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Arundhati Roy

The God of Small Things

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  • Olga Khvanciteerde uit6 jaar geleden
    is curious how sometimes the memory of death lives on for so much longer than the memory of the life that it purloined.
  • Juliaciteerde uit5 jaar geleden
    If he touched her, he couldn’t talk to her, if he loved her he couldn’t leave, if he spoke he couldn’t listen, if he fought he couldn’t win.

    Who was he, the one-armed man? Who could he have been? The God of Loss? The God of Small Things? The God of Goose Bumps and Sudden Smiles? Of Sourmetal Smells—like steel bus-rails and the smell of the bus conductor’s hands from holding them?
  • 302 Rizvi Khadijaciteerde uitvorig jaar
    Marxism was a simple substitute for Christianity. Replace God with Marx, Satan with the bourgeoisie, Heaven with a classless society, the Church with the Party, and the form and purpose of the journey remained similar. An obstacle race, with a prize at the end
  • 302 Rizvi Khadijaciteerde uitvorig jaar
    This was the trouble with families. Like invidious doctors, they knew just where it hurt.
  • 302 Rizvi Khadijaciteerde uitvorig jaar
    Then, as they approached the outskirts of Cochin, the red and white arm of the railway level-crossing gate went down. Rahel knew that this had happened because she had been hoping that it wouldn’t.

    She hadn’t learned to control her Hopes yet. Estha said that was a Bad Sign
  • 302 Rizvi Khadijaciteerde uitvorig jaar
    While other children of their age learned other things, Estha and Rahel learned how history negotiates its terms and collects its dues from those who break its laws. They heard its sickening thud. They smelled its smell and never forgot it.

    History’s smell.

    Like old roses on a breeze.

    It would lurk forever in ordinary things. In coat hangers. Tomatoes. In the tar on roads. In certain colors. In the plates at a restaurant. In the absence of words. And the emptiness in eyes.

    They would grow up grappling with ways of living with what happened. They would try to tell themselves that in terms of geological time it was an insignificant event. Just a blink of the Earth Woman’s eye. That Worse Things had happened. That Worse Things kept happening. But they would find no comfort in the thought.
  • 302 Rizvi Khadijaciteerde uitvorig jaar
    Ammu loved her children (of course), but their wide-eyed vulnerability and their willingness to love people who didn’t really love them exasperated her and sometimes made her want to hurt them—just as an education, a protection.

    It was as though the window through which their father disappeared had been kept open for anyone to walk in and be welcomed
  • 302 Rizvi Khadijaciteerde uit2 jaar geleden
    It is curious how sometimes the memory of death lives on for so much longer than the memory of the life that it purloined
  • Purr gysstciteerde uit2 jaar geleden
    The Great Stories are the ones you have heard and want to hear again. The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably. They don’t deceive you with thrills and trick endings. They don’t surprise you with the unforeseen. They are as familiar as the house you live in. Or the smell of your lover’s skin. You know how they end, yet you listen as though you don’t. In the way that although you know that one day you will die, you live as though you won’t.
  • Purr gysstciteerde uit2 jaar geleden
    At the time, there would only be incoherence. As though meaning had slunk out of things and left them fragmented.
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