Nupur Jindal

“I don’t know of anything greater than the Appassionata. Amazing, superhuman music. It always makes me feel, perhaps naively, it makes me feel proud of the miracles that human beings can perform. But I can’t listen to music often. It affects my nerves, makes me want to say nice stupid things and pat the heads of those people who while living in this vile hell can create such beauty.”
― Tom Stoppard, Travesties

“So much of sex is what it is because you are allowed to be yourself. This individuality– which can be anything in a lover: fierceness, clumsiness, coyness – is what makes sex different every time, this is what changes the nature of pleasure from one act to the next, from one lover to another. To play the role of the still, passive and submissive woman day after day leaves a woman in a relationship with the ceiling, not with her man. My husband lacks this kind of basic knowledge because Marx and Lenin and Mao have not explicitly written this down, and the declassing classes do not address the sexual pleasure of comrades.”
― Meena Kandasamy, When I Hit You: Or, A Portrait of the Writer as a Young Wife

“Your husband is doing this for your own good, they both concur.
‘Your own good’ was the mantra of my mother when I was growing up – it justified
being force-fed laxatives once every three months, not celebrating my birthdays at
school, curfews against travelling alone, refusal of permission to go to picnics. ‘Your
own good’ was the reason my English teacher offered when she pulled me by the ear and led me out of the classroom, shouting rowdy girl rowdy girl rowdy girl this is for your own good and struck me with a wooden ruler. ‘Your own good’ was what justified my teenage neighbour putting his fingers inside my eight-year-old vagina to check for forest insects and bed bugs and evil imps. When I hear ‘your own good’ I am reduced to being a child again. I do not argue any more. I go silent.”
― Meena Kandasamy, When I Hit You: Or, A Portrait of the Writer as a Young Wife

“Your art has failed. You’ve turned literature into a religion and it’s as dead as all the rest, it’s an overripe corpse and you’re cutting fancy figures at the wake. It’s too late for geniuses! Now we need vandals and desecrators, simple-minded demolition men to smash centuries of baroque subtlety, to bring down the temple, and thus finally, to reconcile the shame and the necessity of being an artist!”
― Tom Stoppard, Travesties