Ayushman Khazanchi’s Profile

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The Power of Habi...
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Bird by Bird: Som...
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Shalimar the Clown
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Ayushman's Recent Updates

The Principles of Uncertainty by Maira Kalman
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Social by Matthew D. Lieberman
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The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes
The Sense of an Ending
by Julian Barnes (Goodreads Author)
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The Power of Habit by Charles Duhigg
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Quiver by Javed Akhtar
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The Quilt & Other Stories by Ismat Chughtai
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If on a Winter's Night a Traveler by Italo Calvino
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18521
"Needs a revisit at a later time. Paused for now. "
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The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro
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The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov
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More of Ayushman's books…
Jeet Thayil
“Because now there's time enough not to hurry, to light the lamp and open the window to the moon and take a moment to dream of a great and broken city, because when the day starts its business I'll have to stop, these are night-time tales that vanish in the sunlight like vampire dust”
Jeet Thayil, Narcopolis

Haruki Murakami
“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

An you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.

And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about.”
Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

Franz Kafka
“I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound or stab us. If the book we're reading doesn't wake us up with a blow to the head, what are we reading for? So that it will make us happy, as you write? Good Lord, we would be happy precisely if we had no books, and the kind of books that make us happy are the kind we could write ourselves if we had to. But we need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. That is my belief.”
Franz Kafka

“They grouped into nativities - Bengalis, Biharis, Bandladeshis, South Indians, Northeasterners, Kashmiri Pandits and Punjabis - or sought refuge in professional identities. They were Delhiites because geography and the pursuit of common goals made them so and not because the city offered a unifying identity. Delhi now belonged to everyone who lived in it, but no one belonged to Delhi. The original Delhiites too were missing from public life - they preferred the city of memory.”
Anupreeta Das
tags: delhi

Thomas Mann
“A solitary, unused to speaking of what he sees and feels, has mental experiences which are at once more intense and less articulate than those of a gregarious man. They are sluggish, yet more wayward, and never without a melancholy tinge. Sights and impressions which others brush aside with a glance, a light comment, a smile, occupy him more than their due; they sink silently in, they take on meaning, they become experience, emotion, adventure. Solitude gives birth to the original in us, to beauty unfamiliar and perilous - to poetry. But also, it gives birth to the opposite: to the perverse, the illicit, the absurd.”
Thomas Mann, Death in Venice and Other Tales

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