Quotes from Yann Martel

If you stumble at mere believability, what are you living for? Isn't love hard to believe?

tiptoe to the water's edge. They show their raiments.

So I drifted. Winds and currents decided where I went. Time became distance for me in the way it is for all mortals—I travelled down the road of life—and I did other things with my fingers than try to measure latitude.

You speak with warm marbles in your mouth. You have an Indian accent

To lose a brother is to lose someone with whom you can share the experience of growing old, who is supposed to bring you a sister-in-law and nieces and nephews, creatures to people the tree of your life and give it new branches. To lose your father is to lose the one whose guidance and help you seek, who supports you like a tree trunk supports its branches. To lose your mother, well, that is like losing the sun above you. It is like losing—I'm sorry, I would rather not go on.

a tie is a noose, and inverted though it is, it will hang a man nonetheless if he's not careful.

With the very first rays of light it came alive in me: hope. As things emerged in outline and filled with colour, hope increased until it was like a song in my heart. Oh, what it was to bask in it!

Be daunted, but not defeated.

It was my first clue that atheists are my brothers and sisters of a different faith, and every word they speak speaks of faith. Like

Father raised his hands. Gentlemen, gentlemen,please! he interjected. I would like to remind you there is freedom of practice in this country. Three apoplectic faces turned to him. Yes! Prac tice --singular! the wise men screa,ed in unison. Three index fingers, like punctuation marks, jumped to attention in the air to emphasize their point.

Nevertheless, an Olympic pool is an Olympic pool, touched by immortal glory.

If you went to a home, kicked down the front door, chased the people who lived there out into the street and said, "Go! You are free! Free as a bird! Go! Go!"—do you think they would shout and dance for joy? They wouldn't. Birds are not free. The people you've

I underestimated her. I under-estimated her grit. She

cannot think of a better way to spread the faith. No thundering from a pulpit, no condemnation from bad churches, no peer pressure, just a book of scripture quietly waiting to say hello, as gentle and powerful as a little girl's kiss on your cheek. At

Cuando has sufrido mucho en la vida, cada dolor adicional es tan tolerable como insignificante.

In my experience, a castaways's worst mistake is to hope too much and do too little. Survival starts by paying attention to what is close at hand and immediate. To look out with idle hope is tantamount to dreaming one's life away.

Buku yang bisa ku baca berulang-ulang, dengan sudut pandang baru dan pengertian baru setiap kalinya.

But once a dead God, always a dead God, even resurrected. The Son must have the taste of death forever in His mouth. The Trinity must be tainted by it; there must be a certain stench at the right hand of God the Father. The horror must be real. Why would God wish that upon Himself ? Why not leave death to the mortals? Why make dirty what is beautiful, spoil what is perfect? Love.

Lakshmi, goddess of wealth

I look at it and I say, You've got the wrong fellow. You may not believe in life, but I don't believe in death. Move on!

I couldn't bear to have yet another French speaker guffawing at my name, so when the man on the phone asked, "Can I 'ave your name?" I said, "I am who I am." Half an hour later two pizzas arrived for "Ian Hoolihan".

To me, religion is about our dignity, not our depravity. I stopped attending Mass at Our Lady of Immaculate Conception and went instead to Our Lady of Angels. I no longer lingered after Friday prayer among my brethren. I went to temple at crowded times when the Brahmins were too distracted to come between God and me.

Le dije que me gustaba la comida picante. No sé por qué tuve que afirmar semejante idiotez si es mentira. Voy poniendo cucharada tras cucharada de yogur en la comida. No hay nada que hacer. Cada vez me pasa igual: las papilas gustativas se me achicharran y se mueren; el rostro se me pone rojo como una remolacha; mi cabeza se me antoja una casa en llamas y el tracto digestivo empieza a retorcerse y quejarse de dolor como una boa constrictor que se acaba de tragar un cortacésped.

Doesn't the telling of something always become a story?