I was born in India, came to Los Angeles, California when I was two years old, and wore dresses until I was three. My father was a medical student with little money; my mother, young and naïve, knit with her mother clothing befit a beautiful young girl. They had a boy. We were too poor to change course, and so before my father started his first savings account, I wore what was available: pink frocks and white socks with ankle frills. From a young age I started reading. I wasn’t very fast or particularly critical. But I did use my imagination. I involved myself in the plot, carrying the torch or sword alongside the hero; sometimes I dreamt of defeating without trouble the three-headed beast. As I grew, my tastes evolved, and I no longer turned to fantasy or mystery novels for pleasure. Literary time became more interesting to me than narrative realism.
The writers who chose to observe a single thread in a sweater that passed them by always held my attention. - More
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