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Quote by Jennifer McMahon

“The thing that drew them to her was the thing that had made all of them come to Sexton in the first place: they were all outsiders, people on the fringe. And no one, it seemed, understood this better than Suz. She turned her difference into a source of power, power that radiated from her, humming, a live thing that sent sparks out to anyone who listened.”

Quote by Jennifer McMahon

Book:Dismantled
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Work

Dismantled

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Author

Jennifer McMahon
Jennifer McMahon

Jennifer McMahon, born in 1968, is an American novelist known for her suspense and thriller novels. Her works are highly appreciated by readers for their complex characters and tense psychological descriptions, showcasing her unique style in literary creation. more

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Book:The Anatomy of Desire
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“পিতৃশ্রাদ্ধ করতে প্রতাপ শেষবার গিয়েছিলেন মালখানগরে। প্রতাপ শক্ত চরিত্রের মানুষ, সবাই তাকে তেজস্বী পুরুষ হিসেবে মানে, কিন্তু সেবার তিনি খুব কান্নাকাটি করেছিলেন। বাবার মৃত্যুর সঙ্গে সঙ্গে পূর্বপুরুষদের সঙ্গে সব যোগাযোগ ছিন্ন হয়ে গেল, মাটি থেকে উপড়ে তোলা হলো এক বর্ধিষ্ণু বৃক্ষের শিকড়। পূর্ববাংলার এই নদীময় প্রান্তর, এই মিষ্টি বাতাস, খেজুর রসের স্বাদের মতন ভোর, ঠাকুমার গল্পের আমেজমাখা সন্ধ্যা, এসব আর দেখা হবে না। এরপর থেকে কলকাতায় ভাড়াটে বাড়ির অন্ধকার ঘুপচি ঘরে চির নির্বাসন।”

Partition1947Bengal
Book:পূর্ব-পশ্চিম
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“Can’t say my Uttarpara ancestral home isn’t my homeland, I know unidentified bodies, their eyes plucked out, float by in the Ganga. Can’t say my aunt’s Ahiritola isn’t my homeland, I know abducted girls are bound and gagged in Sonagachi nearby. Can’t say my uncle’s at Panihati isn’t my homeland, I know who was killed, and where, in broad daylight. Can’t say my adolescent Konnagar isn’t my homeland, I know who was sent to cut whose throat. Can’t say my youth’s Calcutta isn’t my homeland, I know who threw bombs, set fire on buses, trams. Can’t say West Bengal isn’t my homeland, I’ve the right to be tortured to death in its lock-ups, I’ve the right to starve and have rickets in its tea gardens, I’ve the right to hang myself at its handloom mills, I’ve the right to become bones buried by its party lumpen, I’ve the right to have my mouth taped, silenced, I’ve the right to hear the leaders sprout gibberish, abuse, I’ve the right to a heart attack on its streets blocked by protestors, Can’t say Bengali isn’t my homeland.”

LovePoliticsSocietyHungryBengal
Book:ছোটোলোকের কবিতা
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“Because it begins to seem to me at such times that I am incapable of beginning a life in real life, because it has seemed to me that I have lost all touch, all instinct for the actual, the real; because at last I have cursed myself; because after my fantastic nights I have moments of returning sobriety, which are awful! Meanwhile, you hear the whirl and roar of the crowd in the vortex of life around you; you hear, you see, men living in reality; you see that life for them is not forbidden, that their life does not float away like a dream, like a vision; that their life is being eternally renewed, eternally youthful, and not one hour of it is the same as another; while fancy is so spiritless, monotonous to vulgarity and easily scared, the slave of shadows, of the idea, the slave of the first cloud that shrouds the sun... One feels that this inexhaustible fancy is weary at last and worn out with continual exercise, because one is growing into manhood, outgrowing one's old ideals: they are being shattered into fragments, into dust; if there is no other life one must build one up from the fragments. And meanwhile the soul longs and craves for something else! And in vain the dreamer rakes over his old dreams, as though seeking a spark among the embers, to fan them into flame, to warm his chilled heart by the rekindled fire, and to rouse up in it again all that was so sweet, that touched his heart, that set his blood boiling, drew tears from his eyes, and so luxuriously deceived him!”

LifeRealityFantasyDreams
Book:White Nights
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