I wanted to see how much I could smuggle into this novel that isn’t necessarily aimed at the kind of readers I’m used to, like my friends or the broader literary community.
Simply existing, writing through doubt and degradation, is a Native way of being in literature.
I have never had any faith in ideas of originality or concrete human identity. Things flow through us. Our work isn’t ours and can’t be.
I think part of giving female characters their full humanity on the page includes letting them be ugly and dangerous and selfish in their behavior, wherever it might stem from.
I think people are realizing that no state is ever going to love you. No law enforcement agency is going to put food in your mouth or tuck you in at night.
Relationships with plants naturally give way to relationships with people too, and this is all separate from notions of work.
we leave space for translators to foreground their own vision, and to reveal how the poetics of their translation responds to the demands and excitements of that particular book.
Obviously people take breaks, people burn out—who knows how long I’ll actually last. But aspirationally, there’s no end.
What does it mean to be the first generation born in a new country, on very old and beautiful land still reeling from colonialism and Partition? There was no map, and still isn’t, for how to contextualize my place in this tumultuous history.
What do you wear to the greatest crime scene of the twentieth century?