It may be argued that the past is a country from which we have all emigrated, that its loss is part of our common humanity.
Salman RushdieMeaning is a shaky edifice we build out of scraps, dogmas, childhood injuries, newspaper articles, chance remarks, old fillms, small victories, people hated, people loved; perhaps it is because our sense of what is the case is constructed from such inadequate materials that we defend it so fiercely, even to death.
Salman RushdieMots clés life meaning beliefs
Sometimes we feel we straddle two cultures; at other times, that we fall between two stools.
Salman RushdieThe word 'translation' comes, etymologically, from the Latin for 'bearing across'. Having been borne across the world, we are translated men. It is normally supposed that something always gets lost in translation; I cling, obstinately to the notion that something can also be gained.
Salman RushdieMots clés translation
She dreamed of him, his face, filling the dream. "Things are ending," he told her. "This civilization; things are closing in on it. It has been quite a culture, brilliant and foul, cannibal and Christian, the glory of the world. We should celebrate it while we can; until night falls."
She didn't agree, not even in the dream, but she knew, as she dreamed, that there was no point telling him now.
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Fury...sexual, Oedipal, political, magical, brutal....drives us to our finest heights and coarsest depths
Salman RushdieMots clés truth
To be born again,' sang Gibreal Farishta tumbling from the heaveans, 'first you have to die. Ho ji! Ho ji! To land upon the bosomy earth, first one needs to fly Tat-taa! Takatun! How to ever smile again, if first you won't cry? How to win the darling's love mister, without a sigh?
Salman RushdieFreedom is not a tea party, India. Freedom is a war.
Salman RushdieAfter a winter's gestation in its eggshell of ice, the valley had beaked its way out into the open, moist and yellow.
Salman RushdieEverest silences you...when you come down, nothing seems worth saying, nothing at all. You find the nothingness wrapping you up, like a sound. Non-being. You can't keep it up, of course. the world rushes in soon enough. What shuts you up is, I think, the sight you've had of perfection: why speak if you can't manage perfect thoughts, perfect sentences? It feels like a betrayal of what you've been through. But it fades; you accept that certain compromises, closures, are required if you're to continue.
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