99+ Arundhati Roy Quotes on Life, The God of Small Things and Dreaming - Quotes.pub

Here you will find all the famous Arundhati Roy quotes. There are more than 99+ quotes in our Arundhati Roy quotes collection. We have collected all of them and made stunning Arundhati Roy wallpapers & posters out of those quotes. You can use this wallpapers & posters on mobile, desktop, print and frame them or share them on the various social media platforms. You can download the quotes images in various different sizes for free. In the below list you can find quotes in various categories like Life, The God of Small Things and Dreaming

He looked cheerful, as though he was with an imaginary friend whose company he enjoyed.

He made her feel as though the world belonged to them...

Ammu recognized vaguely that her thoughts were shot with a delicate, purple tinge of envy. She didn’t allow herself to consider who it was that she envied. The man or her own child. Or just their world of hooked fingers and sudden smiles.

She remembered reading somewhere that even after people died, their hair and nails kept growing. Like starlight, travelling through the universe long after the stars themselves had died. Like cities. Fizzy, effervescent, simulating the illusion of life while the planet they had plundered died around them.

But Kama the Generous could not refuse his mother what she asked of him. So he modified the promise. Equivocated. Made a small adjustment, took a somewhat altered oath.

Something lay buried in the ground. Under grass. Under twenty-three years of June rain. A small forgotten thing. Nothing that the world would miss. A child’s plastic wristwatch with the time painted on it. Ten to two, it said.

History in live performance.

Hope lies in texts that can accommodate and keep alive our intricacy, our complexity, and our density against the onslaught of the terrifying, sweeping simplifications of fascism.

A war that we have won and lost. The very worst sort of war. A war that captures dreams and re-dreams them. A war that has made us adore our conquerors and despise ourselves.

Sitting next to Tilo, breathing next to her, he felt like an empty house whose locked windows and doors were creaking open a little, to air the ghosts trapped inside it.

D’you know why God made Hijras? It was an experiment. He decided to create something, a living creature that is incapable of happiness. So he made us.

Terrorism is vicious, ugly, and dehumanizing for its perpetrators as well as its victims. But so is war. You could says that terrorism is the privatization of war. Terrorists are the free marketeers of war. They are people who don’t believe that the state has a monopoly on the legitimate use of violence.

While the Doctor was searching for a more lasting cure, the Saint journeyed across India distributing a placebo.

The Congress has historically played covert communal politics in order to create what in India we call vote banks where you pit one community against another and so on in order to secure votes.

They’re mostly rich folk who live in our poor country like captive animals, incarcerated by their own wealth, locked and barred in their gilded cages, protecting themselves from the threat of the vulgar and unruly multitudes whom they have systematically dispossessed over the centuries.

When the sun grew hot, they returned indoors where they continued to float through their lives like a pair of astronauts, defying gravity, limited only by the outer walls of their fuchsia spaceship with its pale pistachio doors. It isn’t as though they didn’t have plans. Anjum waited to die. Saddam waited to kill.

It’s a battle of those who know how to think against those who know how to hate. A battle of lovers against haters. It’s an unequal battle, because the love is on the street and vulnerable. The hate is on the street, too, but it is armed to the teeth, and protected by all the machinery of the state.

Crashing through the world like a falling stone. It is his color and his light. It is the vessel into which he pours.

All three of them bonded by the certain, separate knowledge that they had loved a man to death.

I am an artist and a writer, and I do think that one always places oneself in the picture to see where one fits.

An Urdu couplet by one of his favorite poets, Mir Taqi Mir: Jis sar ko ghurur aaj hai yaan taj-vari ka Kal uss pe yahin shor hai phir nauhagari ka The head which today proudly flaunts a crown Will tomorrow, right here, in lamentation drown.

All they have to do is to turn around and shoot. All the people have to do is to lie down and die.

In every part of the legendary Valley of Kashmir, whatever people might be doing – walking, praying, bathing, cracking jokes, shelling walnuts, making love or taking a bus-ride home – they were in the rifle-sights of a soldier. And because they were in the rifle-sights of a soldier, whatever they might be doing – walking, praying, bathing, cracking jokes, shelling walnuts, making love or taking a bus-ride home – they were a legitimate target.

To call someone ‘anti-American’, indeed, to be anti-American, is not just racist, it’s a failure of the imagination.

Like cities. Fizzy, effervescent, simulating the illusion of life while the planet they had plundered died around them.

The truth is that she traveled back to Kashmir to still her troubled heart, and to atone for a crime she hadn’t committed.

No matter how elaborate its charade, she recognized loneliness when she saw it.

Empathy sometimes achieves what scholarship cannot.

The strange thing about Roman soldiers in the comics was the amount of trouble they took over their armor and their helmets, and then, after all that, they left their legs bare. It didn’t make any sense at all. Weatherwise or otherwise.

I would like to write one of those sophisticated stories in which even though nothing much happens there’s lots to write about. That can’t be done in Kashmir. It’s not sophisticated, what happens here. There’s too much blood for good literature.

But it’s hard to say where experience ends and imagination begins. The story is by no means a true story. But the feelings in it are.

She thought of Chacko’s laugh, and a smile stayed in her eyes for a long time.

For the first time in her life, Tilo felt that her body had enough room to accomodate all of its organs.

They were State-of-the-Art machines. They could flatten history and stack it up like building material.

Nietzsche believed that if Pity were to become the core of ethics, misery would become contagious and happiness an object of suspicion.

It had to do with the way she lived, in the country of her own skin. A country that issued no visas and seemed to have no consulates.

Reading Dr. Bhimrao Ramji Ambedkar bridges the gap between what most Indians are schooled to believe in and the reality we experience every day of our lives.

People often don’t understand the engine that drives corruption. Particularly in India, they assume government equals corruption, private companies equal efficiency. But government officials are not genetically programmed to be corrupt. Corruption is linked to power. If it is the corporations that are powerful, then they will be corrupt.

People – communities, castes, races and even countries – carry their tragic histories and their misfortunes around like trophies, or like stock, to be bought and sold on the open market.

In the years to come, when the war became a way of life, there would be books and films and photo exhibitions curated around the theme of Kashmir’s grief and loss.

He sensed she was drifting on a tide that neither he nor she could do much about. He couldn’t tell whether her restlessness, her compulsive and increasingly unsafe wandering through the city, marked the onset of an unsoundness of mind or an acute, perilous kind of sanity. Or were they both the same thing?

All we seem to be left with now is paranoid gibberish about a War on Terror whose whole purpose is to expand the War, increase the Terror, and obfuscate the fact that the wars of today are not aberrations but systemic, logical exercises to preserve a way of life whose delicate pleasures and exquisite comforts can only be delivered to the chosen few by a continuous, protracted war for hegemony – Lifestyle Wars.

Writers imagine that they cull stories from the world. I’m beginning to believe that vanity makes them think so. That it’s actually the other way around. Stories cull writers from the world. Stories reveal themselves to us. The public narrative, the private narrative – they colonize us. They commission us. They insist on being told. Fiction and nonfiction are only different techniques of story telling. For reasons that I don’t fully understand, fiction dances out of me, and nonfiction is wrenched out by the aching, broken world I wake up to every morning.

He had seen her through so much; he believed that if not he, then certainly music, would see her through this too.

Funding as fragmented solidarity in ways that repression never could.

The foreign newspapers had dumped the old exotics in favor of the younger generation. The exotics didn’t suit the image of the New India – a nuclear power and an emerging destination for international finance. Ustad.

Foreigners only see what they want to see. Earlier it was snake charmers and sadhus, now it is the superpower things, the Bazaar Raj.

Addiction has its own mnemonics- skin, smell, the length of the loved one’s fingers. In Tilo’s case it was the slant of her eyes, the shape of her mouth, the almost invisible scar that slightly altered the symmetry of her lips and made her look defiant even when she did not mean to, the way her nostrils flared, announcing the displeasure even before hr eyes did.

For the Time Being they had no surname because Ammu was considering reverting to her maiden name, though she said that choosing between her husband‘s name and her fathers name didn’t give a woman much of a choice.

Oddly, neglect seemed to have resulted in an accidental release of the spirit.

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