Neither. I Am Just One Who Has

It Has Always Been Very Difficult For Writers To Survive Commercially In India Because The Market Was So Small. But That's Not True At All Any More. It's One Of The World's Fastest Growing And Most Vibrant Markets For Books, Especially In English.

A Man's Past Keeps Growing, Even When His Future Has Come To A Full Stop.

Greenwich Village Always Had Its Share Of Mind Readers, But There Are Many More These Days, And They Seem To Have Moved Closer To The Mainstream Of Life In The City. What Was Crazy 10 Years Ago Is Now Respectable, Even Among The Best-educated New Yorkers.

A Rich Man's Body Is Like A Premium Cotton Pillow, White And Soft And Blank. ''ours'' Is Different. My Father's Spine Was A Knotted Rope, The Kind That Women Use In Villages To Pull Water From Wells; The Clavicle Curved Around His Neck In High Relief, Like A Dog's Collar; Cuts And Nicks And Scars, Like Little Whip Marks In His Flesh, Ran Down His Chest And Waist, Reaching Down Below His Hip Bones Into His Buttocks. The Story Of A Poor Man's Life Is Written On His Body, In A Sharp Pen.

Every Book Is A Kind Of Struggle, And It's A Miracle When It Comes Out.