Avni Doshi

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Avni Doshi

Goodreads Author


Member Since
June 2013


Average rating: 3.41 · 9,411 ratings · 1,382 reviews · 2 distinct worksSimilar authors
Burnt Sugar

3.41 avg rating — 9,401 ratings — published 2019
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The Shadow King By Maaza Me...

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3.70 avg rating — 10 ratings
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Avni Doshi is now friends with maryam jaffer
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Avni Doshi and 7 other people liked Nicky Neko's review of The Anthill:
The Anthill by Julianne Pachico
"I was lucky enough to get an advanced reading copy of this book, and what an incredibly moving and fantastic book it is. Set in Medellín in Colombia, it follows the story of Lina (half British, half Colombian), who left the city at the age of 8 for E" Read more of this review »
Avni Doshi and 13 other people liked Vanya's review of Girl in White Cotton:
Girl in White Cotton by Avni Doshi
"Mother-daughter relationships, or mother-child relationships to be more comprehensive, are mostly hailed as sacred. A mother’s love for her child is touted as the ‘purest form of love’. So, what happens when you encounter a mother-daughter duo which " Read more of this review »
Avni Doshi has read
Close to the Bone by Lisa Ray
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Aftermath by Rachel Cusk
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Avni Doshi has read
Small Days and Nights by Tishani Doshi
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Avni Doshi has read
Changing my Mind by Zadie Smith
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The Days of Abandonment by Elena Ferrante
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Exposure by Olivia Sudjic
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More of Avni's books…
“It must be the worst kind of suffering – cognizance of one’s own collapse, the penance of watching as things slip away.”
Avni Doshi, Girl in White Cotton

“Reality is something that is co-authored,’ the woman says. ‘It makes sense that you would begin to find this disturbing. When someone says that something is not what you think of it as, it can cause slight tremors in the brain, variations in brain activity, and subconscious doubts begin to emerge. Why do you think people experience spiritual awakenings? It’s because the people around us are engaged. The frenzy is a charge that’s contagious.’ ‘Are you saying my mother is contagious?’ ‘No, I’m not. Though maybe I am, in a sense. We actively make memories, you know. And we make them together. We remake memories, too, in the image of what other people remember.’ ‘The doctor says my mother has become unreliable.’ ‘We are all unreliable. The past seems to have a vigour that the present does not.”
Avni Doshi, Burnt Sugar

“Morning is the time for deep breaths, and discovering, ourselves anew in our bodies”
Avni Doshi, Burnt Sugar

Topics Mentioning This Author

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The Mookse and th...: This topic has been closed to new comments. 2020 Booker Longlist Dynamic Rankings 52 299 Sep 15, 2020 12:14AM  
The Mookse and th...: This topic has been closed to new comments. 2020 Booker Prize - shortlist predictions 49 127 Sep 15, 2020 04:07AM  
The Mookse and th...: 2020 Booker Longlist Discussion 347 299 Sep 15, 2020 04:09AM  
Play Book Tag: Booker Prize Shortlist Announcement 10 24 Sep 15, 2020 11:33AM  
21st Century Lite...: C21L - 2020 Booker Prize 21 79 Sep 16, 2020 07:08PM  
The Seasonal Read...: 25.4 - Nick KY's Task: Man Bookering 12 52 Oct 15, 2020 10:51AM  
“Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing.”
Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

“People are all over the world telling their one dramatic story and how their life has turned into getting over this one event. Now their lives are more about the past than their future.”
Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters

“Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.

Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men – friends, coworkers, strangers – giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them. I’d want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: The bitch doesn’t really love chili dogs that much – no one loves chili dogs that much! And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: They’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be. Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version – maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: “I like strong women.” If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because “I like strong women” is code for “I hate strong women.”)”
Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl

“Ohhhhh."

A lush-bodied girl in the prime of her physical beauty. In an ivory georgette-crepe sundress with a halter top that gathers her breasts up in soft undulating folds of the fabric. She's standing with bare legs apart on a New York subway grating. Her blond head is thrown rapturously back as an updraft lifts her full, flaring skirt, exposing white cotton panties. White cotton! The ivory-crepe sundress is floating and filmy as magic. The dress is magic. Without the dress the girl would be female meat, raw and exposed.

She's not thinking such a thought! Not her.

She's an American girl healthy and clean as a Band-Aid. She's never had a soiled or a sulky thought. She's never had a melancholy thought. She's never had a savage thought. She's never had a desperate thought. She's never had an un-American thought. In the papery-thin sundress she's a nurse with tender hands. A nurse with luscious mouth. Sturdy thighs, bountiful breasts, tiny folds of baby fat at her armpits. She's laughing and squealing like a four year-old as another updraft lifts her skirt. Dimpled knees, a dancer's strong legs. This husky healthy girl. The shoulders, arms, breasts belong to a fully mature woman but the face is a girl's face. Shivering in New York City mid-summer as subway steam lifts her skirt like a lover's quickened breath.

"Oh! Ohhhhh."

It's nighttime in Manhattan, Lexington Avenue at 51st Street. Yet the white-white lights exude the heat of midday. The goddess of love has been standing like this, legs apart, in spike-heeled white sandals so steep and so tight they've permanently disfigured her smallest toes, for hours. She's been squealing and laughing, her mouth aches. There's a gathering pool of darkness at the back of her head like tarry water. Her scalp and her pubis burn from the morning's peroxide applications. The Girl with No Name. The glaring-white lights focus upon her, upon her alone, blond squealing, blond laughter, blond Venus, blond insomnia, blond smooth-shaven legs apart and blond hands fluttering in a futile effort to keep her skirt from lifting to reveal white cotton American-girl panties and the shadow, just the shadow, of the bleached crotch.

"Ohhhhhh."

Now she's hugging herself beneath her big bountiful breasts. Her eyelids fluttering. Between the legs, you can trust she's clean. She's not a dirty girl, nothing foreign or exotic. She's an American slash in the flesh. That emptiness. Guaranteed. She's been scooped out, drained clean, no scar tissue to interfere with your pleasure, and no odor. Especially no odor. The Girl with No Name, the girl with no memory. She has not lived long and she will not live long.”
Joyce Carol Oates, Blonde

“I walked into a white city. It was a honeycomb of ivory-white cells, streets like ribbons of old ermine. The stone and mortar were mixed with sunlight, with musk and white cotton. I passed by streets of peace lying entangled like cotton spools...”
Anaïs Nin, Under a Glass Bell

57886 NaNoWriMo — 766 members — last activity Nov 05, 2020 01:00PM
NaNoWriMo. National Novel Writing Month. The month where you write 50,000 words in thirty days. A whole novel. The month were you put blood, sweat, te ...more



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