Arundhati Roy

“There's really no such thing as the 'voiceless'. There are only the deliberately silenced, or the preferably unheard.”

“His gratitude widened his smile and bent his back.”

“Some days he walked along the banks of the river that smelled of shit and pesticides bought with World Bank loans.”

“When you recreate the image of man, why repeat God's mistakes?”

“Kad tu kādam nodari pāri, tas sāk tevi mazāk mīlēt. Neapdomātu vārdu dēļ. Tie liek cilvēkiem mīlēt tevi mazliet mazāk.”

“Viņas kvēlākā vēlēšanās bija, lai viņai būtu pulkstenis, kam viņa varētu mainīt laiku, kad vien vēlētos (tam, viņasprāt, Laiks arī domāts).”

“Mūsu sapņi ir saindēti. Mēs nekur neesam piederīgi. Mēs kuģojam bez enkura pa bangainām jūrām. Mūs nekad neizlaidīs krastā. Mūsu bēdas nekad nebūs pietiekami lielas. Mūsu prieki nebūs pietiekami līksmi. Mūsu sapņi nebūs pietiekami drosmīgi. Mūsu dzīves nebūs pietiekami svarīgas. Lai kaut ko nozīmētu.”

“Un, kad mēs skatāmies pa logu, tad redzam tikai ēnas. Ka mēģinām ieklausīties, mēs dzirdam tikai čukstus. Mēs nevaram saprast čukstus, jo mūsu prātos ir iebrucis karš. Karš, kurā mēs esam uzvarējuši un zaudējuši Pats sliktākais karš. Karš, kas sagūsta sapņus un tos pārsapņo par jaunu. Karš, kas licis mums pielūgt mūsu iekarotājus un nicināt pašiem sevi.”

“They looked at each other. They weren't thinking anymore. The time for that had come and gone. Smashed smiles lay ahead of them. But that would be later. Lay Ter.”

“The trees were still green, the sky still blue, which counted for something. So they went ahead and plugged their smelly paradise - God's Own Country they called it in their brochures - because they knew, those clever Hotel People, that smelliness, like other peoples' poverty, was merely a matter of getting used to. A question of discipline. Of Rigor and Air-conditioning. Nothing more.”

“Flat muscled and honey coloured. Sea secrets in his eyes. A silver raindrop in his ear.”

“...el secreto de las Grandes Historias es que no tienen secretos. Las Grandes Historias son aquellas que ya se han oído y que se quiere oír otra vez. Aquellas a las que se puede entrar por cualquier puerta, y habitar en ellas cómodamente. No engañan con emociones o finales falsos. No sorprenden con imprevistos. Son tan conocidas como la casa en la que se vive. O el olor de la piel del ser amado. Sabemos cómo acaban y, sin embargo, las escuchamos como si no lo supiéramos. Del mismo modo que, aun sabiendo que algún día moriremos, vivimos como si fuésemos inmortales. En las Grandes Historias sabemos quién vive, quién muere, quién encuentra el amor y quién no. Y, aún así, queremos volver a saberlo.Ahí radica su misterio y su magia.”

“They were not friends, Comdrade Pillai and Inspector Thomas Matthew, and they didn't trust each other. But they understood each other perfectly. They were both men whom childhood had abandoned without a trace. Men without curiosity. Without doubt. Both in their own way truly, terrifyingly, adult. They looked out into the world and never wondered how it worked, because they knew. They worked it. They were mechanics who serviced different parts of the same machine.”

“But can we, should we, let apprehensions about the future immobilize us in the present?”

“He could do only one thing at a time. If he held her, he couldn't kiss her. If he kissed her, he couldn't see her. If he saw her, he couldn't feel her.”

“NGOs have a complicated space in neoliberal politics. They are supposed to mop up the anger. Even when they are doing good work, they are supposed to maintain the status quo. They are the missionaries of the corporate world.”

“Quella prima notte, il giorno dell'arrivo di Sophie Mol, Velutha guardò la sua amante che si rivestiva. Quando fu pronta, Ammu si accovacciò di fronte a lui. Lo toccò leggermente con le dita e lasciò una traccia di pelledoca sulla pelle. Come un gesso morbido sulla lavagna. Come la brezza in una risaia. Come le scie dei jet in un cielo celeste da chiesa. Lui le prese il viso tra le mani e lo attirò verso il suo. Chiuse gli occhi e le annusò la pelle. Ammu rise.Sì, Margaret, pensò. Lo facciamo anche fra noi.Baciò gli occhi chiusi di Velutha e si alzò. Velutha, con la schiena appoggiata al mangostano, la guardò andar via. Aveva una rosa secca tra i capelli.Si girò per dirlo un'altra volta: "Naaley".Domani.”

“The trouble is that once you see it, you can't unsee it. And once you've seen it, keeping quiet, saying nothing, becomes as political an act as speaking out. There's no innocence. Either way, you're accountable.”

“When, as happened recently in France, an attempt is made to coerce women out of the burqa rather than creating a situation in which a woman can choose what she wishes to do, it’s not about liberating her, but about unclothing her. It becomes an act of humiliation and cultural imperialism. It’s not about the burqa. It’s about the coercion. Coercing a woman out of a burqa is as bad as coercing her into one. Viewing gender in this way, shorn of social, political and economic context, makes it an issue of identity, a battle of props and costumes. It is what allowed the US government to use western feminist groups as moral cover when it invaded Afghanistan in 2001. Afghan women were (and are) in terrible trouble under the Taliban. But dropping daisy-cutters on them was not going to solve their problems.”

“He couldn't see her, sitting outside in the darkness, looking in at the light. A pair of actors trapped in a recondite play with no hint of plot or narrative. Stumbiling through their parts nursing someone else’s sorrow. Grieving someone else’s grief. Unable somehow to change plays. Or purchase, for a fee some cheap brand of exorcism from a conveyor with a fancy degree, who would sit them down and say in one of many ways: “ Your not the sinners. You’re the sinned against. You were only children.You had no control. You are the victims, not the perpetrators.” It would of helped if they could of made that crossing. If only they could have worn, even temporarily, the tragic hood of victim hood”

“Our dreams have been doctored.We belong no where. We sail unanchored on troubled seas.We may never be allowed ashore. Our sorrows will never be sad enough. Our joys never happy enough. Our dreams never big enough. Our lives never important enough. To matter..”

“Bog je zamenjen Marksom, Satana buržoazijom, raj besklasnim društvom, a crkva partijom, dok su vrsta i cilj putovanja ostali slični. Trka s preponama, na čijem cilju čeka nagrada.”

“Although you know that one day you will die, you live as if you won't.”

“To the Kathakali Man these stories are his children and his childhood. He has grown up within them. They are the house he was raised in, the meadows he played in. They are his windows and his way of seeing. So when he tells a story, he handles it as he would a child of his own. He teases it. He punishes it. He sends it up like a bubble. He wrestles it to the ground and lets it go again. He laughs at it because he loves it. He can fly you across whole worlds in minutes, he can stop for hours to examine a wilting leaf. Or play with a sleeping monkey's tail. He can turn effortlessly from the carnage of war into the felicity of a woman washing her hair in a mountain stream. From the crafty ebullience of a rakshasa with a new idea into a gossipy Malayali with a scandal to spread. From the sensuousness of a woman with a baby at her breast into the seductive mischief of Krishna's smile. He can reveal the nugget of sorrow that happiness contains. The hidden fish of shame in a sea of glory.”

“Velike priče su one koje smo čuli i želimo da ih čujemo ponovo. One u koje ulazimo kad nam se prohte. U kojima se na svakom mestu osećamo ugodno. Koje nas ne obmanjuju uzbuđenjima i naglim preokretima na kraju. Koje nas ne iznenađuju nepredviđenim događajima. Poznate poput domova u kojima živimo. Poput mirisa kože naših ljubavnika. Kraj nam je poznat, ali slušamo kao da nije. Kao što znamo da ćemo jednog dana umreti, a živimo kao da nećemo. U Velikim pričama zna se ko živi, ko mre, ko pronalazi ljubav, ko ne. A opet, želimo da saznamo ponovo. U tome je njihova tajna i njihova čarolija.”

“Fiction and non-fiction are only different techniques of story telling. For reasons I do not fully understand, fiction dances out of me. Non-fiction is wrenched out by the aching, broken world I wake up to every morning.”

“They only asked for punishments that fitted their crimes. Not ones that came like cupboards with built-in bedrooms. Not ones you spent your whole life in, wandering through its maze of shelves.”

“The twins were too young to know that these were only history’s henchmen. Sent to square the books and collect the dues from those who broke its laws. Impelled by feelings that were primal yet paradoxically wholly impersonal. Feelings of contempt born of inchoate, unacknowledged fear—civilization’s fear of nature, men’s fear of women, power’s fear of powerlessness. Man’s subliminal urge to destroy what he could neither subdue nor deify.”

“What came for them? Not death. Just the end of living.”

“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 precaution.”

“Viņa izmisums ir ārkārtējs. Viņa stāsts ir drošības tīkls, pār kuru viņš lidinās kā nepārspējams klauns izputējušā cirkā. Stāsts ir vienīgais, kas viņam neļauj izkrist kā akmenim cauri pasaulei. Tas ir viņa krāsa un gaisma. Tas ir trauks, kurā viņš sevi ielej. Stāsts piešķir viņam formu. Struktūru. Tas viņu iegrozō. Tas viņu satur. Viņa Mīlestību. Viņa Ārprātu. Viņa Cerību. Viņa Nebeidzamo Prieku. Likteņa ironijas dēļ viņš rīkojas tieši pretēji aktierim- nevis iedzīvojas lomā, bet cenšas no tās izbēgt. Bet tieši to viņš nevar. Viņa nožēlojamā sakāve arī ir viņa augstākais triumfs.”

“Ja viņa gribētu, lai piepildās kāda maza vēlēšanās, tā būtu- Nezināt. Nezināt, ko katra diena viņai sniegs. Nezināt, kur viņa būs rīt, nākamajā mēnesī vai gadā. Pēc desmit gadiem. Nezināt, kā viņas ceļš pagriezīsies un kas gaida aiz līkuma.”

“Divi aktieri, ieslodzīti dīvainā izrādē, kurā nav ne miņas no darbības vai sižeta. Mokās ar savām lomām, bēdādami, kāda cita bēdas. Sērodami kāda cita sēras. Nespēdami, nekādi nespēdami izkļūt no izrādes. Vai par naudu tikt pie vārdotāja ar īpašu grādu, lai tas viņus apsēdinātu un pateiktu: "Jūs neesat Grēcinieki, jūs esat Tie, pret kuriem Grēkots. Jūs bijāt tikai bērni. Jums nebija varas. Jūs esat upuri, nevis pāridarītāji." Tagad būtu labāk, ja viņi tam būtu tikuši pāri. Ja viņiem būtu ļauts kaut uz brīdi nēsāt upura traģisko masku. Tad viņi varētu visu ieraudzīt citā gaismā, ienīst visu notikušo. Vai tiekties pēc atriebības. Un galu galā varbūt atbrīvoties no atmiņām, kas viņus vajāja.”

“Viņai izveidojās spēcīga netaisnības izjūta un ietiepīgs, bezrūpīgs raksturs, kāds rodas, tad, kad Kādu Mazu visu mūžu spīdzina Kāds Lielais. Viņa neko nedarīja, lai izvairītos no strīdiem un konfliktiem. Patiesību sakot, viņa tos pat meklēja, varbūt viņai tie pat patika.”

“Viņa novērsa skatienu. Viņš arī. Pagātnes dēmoni atgriezās, lai viņus sagūstītu. Lai atkal ietītu pagātnes vecajā, rētainajā ādā un aizvilktu atpakaļ uz turieni, kur tie patiesībā mita. Kur Mīlestības Likumi nosaka, kuru drīkst mīlēt. Un kā. Un cik stipri.”

“Gadsimti saplūda vienā gaistošā mirklī. Pagātne paklupa, pārsteigta negaidot. Nomaucās kā veca čūskas āda. Pagātnes zīmes, rētas, veco karu ievainojumi un atkāpšanās dienas- viss pazuda. Palika tikai aura. taustāma vizma, ko varēja redzēt tikpat vienkārši kā ūdeni upē vai sauli debesīs. Sajust kā svelmi karstā dienā vai zivs pieķeršanos pie āķa. Tā bija tik saredzama, ka neviens to nepamanīja.”

“Ja viņš tai pieskarsies, viņš nevarēs ar to runāt, ja viņš to mīlēs, viņš nevarēs aiziet, ja viņš runās, viņš nevarēs klausīties, ja viņš cīnīsies, viņš nevarēs uzvarēt.”

“They visited him in saris, clumping gracelessly through red mud and long grass ... and introduced themselves as Mrs. Pillai, Mrs. Eapen and Mrs. Rajagopalan. Velutha introduced himself and his paralyzed brother Kuttappen (although he was fast asleep). He greeted them with the utmost courtesy. He addressed them all as Kochamma [an honorific title for a woman] and gave them fresh coconut water to drink. He chatted to them about the weather. The river. The fact that in his opinion coconut trees were getting shorter by the year. As were the ladies in Ayemenem. He introduced them to his surly hen. He showed them his carpentry tools, and whittled them each a little wooden spoon. It is only now, these years later, that Rahel with adult hindsight recognized the sweetness of that gesture. A grown man entertaining three raccoons, treating them like real ladies. Instinctively colluding in the conspiracy of their fiction, taking care not to decimate it with adult carelessness. Or affection. [emphasis mine] It is after all so easy to shatter a story. To break a chain of thought. To ruin a fragment of a dream being carried around carefully like a piece of porcelain. To let it be, to travel with it, as Velutha did, is much the harder thing to do.”

“Perverted quality; Moral perversion; The innate corruption of human nature due to original sin; Both the elect and the non-elect came into the world in a state of total d. and alienation from God, and can, of themselves do nothing but sin. J.H. Blunt.”

“How carelessly imperial power vivisected ancient civilizations. Palestine and Kashmir are imperial Britain's festering,blood-drenched gifts to the modem world. Both are fault lines in the raging international conicts of today.”

“Humbling was a nice word, Rahel thought. Humbling along without a care in the world.”

“They were all there (at the airport) - the deaf ammoomas, the cantankerous, arthritic appoopas, the pining wives, scheming uncles, children with the runs. The fiancées to be reassessed. The teacher's husband still waiting for his Saudi visa. The teacher's husband's sisters waiting for their dowries. The wire-bender's pregnant wife. "Mostly sweeper class," Baby Kochamma said grimly, and looked away while a mother, no wanting to give up her good place near the railing, aimed her distracted baby's penis into an empty bottle while he smiled and waved at the people around him...”

“If you are happy in a dream, Ammu, does that count? Estha asked. "Does what count?" "The happiness does it count?". She knew exactly what he meant, her son with his spoiled puff. Because the truth is, that only what counts, counts....."If you eat fish in a dream, does it count?" Does it mean you've eaten fish?”

“They looked cheerful in the photograph, Lenin and his wife. As though they had a new refrigerator in their drawing room, and a down payment on a DDA flat.”

“And in the background, the constant, high, whining mewl of local disapproval. Within the first few months of her return, to her parents' home, Ammy quickly learned to recognize and despise the ugly face of sympathy. Old female relations with incipient beards and several wobbling chins made overnight trips to Ayemenem to commiserate with her about her divorce. They squeezed her knee and gloated. She fought off the urge to slap them. Or twiddle their nipples. With a spanner. Like Chaplin in Modern Times.When she looked at herself in her wedding photographs, Ammu felt the woman that looked back at her was someone else. A foolish jeweled bride. Her silk sunset-colored sari shot with gold. Rings on very finger. White dots of sandalwood paste over her arched eye-brows. Looking at herself like this, Ammu's soft mouths would twist into a small, bitter, smile at the memory - not of the wedding itself so much as the fact that she had permitted herself to be so painstakingly decorated before being led to the gallows. It seemed so absurd. So futile.Like polishing firewood........Ammu knew that weddings were not something that could be avoided altogether. At least not practically speaking. But for the rest of her life she advocated small weddings in ordinary clothes. it made them less ghoulish, she thought.”

“Humans are animals of habit.”

“When she listened to songs that she loved on the radio, something stirred inside her. A liquid ache spread under her skin, and she walked out of the world like a witch.”

“She wore flowers in her hair and carried magic secrets in her eyes. She spoke to no one. She spent hours on the riverbank. She smoked cigarettes and had midnight swims...”

“To understand history,' Chacko said, 'we have to go inside and listen to what they're saying. And look at the books and the pictures on the wall. And smell the smells.”

“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.”