The God of Small Things

is curious how sometimes the memory of death lives on for so much longer than the memory of the life that it purloined.

If he touched her, he couldn’t talk to her, if he loved her he couldn’t leave, if he spoke he couldn’t listen, if he fought he couldn’t win.

Who was he, the one-armed man? Who could he have been? The God of Loss? The God of Small Things? The God of Goose Bumps and Sudden Smiles? Of Sourmetal Smells—like steel bus-rails and the smell of the bus conductor’s hands from holding them?

In her mind she kept an organized, careful account of Things She’d Done For People, and Things People Hadn’t Done For Her.

His mind was full of cupboards, cluttered with secret pleasures.

Avoid eye contact. That’s what really provokes them.”

She hadn’t learned to control her Hopes yet. Estha said that was a Bad Sign.

While other children of their age learned other things, Estha and Rahel learned how history negotiates its terms and collects its dues from those who break its laws. They heard its sickening thud. They smelled its smell and never forgot it.
History’s smell.
Like old roses on a breeze.
It would lurk forever in ordinary things. In coat hangers. Tomatoes. In the tar on roads. In certain colors. In the plates at a restaurant. In the absence of words. And the emptiness in eyes

She had had one chance. She made a mistake. She married the wrong man.

Perhaps it’s true that things can change in a day. That a few dozen hours can affect the outcome of whole lifetimes.

“Gatsby turned out all right at the end. It is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.”