The Only Dream Worth Having,

The [booker] Prize Was Actually Responsible In Many Ways For My Political Activism. I Won This Thing And I Was Suddenly The Darling Of The New Emerging Indian Middle Class – They Needed A Princess. They Had The Wrong Woman. I Had This Light Shining On Me At The Time, And I Knew That I Had The Stage To Say Something About What Was Happening In My Country. What Is Exciting About What I Have Done Since Is That Writing Has Become A Weapon, Some Kind Of Ammunition.

May In Ayemenem Is A Hot, Brooding Month. The Days Are Long And Humid. The River Shrinks And Black Crows Gorge On Bright Mangoes In Still, Dustgreen Trees. Red Bananas Ripen. Jackfruits Burst. Dissolute Bluebottles Hum Vacuously In The Fruity Air. Then They Stun Themselves Against Clear Windowpanes And Die, Fatly Baffled In The Sun.

Iraq Was Only The Latest In A Succession Of Countries. Earlier, There Was Cuba, Nicaragua, Libya, Granada, Panama. But This Time It Wasn't Just Your Ordinary Brand Of Friendly Neighborhood Frenzy. It Was Frenzy With A Purpose. It Ushered In An Old Doctrine In A New Bottle: The Doctrine Of Preemptive Strike, Also Known As The United States Can Do Whatever The Hell It Wants, And That's Official. The War Against Iraq Has Been Fought And Won, And No Weapons Of Mass Destruction Have Been Found, Not Even A Little One.

Democracy No Longer Means What It Was Meant To. It Has Been Taken Back Into The Workshop. Each Of Its Institutions Has Been Hollowed Out, And It Has Been Returned To Us As A Vehicle For The Free Market, Of The Corporations. For The Corporations, By The Corporations. Even If We Do Vote, We Should Just Spend Less Time And Intellectual Energy On Our Choices And Keep Our Eye On The Ball.

As She Watched Him She Understood The Quality Of His Beauty. How His Labor Had Shaped Him. How The Wood He Fashioned Had Fashioned Him. Each Plank He Planed, Each Nail He Drove, Each Thing He Made Molded Him. Had Left Its Stamp On Him. Had Given Him His Strength, His Supple Grace.