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Quote by Ashwin Sanghi

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Ashwin Sanghi
Ashwin Sanghi

Ashwin Sanghi is a prominent Indian author recognized for his works in mystery, thriller, and historical fiction genres. Born on January 25, 1969, Sanghi has made a substantial impact in the literary world with his intricate plots and compelling storytelling. His books frequently integrate Indian mythology and history with contemporary themes, making them popular among readers globally. more

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“The architecture of the Minotaur’s heart is ancient. Rough hewn and many chambered, his heart is a plodding laborious thing, built for churning through the millennia. But the blood it pumps—the blood it has pumped for five thousand years, the blood it will pump for the rest of his life—is nearly human blood. It carries with it, through his monster’s veins, the weighty, necessary, terrible stuff of human existence: fear, wonder, hope, wickedness, love. But in the Minotaur’s world it is far easier to kill and devour seven virgins year after year, their rattling bones rising at his feet like a sea of cracked ice, than to accept tenderness and return it.”

BloodMythologyMonstersTendernessVeinsHeartsMinotaurs
Book:The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break
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“He holds out a trembling hand and traces the shape of her arm, descending to her elbow. “You’re like mist,” he says. “You really don’t feel this?” Love shakes her head. “No.” But that’s not entirely true, because this illusion of a touch has turned her into a current, this human has reached down to her bones. Then his fingers curl right through her hip, and he lowers his voice. “How ’bout that?”

MythologyTouchYa FantasyYa RomanceYa FictionMature Ya
Book:Touch
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“Think of this – that the writer wrote alone, and the reader read alone, and they were alone with each other. True, the writer may have been alone also with Spenser's golden apples in the Faerie Queene, Proserpina's garden, glistening bright among the place's ashes and cinders, may have seen in his mind's eye, apple of his eye, the golden fruit of the Primavera, may have seen Paradise Lost, in the garden where Eve recalled Pomona and Proserpina. He was alone when he wrote and he was not alone then, all these voices sang, the same words, golden apples, different words in different places, an Irish castle, un unseen cottage, elastic-walled and grey round blind eyes.”

WritingReadingMythologyBeing Alone
Author:A.S. Byatt
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