And yet he had loved her. A Bookish girl heedless of her beauty, unconscious of her effect. She'd been prepared to live her life alone but from the moment he'd known her he'd needed her.
Jhumpa LahiriIsolation offered its own form of companionship
Jhumpa LahiriTag: isolation companionship
She learned that an act intended to express love could have nothing to do with it. That her heart and her body were different things.
Jhumpa LahiriTag: heart body lovemaking
The imperfection became a mark of distinction about their home. Something visitors noticed, the first family anecdote that was told.
Jhumpa LahiriTag: imperfection
Nor was her love for Udayan recognizable or intact. Anger was always mounted to it, zigzagging through her like some helplessly mating pair of insects. Anger at him for dying when he might have lived. For bringing her happiness, and then taking it away. For trusting her, only to betray her. For believing in sacrifice, only to be so selfish in the end.
Jhumpa LahiriTag: love selfishness
There was the focus of seeking pleasure, and the numbing effect, once they were finished, removing all specific thoughts from her brain. It ushered in the solid, dreamless sleep that otherwise eluded her.
Jhumpa LahiriMy grandfather always says that's what books are for. To travel without moving an inch.
Jhumpa LahiriIs that what you think of when you think of me?" Gogol asks him. "Do I remind you of that night"?
"Not at all", his father says eventually, one hand going to his ribs, a habitual gesture that has baffled Gogol until now. "You remind me of everything that followed.
...learning was an act of rediscovery, knowledge a form of remembering.
Jhumpa LahiriWar will bring the revolution; revolution will stop the war,
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