The inhabitants of this world moved so much, ceaselessly and without sanity, and realized only with the last flicker of their reason that they had not lived. Endless movement, much like the uncaring sea, transfers to alien places, passages to distant shores, looking for luck, not sensing that heaven was in their minds.

Indecision will be your epitaph.

God is a first-rate bureaucrat, one of the best. In all matters, He sees the truth, but is yet to take a decision.

He didn’t want the friends of the different stages of his life to meet. Their encounter would almost be between different facets of himself, face to face.

Only when you die will you cease to feel ridiculous.

You feel even more naked and alone, he said silently, when you reveal yourself, a gratuitous act, for the strength and comfort you look for, any of those last illusions of consolations, can finally be only within you.

I don’t think I would do better books if I wrote full time. I write for amateurish reasons.

The railway station provided them all that they needed: flatulence-generating food, tea, water, paan, shelter, electricity, social intercourse, seating, mucky toilets – and drugs, coolies, women and children for sale at most reasonable prices. What more could a man ask for?

No one reveals himself more completely to others than to himself – that is, if he reveals himself at all.

Well, life is dark, isn’t it? Mostly, it’s dreadful. At the same time, death is funny too. I mean, look at the fuss we make of it.