let apprehensions about the future immobilize us in the present?
Cage the People, Free the Money. The only thing that is allowed to move freely - unimpeded - around the world today is money... capital.
An old-growth forest, a mountain range or a river valley is more important and certainly more loveable than any country will ever be.
If you're not religious, then look at it this way. This world of ours is four thousand, six hundred million years old. It could end in an afternoon.
Nilekani's technocratic obsession with gathering data is consistent with that of Bill Gates, as though lack of information is what is causing world hunger.
I sometimes think I was perhaps the only girl in India whose mother said, "Whatever you do, don't get married". For me, when I see a bride, it gives me a rash. I find them ghoulish, almost.
Novels are such mysterious and amorphous and tender things. And here we are with our crash helmets on, with concertina wire all around us.