Dear Though The Reader Might

And The Process Of Reading Is Such A Private One. I Once Came Into A Room Where A Friend Of Mine Was Reading One Of My Books, And He Clicked His Tongue Impatiently And Shooed Me Off.

Put Your Backbone Where Your Wishbone Is.

I Recall Drinking Sherry In California And Dreaming Of England, Where I Ate Dalmoth And Dreamed Of Delhi. What Is The Purpose, I Wonder, Of All This Restlessness? I Sometimes Seem To Myself To Wander Around The World Merely Accumulating Material For Future Nostalgias.

It's Not The Gods But Our Own Hearts We Need To Fear. The Evil Starts Against All Odds Not There But Here.

In Spite Of All Temptations Of Belonging To Many Nations, I've Remained An Indian.