Jhumpa Lahiri

  • Soliloquios Literarioshar citeretsidste år
    the hydrangea her father had planted, that was to bloom pink or blue depending on the soil. It did not prove to Ruma that her father had loved her mother, or even that he missed her. And yet he had put it there, honored her before turning to another woman
  • Soliloquios Literarioshar citeretfor 10 måneder siden
    “I don’t understand,” my father said.

    “Neither do I,” I replied. “You haven’t wanted a picture of anything in years.”

    “That’s not true.”

    “It is.”
  • Soliloquios Literarioshar citeretsidste år
    No, Jhumpa Lahiri is not like any other Indian writer precisely because her literary voice is far closer to say that of Richard Ford, Alice Munro or the wonderful Mavis Gallant’ Eileen Battersby, Irish Times
  • Soliloquios Literarioshar citeretsidste år
    “Be happy, love Baba,” he signed them, as if the attainment of happiness were as simple as that.
  • Soliloquios Literarioshar citeretsidste år
    her father claimed an armchair in the living room, quietly combing through the Times, occasionally tucking a finger under the baby’s chin but behaving as if he were waiting for the time to pass
  • Soliloquios Literarioshar citeretsidste år
    But in Seattle there were rooms to spare, rooms that stood empty and without purpose.
  • Soliloquios Literarioshar citeretsidste år
    By allowing her to leave her job, splurging on a beautiful house, agreeing to having a second baby, Adam was doing everything in his power to make Ruma happy. But nothing was making her happy; recently, in the course of conversation, he’d pointed that out, too.
  • Soliloquios Literarioshar citeretsidste år
    She’d changed, too—she was less patient, quicker to say no instead of reasoning with him. She hadn’t been prepared for how much work it was, how isolating it could be. There were mornings she wished she could simply get dressed and walk out the door, like Adam. She didn’t understand how her mother had done it.
  • Soliloquios Literarioshar citeretsidste år
    the two hundred and eighteen saris, she kept only three, placing them in a quilted zippered bag at the back of her closet, telling her mother’s friends to divide up the rest. And she had remembered the many times her mother had predicted this very moment, lamenting the fact that her daughter preferred pants and skirts to the clothing she wore, that there would be no one to whom to pass on her things.
  • Soliloquios Literarioshar citeretsidste år
    He had mentioned nothing to Ruma or Romi about Mrs. Bagchi, planned to say nothing. He saw no point in upsetting them, especially Ruma now that she was expecting again. He wondered if this was how his children had felt in the past, covertly conducting relationships back when it was something he and his wife had forbidden, something that would have devastated them.
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