“Look, we don’t love like flowers with only one season behind us; when we love, a sap older than memory rises in our arms. O girl, it’s like this: inside us we haven’t loved just some one in the future, but a fermenting tribe; not just one child, but fathers, cradled inside us like ruins of mountains, the dry riverbed of former mothers, yes, and all that soundless landscape under its clouded or clear destiny—girl, all this came before you.”
―
Amitav Ghosh,
The Hungry Tide